Cara Black - Murder in Belleville

His stepfather, Roman, also a pied’tioir, said little. But when he spoke everyone listened. Bernard had always likened Roman’s speech to the tools of his butcher’s trade—sharp and cutting.

He’d once asked his mother, before he’d learned better, why his Papi’s words cut like a knife. She’d sighed, then pulled him close, something she’d rarely had time for. She told him his Papi bottled everything inside and that some people showed their love in different ways. His Papi, she continued, showed it by working hard. They had a home now, she’d said. She’d gestured toward the room around them. Peeling plaster in two narrow, high-ceilinged rooms, the only water source a pump in the courtyard.

But when Roman spoke, he used language as a weapon. Whereas Bernard learned to use language as a shield, living in the ether of ideas.

His mother said she was sure one day he’d make his Papi proud and show him how smart he was. She’d run her hand down his cheek, smooth down his hair and the stubborn cowlick that never took orders. Her tone had been wistful when she’d asked him if he’d take care of his Papi when he got older.

But he never had. Roman died broken and tubercular seven years later. Before Bernard earned entrance to Ecole Nationale Administratif, and his brother passed the entrance exam for medical school. However, Roman’s fierce silences and cutting words were imprinted on his pysche.

These children would never know his deprivations. And for once, bypassing the envy that lived in his heart, he experienced gratitude. Gratitude that no child would know those days… but then he thought of the Balkans, the blank-eyed orphans. War never stopped, it just took different forms. And these children, weren’t they victims forged from battles of the long-lost Algerian war?

There was a loud shattering of glass ahead of him.

“In here, bureaucrat!” the man yelled. “Now!”

Bernard fought the impulse to flee, ducked his head, and entered the doorway. The terrorist had broken the window. Glass shards blanketed the attic floor, giving off a bluish tinge. Used, musty air and waist-high wooden storefront letters filled the narrow attic. Weak sunlight flashed off the glass, creating a diamond carpet. What if the sharpshooters thought he was signaling? Bernard felt panic, his breathing coming in short gasps.

No, they’d wait—they wouldn’t shoot at anything that sparkled—he felt sure. The bands of tension in Bernard’s head relaxed a fraction. Until he saw the disheveled woman in the corner, tied to a chair, struggling to kick at the terrorist’s shins. She sent him a look that Bernard couldn’t read.

“Take me to the bathroom,” she yelled. “Or I’ll do it on the floor.”

The terrorist whacked her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. “Suit yourself, infidele, just shut up!”

Bernard saw her hands clutch the splindly chair back behind her and realized her wrists were untied. She was signaling him. There were two of them and just one big semiautomatic-toting terrorist.

“Look,” Bernard said, edging toward the terrorist, “I’d suggest—”

“Cut the small talk.”

Bernard gestured toward her. “Can’t you at least let her go to the bathroom?”

Bernard wondered who she was.

The terrorist pointed to a window, jagged splinters of glass peeking from the corners.

“Hurry up,” he said. “Throw it from here! Bureaucrat, I’m losing patience,” the terrorist growled. He hawked and spit, coming over and nudging the machine gun into Bernard’s ribs. “Didn’t you hear me? Throw the box out the window.”

Bernard winced as the cold metal barrel poked through his thin suit jacket. He took a step. Shattered glass crackled under his shoes. He froze.

He looked over at the woman for help, but her heavy-lidded eyes stared vacantly. Her nose bled bright red down her chin, spattering on her once white silk blouse.

Bernard knew he was a coward. Schoolyard fights and taunt-ings had proved that. The idea of standing as a window target for RAID sharpshooters was not appealing. Right now he wanted to get on his knees under the skylight, in the chill air among the skewed letters, and beg the man for mercy.

“The police will shoot me,” he said, his veined hands shaking. “I can’t—”

“Makes no difference,” the terrorist yawned. “I’ll use her.”

Bernard’s legs wobbled; they didn’t support him any more. Lightheaded and dizzy, he reached to steady himself against the woman’s chair. He missed. Around him the angle of light spun and shifted. He hit the ground heavy and hard. What must have been moments later, he grew aware of myriad sharp splinters in his arms.

The woman erupted from her chair screaming, kicking at the terrorist’s legs. He tripped over the dazed Bernard and let out a roar. He landed headfirst against the wall and crumpled onto his machine gun. Deafening shots erupted into his chest. His black torso twitched as the round drilled into him. His body fell sideways.

Bernard realized the woman had gone. He was alone. Alone with a dead terrorist oozing guts onto the pebble-like plaster. What should he do? Wouldn’t Rachid have heard the bullets?

He rolled the stocky corpse over and slid out the machine gun, sticky with blood.

Bernard pulled off the man’s black mask. He saw the stubbled slack] aw and vacancy of death. For the first time in Bernard’s life, he felt no fear at death. A curious relief flooded him.

And then Bernard decided. He would no doubt join little André, who had beckoned him at night for so long. But first he would save the children, since he hadn’t been able to save his brother.

He would make up for the past.

Bernard unzipped and removed the terrorist’s jumpsuit, a laborious process, rolling down the sleeves, then shimmying the cloth over shoulders and thick, lifeless hips. Then the heavy boots, which he wiped off, then put on. He put on the ski mask. In the zippered side pocket he found a fresh bullet cartridge.

By the time he trailed down two flights of stairs wearing the black mask, his fingers had clamped rock steady on the trigger. He liked the way the solid curve molded to his finger. A creaking on the narrow landing caused him to stop.

Light from a wall sconce illuminated a trail of greasy fingerprints. Wedged under the metal-railed staircase, almost unotice-able, was the outline of a small door. He tiptoed across the floor, cocked his ear to the door, and listened. From time to time, he heard childlike whispers and strident beeping.

“Stay calm, I’m a friend,” he said, opening the door slowly. A figure crouched behind cleansers and dust mops. “Let me help you, little boy.”

“My name’s Simone,” said a glaring little face. She emerged slowly, holding a cell phone and cradling a worn brown-furred teddy bear in her arms. “This game is boring,” she coughed and choked back sniffles. “I want to go home!”

Bernard knelt down, stiff and awkward in the jumpsuit, his arms full with the gun. “So do I,” he said.

“You’re not allowed to!” she said wiping her runny nose with her sleeve.

“My name’s Bernard.”

“You’re the bad man.”

“Let me explain—” he began.

“Where’s my maman?” she lisped.

Was this the woman upstairs? “Tell me what she looks like.”

“You pushed her,” Simone said, her voice climbing higher. “I saw you. Not fair. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to push people.”

“But it wasn’t me.”

“Liar!”

As Bernard reached to brace himself, Simone shut the door on his fingers. He lurched in pain, pulled his hand out, and stumbled backward. With a sharp crack his head hit the railing and he crumpled. The machine gun slid from his grasp, and the cartridge round clattered from his pocket onto the parquetry.