FOUR WEEKS LATER, BURKE was released from the hospital. Hélène and André Rousseau collected him and took him home.
Using a cane with his good arm, he struggled up the stairs to his apartment, but he didn’t complain. He felt fortunate. The medical staff at the hospital had done a superb job mending his injuries without further surgery, and he was improving by the day. Still, the routine at the institution had been stultifying. He had ached for fresh air and freedom.
When Hélène opened the door to his—their—apartment and Burke shuffled in, he was met with a cry of “Surprise!” from Jean, his wife, several villagers, Lemaire and Antoine. Instantly, a lump formed in his throat.
And so he visited and partied with his friends until he ran out of energy and sought the comfort of his bed in the bedroom, which looked surprisingly good with the new lavender curtains. He didn’t mind at all that the celebrations kept going on despite his absence.
A month later, the two Petits were sentenced after pleading guilty to different charges.
Léon Petit got life imprisonment for the assassination, or premeditated murder, of Pierre McManus. His guilt in the killing of Mark Den Weent guaranteed he would never be released. During the sentencing, he said nothing and barely moved. In one story, a reporter described Petit as being “sphinx-like” as he heard his future.
Karin Petit received six years for attempted murder, her lawyer arguing with some success that her mental capacity had been eroded by overwhelming concern for her son’s well-being.
A week after being incarcerated, Karin Petit suffered a fatal heart attack.
After Léon Petit heard about his mother’s death, he waited a week, then committed suicide in his cell.
When Burke learned about their deaths, he felt strangely depressed and even sought out André Rousseau for a beer so they could bid some kind of adieu to the Petits—two lost souls soon to be forgotten except in the annals of the Tour de France.
Two months after that, Gabriel Marois pled guilty to assassination. He got the same sentence as Léon Petit.
Before sentencing, Gabriel Marois’s lawyer argued his client had been driven by uncontrollable revenge to kill Vachon. He explained the head of FP Developments had once been business partners in both real estate and various developments with Gabriel Marois’s father, and had victimized him through some insider trading that had never come to light and couldn’t be proven in court at the time. Vachon had profited hugely, while Gabriel Marois’s father had lost almost all the family fortune and suffered such shame that he’d died a broken man, a weakened heart finally claiming him.
Moreover, it turned out Gabriel had largely turned his back on political activism years before for a career in small business, using financial support from his mother. Madame Marois hadn’t rejected him. She’d kept loving him, and they had reconnected after his prison term and after the death of Gabriel’s father. They made a pact that, one day, if the opportunity came, they would kill Yves Vachon, and until then, they would keep up a semblance of antipathy toward each other to avoid being linked to Vachon’s death whenever they had the opportunity to dispose of him. In the meantime, they found ways to see each other, driving thousands of kilometers each year to prearranged places for short visits.
The opportunity to deal with Vachon had come when he started to spend more and more time on his Riviera super development, not knowing that Madame Marois lived a short distance away. When protests erupted around the development, Madame had contacted Gabriel, and they agreed they could masquerade Vachon’s murder as the work of a crazed protestor.
Madame Marois’s age was a mitigating factor in her sentencing. It was also discovered she was suffering from the early stages of vascular dementia. Doctors suggested she sustained microscopic bleeding of the brain as a result of being in her car when it slammed into two people and later into a stone wall. In turn, those two incidents prompted some minor strokes. Considering her age and her deteriorating mental condition, the judge sentenced her to five years for conspiracy to commit murder, but not in a prison. Instead, she was sentenced to a mental health institution after doctors testified she wasn’t likely to live more than another two or three years, given her rapidly failing health.
One day, on a whim, Burke went to visit the old woman in the hospital.
They sat opposite each other in a large, sterile room among other visitors and patients. Hospital staff were tucked in corners to ensure nothing went amiss during any of the conversations.
Madame Marois stared at Burke like he was a dot on a wall.
“Do you remember me, Madame?” he asked.
She stared and said nothing. He studied her eyes. Was she playacting like she had been all those times at Claude’s café, her vision fixed on the opposite wall? Her eyes remained glazed, and he thought she was truly someplace else.
“I live—lived—near you in Villeneuve-Loubet,” Burke said. “I’m a cyclist. You were in the car that ran me off the road. I was badly hurt, but I’m much better now.”
Madame continued looking ahead.
“How are you feeling?” Burke asked, knowing it was a dumb question since she was in a mental hospital and, physically, looked even frailer than before.
Nothing from Madame.
“I know the story about your husband and Yves Vachon,” Burke said. “Vachon was not a good man.”
No reaction.
He looked around. The place was totally depressing.
“I see your dog Plato all the time,” he said. “He’s doing very well. Jean and his wife are treating him to all kinds of walks.”
Not to mention all kinds of treats. Plato was at least two kilos heavier than he’d been a few months earlier. On a small Jack Russell frame, Plato was looking a little chunky.
“I miss him,” Madame said, breaking out of her trance. “Who did you say has Plato?”
“Jean, the newsagent in our village,” Burke said.
He could see Madame trying in vain to put a face to the name.
“Would you ask him to visit me, please?” Madame said.
Jean, as bid, paid Madame Marois a visit the next day. Afterward, he came knocking on Burke’s door, with Plato on a leash at his side.
“I met with the old lady this morning,” Jean said. “She’s in rough shape, but she knows one thing: She wants you to have little Plato here. She says you understand him, and he understands you.”
“But you’ve been looking after him,” Burke protested.
“Yes, we have, and he’s a fine dog. But Plato is Madame’s dog, and we have to go with her wishes. I know you’ll treat him well, Paul.”
Jean handed Burke the leash and a bag that contained food, toys and a dog bed. The newsagent had a sad smile on his face.
As Plato strained at the leash to investigate his new apartment, Burke wondered about adding Plato to his life. He realized he was fine with the idea, even after Madame Marois had plotted to kill him. Plato was a grand dog.
“Who is this?” came Hélène’s voice. “Ah, it’s Plato.”
The dog rushed to greet her. It was clear they felt mutual admiration.
Burke explained Madame’s request, and Hélène looked at Jean with sympathy.
Burke had an idea.
“You know, Jean, they say it takes a village to raise a child,” he said. “I think it also takes a village to raise a dog. We’d love to have Plato with us, but only if we can share him with you and Bianca. How about if Plato lives with us but spends part of his days with you folks while we work at whatever we do? That way, he gets the best of both worlds: a home with us, plus exercise and a chance to say hello to everyone when he’s at your shop. After all, he’s a very social dog.”
Jean smiled at the idea and looked at the small dog. “He is very friendly,” Jean said. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Agreed.”
They all shook hands, then looked at Plato, whose tail was wagging madly.
Standing there, Burke thought back a few months to what his life had been like.