The pulsing glare and the siren added an urgency to every movement. Don't die... please don't die! Dominic made sure to keep the airway free, kept Gerome turned slightly to one side. He hardly took his eyes off Gerome all the time - not only the constant need to tend and watch for any changes in breathing and pulse - but because he didn't want to meet Monique's eyes: frantic, pleading... surely it couldn't be? All the years she'd feared something like this happening, though mainly with Yves because of his work, and in the end it had been Gerome.
Dominic could almost feel her thoughts coming across in waves without looking up. And it had all been due to his obsession with justice for Christian. No... No! It was unthinkable. He couldn't let it happen. Gerome wouldn't die. Yet from the blood loss and the weakness of Gerome's pulse and breathing, he knew that they would be lucky to save Gerome. It would be a desperate race against time.
'How far now to the hospital at Draguignan?' he asked the gendarme driving.
'Fourteen, fifteen kilometres. Five, six minutes at most.'
Gerome hadn't at any time regained consciousness, and Dominic started to think of the many equally as unacceptable alternatives: coma, mental impairment, paralysis... a pall of hopelessness descending as he took in the full horror of his son's shattered, bloodied body. He scrunched his eyes tight, and suddenly he had an image of Gerome as a young child, playing in the sea, and him lifting Gerome above a wave that threatened to swamp him... lifting him out of danger and planting kisses on his smiling cheek as Gerome shrieked with excitement, feeling the slight tremble in Gerome's small body. And he wished he could do that now, just lift him free of the danger. But as he opened his eyes he was back with the stark flashing glare and horror, blurred now from his tears welling.
Seeing his anguish, Monique commented: 'We'll be there soon.'
Her first words since asking 'Is he going to live?' as her initial wailing panic had subsided. Dominic had responded hastily, Yes,' not even thinking whether he might be lying. Reflected his wish in that moment more than what he believed.
Minutes later, as they burst through swing doors at Draguignan hospital with Gerome alongside on a gurney led by two medics, Dominic's mobile phone started ringing. He didn't answer it. His other life as a policeman could wait a while. All that mattered was Gerome.
Guy Lepoille viewed the photo sent from Contarge at Le Figaro on his computer screen. He'd asked Contarge to send through a scanned image by modem to Interpol's X400 server so that he could pull it up.
A few keyboard taps and he blew it up to 4x image enlargement, cropping in on the number plate. As Contarge mentioned, all visible except the last two numbers. He deliberated for only a second before deciding to put out the nationwide alert first. He phoned through to NCB Division II, from where it would be routed through to Interpol National and within minutes would be broadcast to regional stations and police cars throughout France.
Then he dialled Dominic's number. Tell him the good news: everything was already in motion, the hunt for Duclos was on in earnest. But the number rang without answering.
Lepoille looked back thoughtfully at his computer screen as he hung up. Those last two numbers bothered him. Some impressive image recognition equipment had been installed the past few years by Division 4, primarily for counterfeit bill or art theft and fraud detection. If he put the image through its paces, he wondered if he might pull up the last two numbers.
A 1 or a 4, a 3 or an 8? All Lepoille could make out were vague shadows. He enlarged to 16x magnification and started piecing together the likely shape that the blurred dots remaining might have taken. Then he asked the computer for percentage likelihoods for each suggestion. After seven minutes, he had an 83% on a 4 on one number and 74% on an 8 on the other, with all other choices scoring less than 10%. Full house! Got the bastard. Lepoille let out a little yelp and clapped his hands, causing a few people in the computer room to look over.
Lepoille put through an update to the NCB division, then tried Dominic again.
Duclos sat in the car park of the motorway services at Brignoles-Cambarette.
As he'd raced up to the N7 junction only two kilometres from Fornier's farmhouse, he'd had to decide quickly what to do. He didn't want to head straight for the airfield, there was almost an hour to spare and, besides, if Fornier was following, the last thing he wanted to do was lead him straight there!
But which way to head? He hadn't seen any lights turn out, but what if the realization hit Fornier a minute later and he decided to give chase?
He decided on west, heading deeper into France; east towards Nice and the Italian border would be the more obvious choice for anyone following. Five kilometres along some headlamps looming up quickly in his rear-view mirror worried him, and he took the E80 motorway turn-off. They didn't follow. He continued heading west and a few kilometres further on pondered what to do. He didn't want to head too far away from the airfield, yet didn't want to stop on the hard shoulder: too open, too conspicuous for any passing police cars. He also needed a main junction turn off in order to turn and head back the way he'd come.
It was then that he'd decided on the next motorway services at Brignoles-Cambarette. Another twenty-one kilometres, it would take him less than ten minutes and only be fifteen-sixteen minutes away from the airfield.
Duclos looked at his watch: 9.23 pm. Sixteen minutes into his thirty minute wait in the car park. It had felt like a lifetime. He'd parked at the very back of the car park where few people passed and might notice him. Only two cars had so far come around the back in search of parking spaces, and he'd ducked down out of sight.
He could see the hub of activity of people parking and entering the service complex of shops and restaurants forty metres ahead. He'd parked facing so that he'd be forewarned of anything suspicious, any out of place movements or cars approaching. His nerves had bristled as a police car approached - but it went straight through without hardly pausing.
Looking on at the activity, the hustle, bustle ahead - brought home to him more acutely the fugitive, the outcast he had become. Mothers and fathers with their children, young couples, old couples, teenagers, people on holiday from the north - dining, buying souvenirs and gifts, grabbing a few snacks and groceries. A tableau, a microcosm of life in France - and he was sitting outside it all, alone in the dark at the back of the car park.
Sitting outside their merry little circle... in the same way that he had sat outside Betina's and Joel's life all through the years. Damn them! Betina. Joel. Corbeix. Fornier... especially Fornier! 'Damn the lot of you!' Duclos shouted, sure that his voice had carried no more than a few metres away; nobody had heard him.
Perhaps that was why Fornier hadn't re-appeared to chase him. Brossard had been lying in wait, had already blasted the wife and then the son - and then put a hole clean through Fornier as soon as he appeared. The thought put a thin smile on Duclos' lips. The first all day.
Ker-vrooom... bap... bap! Duclos jumped, his heart pounding, eyes darting sharply towards the sound: five cars to the right, battered old Opel, bad exhaust by the sound of it. Duclos' nerves slowly settled back as he watched it pull out and away, but he was still anxious that he hadn't noticed anyone approach. They must have come from the petrol pumps to one side and circled around the back. He would have to be more alert. He could have looked up to see a gendarme standing by his side window.
But in the remaining minutes, though he was more vigilant in keeping an eye on all directions, the incident had unnerved him. The events of the day had slow-boiled his nerves, but it was as if the car starting had suddenly turned the flame up high.
Each sound - leaves rustling, a car door slamming rows away, footsteps on gravel in the distance, voices by the main service's entrance - cut straight through him, his nerves thrumming like taut piano wire. His hands were shaking, his palms sweaty. He steadied them on the steering wheel only to discover that his whole body was trembling.
Duclos slowly closed his eyes. The sounds ahead, the people mil
ling around, the succession of cars passing in and out - everything seemed to be closing in. There was a ringing in his ears, a dull ache at the back of his head. Even when he opened his eyes again, he could hear his own pounding pulse.
He suddenly felt the way he had earlier in the service café - that someone among the throng ahead would see him, pick him out sitting in the shadows at the back of the car park, and start walking towards him, pointing. And suddenly there would be a crowd following, all pointing, shouting: Duclos. Duclos!
His face would have been on news bulletins at least twice by now. He shook his head, tried to shake off his clawing fear. The only thing which helped was looking down upon them, clinging to the moral high ground which he felt had separated him from the masses over the years. Look at them! Non-descript rabble. He'd done so much for them, for France. And now they'd turned their backs on him. As far as he was concerned they could all rot. Perhaps he would be better off in South America.
But within minutes the trembling was back, a pounding in his head that said Go, Go... Get away! As far from the rabble as possible. As if they might be unpredictable - a Bastille mob that could suddenly turn and steal away his escape at the last second.
He hastily started the Peugeot and headed away - four minutes earlier than originally planned. He looked at the people receding in his rear view mirror and let out a long slow sigh, fighting to relax again, swallowing back the butterfly nerves and nauseousness rising in his stomach. Picking up speed on the slip-way to re-join the motorway, he didn't notice the police car he'd seen earlier, now parked on a ramp to one side - he was busy looking at the approaching traffic.
One of the gendarmes only noticed the blue Peugeot at the last minute - they too were more pre-occupied with the oncoming traffic. But he was unsure, and by the time he'd confirmed the registration with his central dispatch as the one broadcast earlier, the Peugeot was out of sight. Dispatch would radio ahead.
'What here... here near Vidauban?'
Dominic's tone was incredulous, disbelieving. The second time his mobile had rung he'd answered, and Lepoille had told him about them coming up with Duclos' car number: the newspaper photo ploy had worked and a nationwide search was already in full swing. Great. Good news. Well done.
But now with this second call from Lepoille twenty minutes later it hit him that the chase had been brought to his doorstep! 'Why? What on earth is he doing down here?'
'No idea. The sighting we have, the only one so far, was from near Brignoles.'
'Which way is he heading?'
'West - towards you. He's on the E80 motorway and should hit the junction down the road from you just past Le Luc in no more than eight or nine minutes.'
Perhaps some sort of meeting to pay off Brossard was the only explanation Dominic could think of. And then the image suddenly flickered back from his subconscious: a blue Peugeot parked up on the road side, a distant face caught for a split second in the stark glare of the spotlights - Duclos! Duclos had been waiting by the approach to his house while Brossard was inside! The fleeting image so totally out of place at the time, it hadn't registered. The last place he'd expected Duclos. But why was Duclos now heading back towards him rather than away?
'...That was why I'm calling now,' Lepoille said. 'You're the nearest car north of the junction.'
Suddenly it hit Dominic with a jolt what they wanted: to join the chase, help apprehend Duclos! At any other time, he would already be running for his car, but not now. Not while his son's life was still hanging in the balance in the next room. 'But I left a squad car at the farm at Vidauban. What about that?'
'I don't know. The closest cars that could be raised apart from you was one heading south just past Puget-Valle - which was turned straight around - and another seven kilometres into the E-80 heading east from the Le Luc junction. They've been told to stay where they are. The next turn off is almost eighteen kilometres - they wouldn't get back in time to cover the junction.'
Either one could be the cars sent earlier to Vidauban, Dominic reflected. But Lepoille obviously didn't know about the drama at the farmhouse. On Lepoille's first call he'd mentioned where he was, but not why: too personal, the conversation would have become maudlin. Dominic had been sitting next to Monique on the nearest hospital corridor bench to Emergency. But after the first few words, he stood up, started pacing away. With what she had on her mind now, insensitive for her to be bothered with police logistics. 'But the Puget-Valle car - won't they make it up to the junction in time?'
'No - they'll be about five or six kilometres short. You won't make it to the motorway junction by then either, but you should be able to make the N7 junction easily. That will effectively cut Duclos off from heading east on the N7 or north through Grasse. With the motorway and south already covered - we'll have him cornered!'
Impossible choice. Desert Monique and Gerome at such a moment, or let the man who had wreaked these horrors on his family escape? The thought of Duclos so close made his adrenalin surge with a mixture of anger and excitement: the prospect of personally hunting down Duclos felt somehow fitting. Right. But he couldn't... just couldn't. 'Isn't there another car you can send?' Dominic's voice was pleading, desperate.
'No, afraid not. We've already checked all the options.
Dominic was half turned away, and glanced back as he sensed Monique looking over more pointedly. Seeing the pain and anguish etched deep in her face made the decision for him. Long sigh. 'I'm sorry. I just can't do it.' Dominic briefly outlined the events at the farmhouse. 'Gerome's still in emergency - we're waiting on news any minute. I just can't leave now.'
'I'm sorry, Dominic. If I'd known, I wouldn't have asked.'
'It's okay, how could you know. Look, let me know how-'
'If you don't go - will he get away?' This from Monique, cutting in.
'I'm sorry, I-' For a second Dominic was confused, not sure who to address first. Then: 'Guy - I'll call you back in a second.' Monique's expression was taut. Fobbing her off with a lie seemed pointless: the N7 was one of Duclos' main escape route options. Dominic shrugged. 'Yes, I suppose so. He might.'
'And this is the same man responsible for Christian and now Gerome?'
'Yes.' Flat tone. One word denoting so much of her life's anguish.
Her jawline tightened. She contemplated the floor for a second before looking back at Dominic. 'Then I think you should go. I'm here for Gerome, and the doctors are doing their best. There's nothing you can do for him by staying.'
Dominic shook his head. 'No... no. I couldn't possibly leave you and Gerome at a moment like this. I wouldn't be able to face either of you squarely again, or myself for that matter. I can't go.'
Monique looked at him steadily, eyes piercing. 'And if Gerome should die - do you think it will be any easier to face me knowing that you've let the man responsible get away?'
Dominic felt the words like a knife. If she wanted to punish him for what had happened, that was it now: those words. But as he met her eyes, he could see that she was resolute, determined. Beyond the barb, she wanted him to go. Arguing looked futile. The same message he'd read before: get him, get him. Don't let him get away!
Dominic started to hit back with more protests, but Monique was insistent - practically screaming at him to go as she became frantic that vital seconds were being lost. With a last defeated shrug and an elicited promise from Monique that she call him the second there was any news on Gerome - he turned hastily away, already dialling out to Lepoille.
Monique closed her eyes, a tear rolling down one cheek. Gerome near death, and it had sounded as if she partly blamed Dominic. But she knew that if she hadn't taken that stance, he wouldn't have gone. She could live without seeing justice done - had already done so for so many years - but Dominic? Despite his protests, she could see that part of him desperately wanted to track down Duclos, exact justice. She'd seen it in his indecision on the phone, in the hunted, frantic look in his eyes when he discovered Duclos was so close, the plea in his voic
e: '...Isn't there another car you can send?' She knew that until he caught Duclos, the past would never be fully laid to rest.
Monique looked thoughtfully at the closed doors of the emergency room. A cold, desolate chill crept over her. Once again she would be alone praying for the life of a son. Though this time at least the choice had been hers.
The first thrill, the anticipation of the chase hit Dominic as he felt the surge of his car engine powering away from the hospital. Then it built layer by layer as he continued his conversation by mobile with Lepoille and switched on his police radio to patch in and make contact with the other two vehicles: BRN 946 east of the Le Luc motorway junction, and TLN 493 heading north from Puget-Valle. Lepoille had already confirmed the Le Luc car was in position, so Dominic asked TLN 493 its current location.
Hoarse voice through airwaves surf: 'We're just about running parallel with Pignan - we should make it to the junction in about seven minutes.'
Dominic glanced at the map he'd spread out on the passenger seat. He spoke into his mobile. 'When do you expect Duclos to reach the junction?'
'About four or five minutes.'
Then back to the radio: 'Expect him to pass you at about four or five kilometres your side of the junction - if he's heading your way. Keep your eyes sharp then.'
Dominic clicked off the radio but kept the mobile on to Lepoille. He checked his speed: 152-154kmph. Parts of the road were winding and it was difficult to go faster. 'I should reach the N7 in about five minutes.' And Duclos was eight or nine minutes away from that point, he estimated: eleven kilometres beyond the motorway junction. He should be able to head Duclos off in plenty of time. 'I'll phone you again when I reach there.'
Dominic glanced again at the map, picturing their triangular formation as dots closing in. They had him! There was no way out. Almost unreal that after all these years he was finally so close. And now there was nothing tentative, venturesome about the case - they had Betina Duclos' testimony! They would throw away the key with Duclos.
Past Imperfect Page 59