All the Devils Are Here(83)

But Daniel was beyond rational thought.

“I’m not the only one who lied yesterday.” Daniel’s voice was raised. Almost shouting. “You did, too.”

“Me?”

“Don’t. Just don’t. I know the truth. Mom knows the truth. And I at least didn’t betray you to the cops. Didn’t humiliate you. Neither did she.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you weren’t in the special forces. Because to admit it would be to admit you could’ve killed Monsieur Plessner. But you were, weren’t you.”

“Non. Never. Why do you say I was?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Daniel shouted, and threw his crêpe at his father. It hit his jacket and fell to the grass, but Armand didn’t move. “I heard. That’s how I know.”

“Heard?”

“You and Mom talking, downstairs. It was Christmas Eve. I was excited about Père No?l, so I crept onto the landing. And I heard.”

“What?”

“You told Mom about taking a job with the special forces. You told her about the hostage takings, the terrorists, the raids on organized crime. All the terrible things. You said it was dangerous, that the death rate was high. But it was something you had to do.”

Armand’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened slightly. He remembered that conversation. Years ago. But that wasn’t how it went.

“I never accepted the job. The job I agreed to do was to train recruits. That’s all. To try to get them as prepared as possible for whatever they’d face. You have to believe me.”

“Right, like you believe me? I know you’re lying. I know what I heard. I saw Mom crying. You made her cry. And every day after that, when you went to work, I knew you weren’t coming home. I hated you for that.”

“Oh, my God, Daniel, is that why you shut me out? Because you thought I was going to be killed?”

“Because you cared more for others than you did for us. For me. And yes, because you were going to die. And I couldn’t … How could I love you … how could I care … when …” The words came out haltingly, as a wail. The same sound he’d made as a boy, hurtling down from too great a height. “How could I … ?”

“All these years?” Armand whispered, unable to find his voice. His eyes burning. “All this time?”

Who hurt you once, so far beyond repair / that you would greet each overture with curling lip?

The lines from Ruth Zardo’s poem exploded in his head. In his chest.

Me, he realized with horror. I did.

“I used to have nightmares,” said Daniel.

“I remember.”

And he did.

Daniel crying out in his sleep. Armand and Reine-Marie had gone to him, gently waking the boy with hushed assurances. Then the look of horror on Daniel’s face when he saw his father.

He’d push Armand aside, and reach out thin arms for his mother.

Two, three times a week this happened. He never told them what the nightmares were about. Until now.

“It was always the same one. There was a knock on the door. I’d run to answer it, and there you were.” Daniel was heaving now, sobbing. Barely able to get the words out. “But. You. Were. Dead.”

Armand was pale, his breathing shallow and rapid. He reached out, but Daniel stepped back. Away.

“Every time I look at you, that’s what I see. A dead man. My friends knew their parents would live forever. But I knew that fathers and mothers leave home and never come back. Your parents did. And now you would, too.”

“Ohhh, no,” said Armand.

He’d deliberately not talked about the death of his parents in front of Daniel and Annie, for fear of scaring, scarring, his own children. Not until they were old enough to understand.

So how?

And then it came to him.

That rainy Saturday here in Paris, years, decades ago. They were visiting Stephen’s apartment and the kids were playing hide-and-seek. They’d found a false door in the armoire in Stephen’s bedroom and crawled in.

And heard. Their father and Stephen talking. About his parents, and about that day. About the knock on the door. About the very worst thing that can happen to a child. Annie must’ve been too young to understand. But Daniel did.

Parents died.

Nightmares came true.

“You couldn’t be a teacher, a plumber? Even a normal cop? You had to do the most dangerous thing. I know you never loved us. If you did, you’d have picked us.”

“But I did. Oh, my God. Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”

He moved toward his son. Daniel stepped back and raised the only thing he had. His umbrella. “Don’t come closer. Don’t you dare try—”

“I love you. With all my heart, I love you. I’m so sorry.”

He stepped forward, and Daniel swung, at the last moment leaning away so that the handle of the umbrella swept by his father’s face, close enough for Armand to feel the air ripple.

Armand hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t closed his eyes. Keeping them on his son the whole time. Though it was hard to see clearly.

Daniel looked like he was underwater.

Throwing the umbrella on the ground, Daniel strode away. Leaving Armand staring after him.