The son who emerged, wrong, nine months later. Loïc couldn’t stomach it. The psychologist said he suffered from guilt for chromosomes he had no control over, and grief for passing on the defect. Loïc had told the psychologist to stuff his psychobabble up his ass where it might do him some good.
In Loïc’s village, there’d been Hubert the Mongoloid, as they’d called him. Harmless, he’d worked in the laundry. Worked hard. The mongoloid’s father, an out-of-work prizefighter, drank away his winnings and beat Hubert up regularly on Saturday nights. And after the village mill closed, others beat him, too.
Loïc knelt down and found a broken pink barrette in his daughter’s room. The movers found him sobbing, cross-legged on the floor, the barrette clutched in one hand and a bottle of cheap whiskey in the other.
Tuesday Evening
AIMÉE HEARD FRANCE 2 news blaring from somewhere in the ward. A hoarse voice declared: “The Beast of Bastille may have claimed another victim late Monday night in a Bastille passage. Confusion reigned as investigators discovered Patric Vaduz, the twenty-eight-year-old alleged serial killer awaiting charges in the Commissariat, had been released due to incorrect procedure in the Procès-Verbal. Vaduz, rumored to be attending his mother’s funeral, has not been located.”
Stunned, Aimée grabbed for the bed rail. Where was the télé? Disoriented and dizzy, she pulled the hospital robe around her. When she located the source of the sound, she slid her feet onto the cold floor. She heard coughing, then a request for medication from somewhere behind her.
Was she in a ward or a room? She bumped into something, got caught on what felt like a plastic tube . . . an IV hookup?
Merde!
Or maybe it was a radio cord. Somehow she disentangled herself. She groped her way along the bed rail, barefoot, toward the source of the broadcast.
The newscaster continued
“France 2’s informant close to the investigation revealed that the female victim, discovered mid-afternoon rolled up in an old carpet in a courtyard, appeared to have been murdered in circumstances similar to those surrounding other victims of the Beast of Bastille. Though the particulars have not been released, rumor has it another victim was attacked in nearby Passage de la Boule Blanche. This victim remains in stable condition in the hospital. Names will not be released pending investigation and until next of kin are notified. Police offer no comment at this time other than that the investigation is proceeding.”
Conversation at the nurse’s station, interrupted by the pinging of bells, obscured the rest of the broadcast.
Aimée froze, terrified. Could that be her? She had to hear more. “Please could someone help me. . . .”
Her arm was gripped and someone steered her forward. “I’m a volunteer. Like to hear the evening news, eh? I’ll help you to the TV lobby.”
By the time Aimée reached the télé she’d controlled her shaking. The announcer continued: “Our correspondent spoke with an inhabitant of the passage who said ‘I saw this bloody shoe behind my neighbor’s old rug,’ said a quavering voice, ‘near my cat’s dish . . . bothered me, but then I saw the twisted leg of a woman sprawled in the corner. I thought she was Chinese. But it was just her bloodied jacket.’ ”
“I’m wanted downstairs, but if you need help, clap your hands to get the nurse’s attention,” the volunteer said. “Looks like you’re new here. The staff’s run off their feet with patients, but I’m sure rehab will organize an orientation.”
“An orientation?”
“To help you navigate the ward on your own.”
Of course. But she really didn’t want one, or a white cane or a guide-dog. She wanted to see.
She pushed that out of her mind. Time enough to worry. Maybe she could find someone with a newspaper who’d read it to her.
The woman mentioned in the broadcast had to be her! So Bellan had questioned her because the Beast of Bastille had murdered a woman in the next passage.
She clapped her hands.
No answer. She stood. What sounded like the ding of an elevator came from behind her. She edged forward, bumped into a wall, and felt her way along it to what sounded like the nurse’s station. The smooth counter and rustling papers seemed familiar. She’d made some progress. Maybe she was getting better at this. A loud beeping came from near her.
“Excuse me, but can a nurse help me read a newspaper . . .”
“Doctor’s on rounds, mademoiselle,” said a brisk voice. “And two new admits must be processed. Can it wait?”
“Of course.” Now she was stuck.
“I’ll find the volunteer coordinator,” the nurse said, guiding Aimée to a hard plastic chair with sticky armrests. “Have a seat. It might take some time.”
“Where’s my room?”
“Second door on the left. But wait until we can show you, mademoiselle. We follow rules in this ward. It’s for your safety.”
Footsteps slapped over the linoleum.
No way would she wait, it could take hours. Might as well find her own way back.
She stood, felt her way along the smooth wood hall railing, guiding herself by the low drone of the TV from rooms and the muffled beep of machines. So far so good, she thought. But as she rounded a corner and felt the second door, she smelled bleach and soap.
Then she ran into something with ridges that crinkled like cellophane. She stepped on a soft foamlike substance that yielded. Something hard whacked her cheek. Clanging noises came from her feet and then they were cold and wet. She grabbed what felt like a pole. Her feet stung.
Great.
She’d walked smack into a mop, upsetting a pail of soapy ammonia by the stink and the burning of her toes. Or something worse. She’d stumbled into a broom closet.
A total liability! She couldn’t even find her room. Useless! She fought back tears welling in her useless eyes.
What was that other smell . . . familiar and jarring? And it came back. That awful odor as hands gripped her neck from behind, squeezing tighter and tighter. Her choking gasps for air. She trembled.
Tar.
“Found something interesting, mademoiselle?” asked a voice she recognized.
Why had he sneaked up on her?
“Dr. Lambert,” she said, taking a deep gulp, “what’s tar used for in the hospital?”
“Besides tarring the roof?” he said. “Who knows?”
“That wouldn’t be kept in a closet, would it?”
“Mademoiselle Leduc, I planned to run more tests on you,” he said, before she could ask more. “But now I need to finish my rounds.”
“Go ahead, Dr. Lambert.”
“First, you need help.”
Strong arms grasped and lifted her up. A stethoscope hit her arm. Her wet, bare feet dangled in the air. She felt frightened and disoriented.
“Look I can walk . . . put me down.
“Not if you’ve got a chemical burn.”
Her feet stung and a big lump wedged in her throat. Hugging her to his warm chest, the doctor carried her back to her room, sat her down, stuck her feet in a tub of water, and paged the nurse. “Do me a favor,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Try to stay out of trouble until I get back.”
“ ZUT! TH I S looks like a nice mess,” said a nurse with a soft Provençal accent. Embarrassed, Aimée let the nurse clean her up. The doctor hadn’t answered her question about the tar. The nurse remained silent when Aimée asked, and scurried off before she could press the question.
In the hospital bed, Aimée fumbled for the room phone. After two tries she got the operator. But Leduc Detective had the message machine on. She tried René’s apartment. No answer. Then she tried his cell phone, and got his voice mail.