All the Devils Are Here(143)

Finally it was decided that he should, for the good of the Préfecture, step aside. Step down. Step back. Way back.

“Retire, Claude,” the Minister of the Interior had said. “Go plant roses. Enjoy your life.”

It was framed as a reward for decades of service. Though everyone knew it was a punishment. A consequence.

Still, neither Claude nor his wife regretted his actions. Though he did deeply regret that he couldn’t prevent the murder of Alexander Plessner or the attack on Stephen Horowitz.

“Here’s a postcard from Xavier Loiselle,” said Monique, checking the mail their housekeeper had put on the dining table. “He’s accepted the job you found him, but not the one in Paris.”

“Non?” said Claude as he opened more curtains and windows to air out the place.

Their home looked across the rolling hills of the C?te d’Azur, toward the Mediterranean, not quite visible in the distance.

“No. He’s with the Commissariat de Police in Nice. Just a few kilometers from us.”

“Huh. I wonder why.”

Monique looked at her husband and smiled. “I don’t.” She went back to the postcard. “Get this. He’s started saxophone lessons. And sounds like he’s smitten.”

“With the sax?”

Claude had opened the French doors to their stone terrasse and stepped out. He felt the sun on his face and breathed in the fresh air, scented with lemons from the grove just below them.

“With his teacher,” said Monique. “He’d like to bring her by one Sunday. Oh.”

“What is it?”

“A letter from the bank.” She ripped it open. “That’s strange.”

“What? Are they calling our mortgage? That’s all we need.”

“No.” She stepped onto the terrasse and showed him the paper. “This says the mortgage had been paid.”

Sure enough, the balance owing was zero.

“I wonder who did that?” he said.

Armand put on his coat and hat and, opening the door, he called to the dogs. And Gracie. Who might, or might not, have been a ferret. Though it didn’t matter. She was family.

The animals ran out the door, skidding slightly on the snow-covered porch.

The children had been fed and put to bed. Stories were read to them as they drifted off to sleep, snug and warm under their duvets as a cool breeze puffed out the curtains.

Daniel stood beside his daughters’ beds in the dark, and looked through the window at his father walking around the village green.

Then he put his hand in the pocket of his cardigan and brought out a scuffed envelope. On it, in his father’s hand, was written, For Daniel.

It was what his father had slipped him that day, years ago, on Mount Royal. Daniel, assuming it was money, and a not-very-subtle message that he couldn’t provide for his own family, hadn’t opened it.

He’d told his father he’d thrown it away, but had actually shoved it to the back of a drawer, and only found it again when they were packing up.

Now he tore it open. There was a short note inside, and something else.

Tipping the envelope up, out slid a thin silver chain, and a tiny crucifix.

Dearest Daniel. This was what your grandfather, my father, wore throughout the war. He always said it protected him. He gave it to me on my ninth birthday. The last, and most precious, gift he gave me, besides, of course, the gift of his love. He said it would keep me safe. I’ve worn it since. And now, I want you to have it.

Love, Dad



Closing his fist around it, Daniel watched as Jean-Guy sprinted across the snow to join his father. Then, after kissing his sleeping children and whispering that he loved them, Daniel went downstairs to join Stephen, who was nodding by the fire.

“What’ve you got there?” Stephen asked.

“You’re ninety-three and were run over by a truck, shouldn’t you be blind or demented by now?”

Stephen laughed. “Unfortunately for you, that truck seems to have knocked some sense into me.”

He nodded toward the chain in Daniel’s hand. And Daniel told him.

“May I see it?”

When Daniel gave it to him, Stephen gestured for Daniel to turn around. As he fixed it around Daniel’s neck, he whispered, “See this for what it is.”

“A good-luck charm?”

“The truth.”

“Mind some company?” Jean-Guy asked as he fell into step beside Armand.

“Not at all,” said Armand.

Their feet crunched on the snow and their faces tingled as large, wet flakes landed softly and melted.

“I spoke to Isabelle today,” said Jean-Guy, his words coming out in puffs. “She brought me up to speed.”

“Good.”

“I can start on Monday, if that works for you. It won’t be awkward, will it? My coming back to homicide and sharing second-in-command duties with her?”

“If she can stand you, so can I,” said Armand. He stopped and looked at Jean-Guy. “Are you sure Annie’s all right with you coming back?”

“From Paris? There was no question. This’s where we belong. This’s where we want to raise our children. Here, in Québec.”

“I meant with you coming back to the S?reté,” Armand clarified. “To homicide.”