SUNDAY AFTERNOON, 16 MAY
She’s conscious.”
Mara turned her head in the direction of the voice. A face came near her. Glasses reflecting twin orbs of light, the eyes behind them invisible, the rest of the features blurred. She wondered if she was still in the little clearing. However, the air had a different quality, a kind of denseness. There was a smell, too, sharp, sour. Then she made out a white ceiling, a green curtain, the corner of a stainless-steel cart. She tried to move and found that her right arm was immobilized.
“You’re in hospital,” said the face. The voice was feminine. “I’m Dr. Villotte.”
“Why—?”
“You were shot. Fortunately, it’s a flesh wound. The bullet passed directly through the deltoid without doing any serious damage. You’ve lost blood, but you should be out of here in a few days.”
“Didier?” Mara asked, remembering.
“Intensive Care and well looked after.”
The truth of the matter was that it was doubtful Didier would make it. A bullet had been removed from his left lung. The surgeon gave him a thirty-seventy chance. His granddaughter had been there earlier, crying her heart out in the visitors’ bay. Sergeant Naudet had questioned Stéphanie closely, pressing her to think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her grandfather. Sobbing, she had shaken her head, her pigtails dangling like sad little sheaves of corn over her breasts. Breathing hard, the kindly gendarme had taken her hand and promised solemnly that he would do everything in his power to ensure that the assailant was apprehended.
Dr. Villotte conferred with someone—“Très bien. She’s heavily sedated. Fifteen minutes”—and withdrew. The pockmarked features of Adjudant Compagnon came into view. Behind him Mara glimpsed Laurent’s gangling form.
“Alors, madame,” said Compagnon, pulling a chair up to the bedside. He sat down heavily. His tone was unusually gentle. “You had a lucky break. A group of hunters and their dog found you. Their appearance probably interrupted whoever did this. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill you?”
“Not me,” Mara murmured. “Didier. Stop him talking.”
“Stop him talking about what?”
Mara’s lids drooped against the eyebrows that hovered above her like orange wings. “It has to do,” she whispered, “with werewolves.”
To his credit, Compagnon listened to her without interruption. Only when she reached the part about lycanthropes and the modern Sigoulane Beast did his face contract into a scowl so violent that it looked as if it were being squeezed sideways in a duck press. Behind him, Laurent scribbled rapidly on his pad.
Compagnon pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s say your theory is right. Jean-Claude Fournier tried to blackmail Christophe de Bonfond for being a lycanthrope or whatever, and de Bonfond felt sufficiently threatened to eliminate him. Why shoot the gardener?”
“He knows something.” Mara’s voice was barely audible, and both gendarmes had to strain to catch her words. “His family’s been with the de Bonfonds for generations.”
“Then why wait a whole week to silence him? Fournier was killed on the ninth. Today’s the sixteenth. Why not eliminate the old fellow straight away as well?”
In the absence of any response from the woman in the bed, Laurent suggested, “Maybe de Bonfond thought he could trust Didier to hold his tongue, sir. Loyal family retainer, that kind of thing. Until Madame Dunn went to see him. Maybe de Bonfond was afraid this time Didier would talk. He could have seen her questioning the old man and realized it was too risky to let either of them live.”
Compagnon stared at the gendarme and then turned back to Mara. “Madame Dunn, have you been in contact with Christophe de Bonfond?”
A shake of the head. “Not him.” Mara was beginning to drift into space again. “Dr. Thibaud. Midi-Pyrénées Psychiatric Hospital … Ask her. If you don’t believe me, ask her.”
Laurent noted this down.
The adjudant pursued: “Did you happen to mention your plans to see Monsieur Pujol today to anyone, or were you aware of anyone following you en route to Aurillac?”
She felt herself floating above the hospital bed, out the window, back to the grassy clearing. Once again she heard the gardener’s labored breathing, saw the blood spilling out of his mouth. And then it came back to her.
“Didier.” She gestured feebly with her free hand. “Told me. Ba—ba—” Mara’s tongue felt like an alien thing over which she had little control.
“Baba?” Compagnon had to lean in again to catch her words.
“Baby. Another baby.”
Compagnon snapped up like a jack-in-the-box. “Are you saying there’s another dead baby in the wall?”
Laurent jumped, too. “Maybe it was twins, sir.”
She was hovering high in the air now, blowing like a leaf over a dark forest. But she managed to mumble before she lost consciousness, “Cut its head off. Ask Didier. Knows where Christophe is. Probably in contact with him all the time.”
“Christophe de Bonfond.” The adjudant eyed Mara speculatively as she slipped from him into a drugged sleep. “Even if this werewolf-lycanthrope business is all nonsense, which I think it is, if he’s our assailant, we’ll get him.” He lumbered to his feet. “Stay with her, Naudet. Batailler’s with Pujol. She and the gardener are off limits to everyone except medical personnel. Get identification and contact information from all visitors, and detain anyone fitting de Bonfond’s description. As soon as she’s awake, get as much out of her as you can. I’m going to have another word with de Bonfond’s housekeeper.”
“What about the second baby, sir?” Laurent called after his superior as the man strode away.
“Putain! All I need is another kid. Headless at that!”
Sergeant Naudet. I’ve just heard about Didier Pujol and Madame Dunn.”
Laurent, recognizing the tall bearded man who came hurrying up to him in the hospital corridor, stood up. The two men shook hands.
“Do you have some identification, monsieur?”
“Identification?” Julian stared, unbelieving. “What’s going on? You know me. I was there when they found the baby, when you and your uncle Loulou La Pouge turned up.”
“So was Christophe de Bonfond,” Laurent said woodenly. “I need to see some ID, please.”
“All right, for pity’s sake.” Julian dug out his wallet. “Is she all right? Is it serious? Who the hell would want to shoot her?” He craned around Laurent to glimpse the motionless form on the bed, his voice strident with worry.
Laurent, scanning Julian’s driver’s license, relented. “It’s just a flesh wound, monsieur, and it may be that Pujol was the intended victim.”
“Didier? But why? I heard there were hunters about. Weren’t they shot by accident?”
Laurent shook his head. “Madame Dunn and Monsieur Pujol were shot with a rifle. The hunters carried shotguns.” Realizing that he had probably already divulged too much, the gendarme turned official. “I’m sorry, monsieur, I can’t say anything more. Even what I’ve told you is confidential, strictly speaking.”
“Incroyable!” Julian exclaimed, throwing up his arms. “All right. Keep your mouth buttoned, if you must. However, as one of France’s Bravest and Best, perhaps you’re not above receiving information? You might even find what I have to say of interest.”