Where the Wolf Lies
Page 30
Hart exhaled through his nose and clenched his jaw. He had accepted his fate days ago, sitting in his empty interrogation room, as if a spark had caught fire, torching any notion of a normal life, leaving it charred and ashen in the past. There were other people to be considered, and he’d be damned if he would let Justine risk her future because of her willingness to help Clara. Or worse, allow Clara to take the fall for running from Maxim’s murder. Furthermore, he’d reasoned, he had no career or normal life to return to.
Palmer looked him over with a hint of sadness. “I think you should seriously consider your options of cooperating with the French government by admitting fault, and maybe they’ll go easy on you. A few years in prison for your role in fleeing a murder, negligence, and public endangerment, amongst other things.”
Hart turned to face the window and the overcast sky. He believed against all odds that Clara would come to, make a full recovery, and save him again. But, he thought, if she wasn’t to be in his future, he simply didn’t care about it. He needed time, but he didn’t have any. She would save him once again, just like when Igor had him on the edge of death. Hope was a dangerous notion, but as far as he was concerned the strongest feeling worth living for.
Hart finally spoke. “I need time. Clara will recover and tell the truth. If that doesn’t happen, I’ll do what is best for everyone.”
Palmer took off his glasses and vigorously rubbed the bridge of his nose. He put them back on and gave Hart a solemn look. “Paul, you don’t have any time.” He folded his portfolio, put it in his bag, and stood. “There’s probably less than a week of goodwill left between our countries. Then things will move fast. If the investigation doesn’t outright clear you, your only hope is Clara, and we still don’t have any update on her health.”
Hart leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Stephen, why are you trying to help me?”
Palmer slung his bag over his shoulder before jutting his lower lip out and looking up at the ceiling. “Sometimes things don’t appear to be what they are, while other times everything is as it seems. I wish I could tell you more, but there’s much more to this story involving other players and even an entirely different game. But I know a good person when I see one, probably more so because I know the bad ones too well.” He gave Hart a toothless smile and extended his hand. “Good day, Paul. I’ll see you around.”
Palmer turned and headed out of the restaurant past Lucas and Antoine, who watched him leave with indifference. Hart sat silent for a time, replaying the answer in his mind and mulling its cryptic nature. Somewhere deep inside him he had an unsettling feeling that all along he had been caught in a game bigger than he, or even Clara, realized. He thought about another sip of coffee, but instead he made a silent pact with himself. He would do what was best for everyone in time.
45
Noirmoutier
It had been three days since Palmer visited, but Hart still didn’t have an update on Clara. He sat in his hotel room and watched the late-morning fog that slowly lifted from the island and disappeared out to sea. The weather had decided to show its different forms the past few days—rain, sun, fog, and wind all made an appearance. Some days, the weather mirrored his pain, while the unseasonably warm weather, like a sign from above, gave him hope.
Hart passed his time the best he could, being escorted around the small town, managing to eat more out of necessity than joy, and reading anything he could find. Just off the lobby of the hotel there was a room, ornately decorated with leather sofas and vintage globes amongst the bookcases, filled with books in French, English, and Spanish. Hart had tried to improve his French by reading, but it only caused him to think of her, consumed by uncertainty. Oftentimes, he found it impossible to sleep; instead, he lay awake, thinking of what he’d do to save everyone the pain of his predicament.
Hart heard a soft knock on the door and turned his attention from the gloomy window. He was surprised to find Lucas standing outside his door. Normally, Antoine was sent to get him for meals and walks.
“The weather will be nice later today. The front desk suggested we visit a beach this afternoon. We will go at 2 p.m.”
Lucas said it as an instruction and less of an idea, but still it was a good excuse to leave the room. Hart closed the door and began to stare out the window to watch the outside world lazily pass by but decided he’d rather check the news. He turned on the BBC and caught the end of the weather forecast. The shot cut back to the anchor shuffling papers in the studio.
“News today from France with implications for the European economy as the private business tycoon Claude Renard, who was found murdered in Paris over a week ago, appears to have been killed by one of his employees. Authorities have provided a clearer story about what happened the week before last in Paris.
“According to our sources, a man who worked closely with Monsieur Renard had allegedly been embezzling millions through various charities and businesses. Sources inside the Paris police department say that Claude Renard was a victim of this convoluted crime that took place over many years through multiple companies. Allegedly, Monsieur. Renard confronted the man who perpetrated the crimes in a Parisian hotel, which escalated into violence that took Monsieur Renard’s life.
“During the shoot-out, a Parisian police officer who attempted to de-escalate the situation was also killed. The gunman was killed in the shoot-out before authorities could take him into custody. Monsieur Renard’s estate has donated an undisclosed amount to migrant relocation charities, as his will wished.
“In other news, airfares are getting cheaper thanks to small carriers cutting the cost to fly in exchange for stronger loyalty programs...”
Hart sat back and leaned his head against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. The image of Pierre-Emmanuel, his French cuffs and hawkish eyes, talking to Palmer about what story to give the press played out in his mind. Events were now so far beyond his knowledge and understanding, but there was assuredly more. Maybe Palmer reported back to Pierre-Emmanuel that Hart would in time confess and wrap up the affair in a neat bow. But somehow it didn’t surprise Hart that Renard was made out to be the victim, and that they’d turned Maxim’s death into an act of bravery. Hart couldn’t help but wonder if that meant he was off the hook. His current situation didn’t indicate so.
Lucas and Antoine walked Hart downstairs to the Peugeot. The sun was high and unseasonably warm, easily burning off the early-morning fog that had settled over the island. A cool breeze came off the ocean, but it was subdued, as if obediently performing its duties without conviction, lazily pushing the few large white clouds across the blue sky.
They drove through a village of white homes with clay tiles clustered together, windows shuttered. Past the maze of homes, the Peugeot rose up an inclined road flanked by picket fences and private-home gates. The road was lined with massive trees, whose branches seemed to reach to the sky, blocking out the sun. A harsh westerly swept across the sandstone earth of the northwestern part of the island.
Lucas parked the car towards the end of the road, where the tree canopy gave way to an expansive view of the ocean. Two buildings framed the walkway to the beach—on the left, a small tourist shop selling beach toys and seashells, and on the right, a two-story white hotel. At the front of the hotel there was a terrace facing the beach, where umbrellas, wooden chairs, and tables sat. Hart squinted in the bright sunlight and read a blue sign welcoming them to Bois de la Chaise.
The beach was crescent shaped, with a rock jetty flanking its right side, and on the left a long wooden pier, which seemed to materialize from the woods, jutted out into the ocean. Hart walked past the hotel terrace and stood overlooking the beach. The weather had given the island an unexpected gift that the locals seemed prepared for. Dressed in light sweaters, but out on the beach, several sat on blankets and lawn chairs reading, while children played soccer. Hart smelled the sea, felt the sun sting his face, and listened to the unbridled laughter from the beach.
He t
urned to see Lucas and Antoine off to his left, and behind them the forest that led towards the pier. They motioned for him to follow and began to walk up the gentle slopes that led into the trees. A dusting of pine straw covered the firm ground, made of rock and tree roots, which allowed the trees to grow at impossible angles. Hart could see the ocean and the pier through the trees to their right as the three of them made their way deeper into the forest.
The pier appeared behind a small rock formation and under an old bent tree, its trunk made thick by time. Hart would have missed it if not for the small sign that read “L’Estacade.” There were two fishermen casting long rods and hauling square nets up. Sailboats bobbed just off to the right side in the cove. Lucas and Antoine meandered on the pier, looking down at the water, the rocks, and pointing out things to one another. Hart, off ahead of them, made his way towards the furthest point of the pier out over the water.
He reached the end of the pier and looked out across the choppy waves sparkling as the ocean caught the sunlight. He stared at the water, its color a deep emerald-green that produced a twisted feeling in his stomach. He closed his eyes and pictured Clara at the gala in London, her dress the same color as the ocean, and the soft silk that draped her. He thought of her smile, and the soft accent she had when she whispered to him made him realize the helplessness he felt without her.
He stood on the pier for some time, watching the waves roll into the cove, lost in thought and coming to peace with what he had to do. He knew the serenity of the beach would give him solace and show him the right decision. He looked across the water back to the beach, where a man played fetch with a black labrador, its shiny coat catching the sun as it galloped into the water. A large plane flew high overhead, just a white speck in the sky. Hart wondered where it was going and who traveled on it, longing for the freedom he’d lost, and he couldn’t help but think it would be a while before he ever got it back.
He hung his head and listened to the waves hit the pier, the water rushing in and going out from under him. A soft breeze wrestled its way through the forest, the leaves and branches swaying as the wind swept out over the pier and onto the ocean. The breeze carried a familiar scent as Hart drew a breath. He slowly turned to look over his shoulder.
She stood with hands deep in the pockets of her coat, dark hair blowing in the sea breeze, her green eyes soft and fixed on his.
Her lips moved ever so slightly. “Bonjour, Paul.”
A Note from the Author
Minneapolis, Minnesota, Spring 2019
I sincerely hope you have enjoyed Where the Wolf Lies. This work would not have been possible without the support of so many people.
To my wife Marie, who gracefully supported my ambitions, challenged me, dreamed with me, and listened to me endlessly narrate my thoughts on Paul and Clara. Merci, mon amour.
For Tim and Susan, my parents, who have always encouraged me, loved unconditionally, while being steady voices of reason in my head, thank you. I hope I’ve made you proud.
To my sister Laura, who’s been a confidant, agent, staunch supporter, all while juggling raising my godson Jordan, thank you. The seemingly endless phone calls and emails did not go unappreciated.
There are first readers I’d like to thank, including author Stanley Trollip, whose sound advice and feedback had been of great reassurance. Phillip Wagener for his keen eye on the details, Jim Johnson for his reinforcement that becoming a writer was perfect for me; Fred Philpot for his thoughtful feedback; and Rory Veraducci who read my book while traveling, as the way it should be, and gave me the compliment: “I forgot I was reading you.” Thank you Rory.
To Justine Gambard, who was the first person to read my book at a Parisian café, a dream of mine, and kind enough to send me a photo of the event. Merci beaucoup.
My editor Marcus Trower, based in the United Kingdom, who provided me with fantastic guidance, and made sure the characters, and settings were culturally accurate, I can’t thank you enough. It was a pleasure to work with you.
In addition, many thanks are necessary to my proofreader Rebecca Millar who did an incredible job providing thoughtful feedback, and kind encouragement to help bring the novel over the finish line.
I would be remiss if I were not to thank my Scottish Terrier Mac, and our rescue cat Gaia. At the time I started writing, Gaia was a kitten, and she would wake me, along with Mac, at 5 a.m. as if imploring me to write. We would all head downstairs, not to wake the Mrs., and I’d write for two hours before going to work. Those early mornings with Mac and Gaia curled up at my feet are when Paul and Clara came to be.
To Noirmoutier, and France for that matter, for making me feel at home. If you ever have the opportunity, Noirmoutier is a must visit. Every place in the novel is based on a real setting where I’ve visited, and loved, I’d recommend visiting them all.
Finally, but perhaps most importantly, I’d like to thank you, the reader. I hope this story inspires you to travel, hope, explore, and be open-minded to adventure and different cultures.
Many thanks, and Paul Hart will return.
Tyler
Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
A Note from the Author