Blackbird Fly (38 page)

Louis spoke to Jean-Pierre. They looked out the door
to the alley. The gendarme stepped outside. Louis said, “There is
someone in your house, madame.” Merle stretched on her knees,
keeping one hand under Albert’s head. Was it Tristan? “The
ambulance is here soon. He is okay? Ah, here are the boys. They
come from the street.”

Merle’s stomach dropped. “Tristan! Someone’s in the
house!”

Chapter 37

The gate hung open. Henri peered over Tristan’s
shoulder into their garden. He heard the panic in his mother’s
voice. “What?”

“
Quelqu’un, voila! Un homme
!”
Henri pointed into their windows, lit up in the dark night. A man’s
back was silhouetted.

“
Mom?”

“
I’ve got Albert. He’s okay! The
house, Tris!”

“
Oh, shit,” the boy said.
Jean-Pierre was at the gate now, looking into the garden. He pushed
the boys aside and strode toward the kitchen door. “It’s that son
of a bitch.”
The one I let in the house
. “Come on,” Tristan
told Henri. “Around the front!”

They ran hard down the cobblestones. Skidding around
the corner, they saw the man come out the front door, kicking out
the shutters. “Wait!” Tristan called but he saw them and turned to
the wall. Jumping the short section, he disappeared over the
side.

The vineyards swallowed him up. The boys watched as
he crashed about in the dark. Henri had a foot on the wall, ready
to follow, when Tristan saw him slip through a gap in the wall
farther down, and disappear into the streets. “This way!”

The streets were dark, shadowy, with alleys and
walk-ways and lots of corners to turn down. The village was a maze
at night, with look-alike shuttered houses. “Where did he go?”
Henri looked familiar, with his flop of black hair and big honking
nose. “
Où est-il?”

“
Je sais pas
,” the boy
mumbled.

“
Hey.” Tristan poked a finger at
him. Henri took a step back. “You helped those Bordeaux punks at
the fencing tournament. You held me down.” The boy turned his palms
up and looked sideways. “It was you. Okay, you and me. Come
on.”

Henri took a step backwards.

“
So you’re chicken without your
friends?” Tristan put up his fists. “Come on, asshole. Give me your
best shot. You baby. That’s right.
Bébé
.”

The boy raised his fists then. “There you go. Let’s
see what you’ve got.” The sound of footsteps, running on the
cobbles. A man dashed across, half a block away. “There he is!” The
fists dropped, the fight forgotten.

The chase went down one street and up another, as if
the man was lost. It was dark but to Tristan it looked like Tony,
the man his mother said was creepy. He ran funny, like he had a bad
leg. At an alley he skidded to a stop and turned in.

Henri got there before Tristan, who wasn’t used to
running on cobblestones. “
Voila!
” Henri pointed down the
alley, a dead-end stopping at an iron gate. They had him trapped.
They slowed to a walk, advancing on him.

“
Get away from me. This is mine,”
Anthony mumbled, cradling two wine bottles in his arms. “Leave me
alone, you filthy delinquents.”

“
Hey, Tony,” Tristan said.
“
Bonsoir,
my man. Having a fun evening?”

Surprise then relief flooded his face. “Mr. Strachie.
How nice to see you. I thought you were the police. Or a nasty
little frog.” They each took an arm. “Watch the wine, please!
Thanks much but I’ll be off now. Hey! Take your hands off me!”

The boys were as big as Simms, and younger and
stronger, and had little trouble marching him back to the gendarme.
His running commentary turned increasing vile, with slurs against
both Americans and French. He struggled to free himself from their
grasp but protecting the bottles kept him busy. When they reached
the street where Albert’s house sat, they saw the lights of the
ambulance. In the flashing red his mother and the gendarme and
Henri’s father were visible.

“
Regardez,”
Henri said.
“
Le gendarme et l’Inspecteur
.”

“
Keep moving, creep. Mom!” The
grownups looked up. The gendarme and the other cop started towards
them. “We got him!”

Simms gave a last, grunting effort and twisted out of
Tristan’s grasp. Henri kept hold of his left arm and they jumped
around on the street, barely keeping their footing. Everyone was
yelling, trying to catch Simms. Suddenly Henri had one of the
bottles of wine in his hand.

“
No, no, you little bastard! That is
mine. I’ll not be cheated again.” Anthony grabbed at the bottle, a
spastic lunge. Holding the wine over his head Henri laughed at him,
taunting. Anthony’s eyes were wide with panic. His toupee slipped,
revealing a bald scalp. “Now, young man, let’s not do anything
rash. Give me the bottle, there’s a nice boy.
Donnez-moi le
bouteille!
” Pascal and the Inspector moved cautiously behind
him, closing off the escape routes. “Damn it, you little shit. Give
it to me.”

Tristan tried to grab him but he jumped aside. Henri
moved the bottle higher, turning it to hang on to its neck, like he
was going to throw it on the ground. Anthony cried out, “You have
no right! My father paid for that wine and it belongs to me.” The
Englishman sniveled, hugging the other bottle to his chest. “Give
it to me, you dirty swine.” He took a step toward Henri.

A chorus of ‘No!!’ rose as the boy smashed the bottle
over Anthony’s head.

He stood, stunned, red wine dripping down his bald
head, his face, like blood. Green glass scattered on his shoulders,
then he slumped to the ground.

Someone threw a bucket of cold water over Anthony
Simms. He woke up in handcuffs, lying on his side on the street.
Everyone on the block was now awake, standing outside in their
bedclothes or hanging out windows. Merle held Albert’s hand as he
lay on the stretcher. He was conscious now, having come to just
before the ambulance arrived.

The emergency crew pushed her gently away and rolled
Albert inside the vehicle. She winced as they slammed the doors.
The sight of his jovial face so unsmiling was wrenching. Pascal put
his arm around her shoulders. “He’ll be all right. He is tough.” He
squeezed her arm. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been working on my
list.”

She glanced at him, his half smile. “Yes, where have
you been?”

“
You are shivers again.” Pascal
pulled her close. “Go home. I have to arrest the Englishman. You
have my number if you can’t sleep? ”

After thanking Louis and Henri Merle dragged Tristan
away from the excitement. She wanted to go check on the wine. The
boy chattered excitedly, recounting the chase and the amazing thing
about Henri being one of the guys who helped the out-of-towners at
the fencing tournament and how he was all right now that he’d
smashed a bottle of wine over the burglar’s head.

She set Tristan to trying to secure the front door
which had been kicked out, both the frame and the door itself were
splintered. The door shutters were done for. He propped them up and
brought the padlock inside. The gate was in similar shape, broken
timbers and lock busted. She tried to lock it and finally gave
up.

The trapdoor was open, the cupboard pushed aside.
Merle shone the flashlight down the stairs. “How many bottles did
he have?”

“
Just two.”

“
There’s more on the stairs. Be
careful.”

A case or more lined the steps. He’d gone straight
for the Pétrus. The door to the cave had been hatcheted, the tool
lying on the dirt floor. But inside the rest of the wine was safe.
“Count at that end,” she said, after they had put the bottles on
the stairs back into their racks. There were only five bottles
missing and they had drunk three themselves.

Upstairs they repositioned the cupboard over the trap
door then Tristan went to bed, still excited. Merle added to her
list: wine truck and safe storage, flowers for Albert. Then:
passport. A policeman came to the front door a half hour later. She
pushed aside the broken shutters. He was to stand guard. He had a
rather large gun, she noted happily. She put her head down on the
table.

The sounds woke her. She looked for her watch, still
a reflex but an empty one. It was dark outside. Through the broken
panes of the front door she could see the policeman, walking back
and forth like he was a palace guard, probably to stay awake. Had
he coughed? What had wakened her?

She curled into the horsehair sofa, feeling the lumps
poke her hips. Just jumpy, she thought, turning down the floor lamp
to low. She listened again, and lay her head on a pillow.

There! Again, a sound, definitely from the back. She
lay still. Should she get the policeman or scare whoever was in her
garden off herself? Policeman. For sure. She lay in the semi-dark,
listening. Had she locked the back door?

On cue, the glass shattered. She sat up to see a hand
coming through the broken pane and unbolting the door.

The hatchet lay against the fireplace where Tristan
had left it. Her heart was pounding as she lunged for it, standing
in the shadows under the stairs, waiting for — who? She yelled,
“Police! Help! Intruder!” Where was he?

She jumped into the light, brandishing the hatchet
with both hands. In her kitchen stood Jean-Pierre Redier flanked by
a shorter man. Jean-Pierre looked startled then began to laugh.
“
Vous êtes en état d’arrestation, madame
.” You are under
arrest. He pulled out his handcuffs and slapped them across his
black gloved hand.

“
Oh, no, you don’t.
Monsieur,
policier
!”

“
He has gone home. He isn’t needed,
madame.” He grinned at her. “Three’s a crowd, isn’t that the
expression?”

“
Mom?” Tristan stood on the stairs
in sweat pants and t-shirt. “What’s going on?”

“
Come over here by me, Tristan.” She
still held the hatchet in both hands, ready to chop off the hands
of anyone who came too close. She felt reckless, and
sleep-deprived, and generally pissed off. “Get back!” She swung the
hatchet in the direction of the gendarme. Black leather pants, my
ass.

Her son vaulted the railing and landed on the floor.
He slid sideways to her side. “What the heck are you doing, mom?”
he whispered. “That’s the cop.”

“
Reach into my pocket,” she said
softly. “Get my cell phone and call Pascal. Tell him to get here
quick. I’m going to turn a little your way. Don’t let him
see.”

“
Where is the policeman? What did
you do to him?” she said in French to Jean-Pierre. She needed to
keep talking until Tris made his call. She could feel his fingers
in her pocket. “Did you kill him like you killed Justine
LaBelle?”

“
Quoi?
” said the other man,
who was bearded and wore a knit cap. “You killed the
putain
?”

“
Stop talking nonsense. You killed
her, madame. That’s why you are under arrest.” He took a step
toward her. Tristan crouched behind his mother. She could hear the
buttons beeping and coughed to cover the sound. “And you broke into
my house, Monsieur le Gendarme. How will you explain getting your
fingers chopped off, eh?”

The second man’s eyes widened. He stuffed his hands
in his pockets. Jean-Pierre lowered his head like a bull. He was a
big man, young and strong, and she was making him mad. Some things
couldn’t be helped.

“
She was your aunt, wasn’t she? You
must have been proud. An aunt who ran around in revealing clothes.
A famous whore, right here in town. How exciting for you. It must
have been hard to explain. So you pushed her off the cliff so you
didn’t have to see her parading her pathetic old self around town
any more. Isn’t that right?”

Tristan was whispering. The gendarme looked around
her, craning his neck. He lunged forward and she swung the hatchet,
catching him on the wrist with the blunt side of the hatchet. “Get
back, you dirty flic!”

He grabbed the handle of the hatchet. She refused to
let go, skidding across the room with both hands tight on it. “Go
out the front, Tristan!” He turned as the gendarme slammed her
against the wall under the stair. The boy put his shoulder to the
door and ran.

“
Don’t let him get away,”
Jean-Pierre told his frozen cohort. He had a boot on her foot,
pinching her toes in a crushing motion. Merle howled and tried to
chop at him again, but he had both hands on the hatchet and
wrenched it out of her hands.

“
Go after him, idiot!” The shorter
man ran out the front door.

“
Quite the tom-cat, eh?” He dropped
the hatchet and grabbed her hands. Slapping on the handcuffs he
wrapped them around a stair baluster. She struggled to her feet as
he let up on the pressure on her toes. “Okay, where is it?” He
began to pace around the room.

“
Where is what? Your dick? They all
say you have trouble finding it.”

He laughed and kept pacing. “Wouldn’t you like to
know? Like a little taste, would you? The door, where is it?”

“
Right behind you. Show yourself
out.”

He had spun when she said ‘behind you,’ and now
grabbed her arm. He smelled of liquor and sweat. His breath reeked
of cigarettes. “You are so smart. You arrogant Americans.” He
brought his knee up to her back. She moaned at the pain.

He pushed the sofa, pulled up the rug, flinging it
against the wall. Through the kitchen and bath, he pounded on the
stone floor with his boots, then at the kitchen door, he laughed.
Quite fond of evil laughter, was he. He had found it. The scratch
marks on the floor had clued him in. He pushed the heavy cupboard
aside, pulled up the door, and shone a flashlight on the
stairs.