WHEN BURKE AWOKE AGAIN, he felt slightly more alert. His eyes took less time to focus, and his brain didn’t struggle as much to establish his whereabouts.
“I’m here, chéri,” said a soothing voice at his side.
There was a welcome familiarity to it. He rolled his head toward the sound.
Hélène. Yes, it was Hélène.
Even though she was smiling, tears slipped down her cheeks.
“I’m here, chéri, I’m here,” she whispered into his ear. “You’re safe, and you will get better.”
Burke smiled at Hélène and teared up as well. She was the person he most wanted to see. The world wasn’t so bad. She could rescue him.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you,” Burke mumbled.
“OK, that’s enough,” said another voice.
It, too, was familiar. A figure stepped closer—a man. André Rousseau. Burke’s friend wore a strained smile, and he wondered just how bad he must look.
“You scared the shit out of all of us with this accident,” Rousseau said.
Burke smiled back and then closed his eyes to concentrate. Had it been an accident? Had he screwed up on a ride? Then, in a rapid-fire series of flashbacks, he remembered the black car and having to ride off the road to avoid being run down. Then the crash into the tree. And then the waves of pain. Crushing, unbearable pain.
“No accident,” he said, opening his eyes and looking at Rousseau.
Rousseau’s eyebrows shot up. Hélène looked equally surprised.
“No accident,” Burke repeated, feeling more tired by the second. His reserves were low, and this minor interaction was depleting them. “A car tried to run me over.”
“Really? We all thought it was an accident,” Rousseau said. “Are you sure? I mean, you’ve been badly hurt.”
Burke nodded. “It’s true. I don’t remember much after, but that driver tried to kill me.”
“Maybe the driver wasn’t paying attention,” Rousseau said.
Burke’s mind filled with the last moments before he hit the tree.
“No accident,” he repeated.
“Did you see who was driving?” Rousseau asked, sounding like he was beginning to believe Burke.
Once more, Burke replayed the incident.
“No, I couldn’t see the face,” he said.
Hélène held up a hand to Rousseau. “Paul’s exhausted, André,” she said. “He’ll tell us later what he remembers.”
“But the police…” Rousseau said.
“Later,” Hélène said.
André nodded. He smiled at Burke and then said, “While you’ve been away—so to speak—hardly anything has happened, except Léon Petit and his mother are in jail and supposedly have pled guilty, him to murder and manslaughter and her to attempted murder. Lots of stuff about it on the TV and in the papers.”
Burke recalled talking to Fortin and Côté the same day of his accident. And doing blogs for François Lemaire. And then he’d finished his work and gone for a ride.
“How long have I been unconscious?” he asked.
“The accident was Wednesday, and this is Saturday,” Hélène said. “The doctor and nurses said you were awake for a couple of minutes the other day, before the surgery. Do you remember that?”
Burke shut his eyes and shook his head.
“Chéri, we’ve tired you out,” Hélène said. “You need to sleep now.”
With his eyes closed, Burke nodded. Just before he gave himself over to the overwhelming need to drift away, he heard Rousseau tell Hélène, “We have to talk to the police about what happened.”