Louis Shalako
With
the Beretta tucked into the back of his belt, hidden by the long shirt-tails,
and keeping his left side turned to them in what must appear an odd move, he
moved forward three or four metres. It kept them thinking. He kept those hands
up, and that’s all they needed to see. He needed to get well clear of the door,
and to divide their attention. The MAB, standard issue service pistol on his
right hip, the flap pulled well up and over, and tucked in behind the belt,
safety off, would be invisible…hopefully. He stopped, staring off into the
woods, puffing contentedly on the cigar.
“Hello?
Hello? Is there anybody out there—”
“All
right asshole, we’re over here—what an idiot.”
“We’re
not here for silly fucking mind-games.” Another voice, separate and distinct.
There
were four or five of them, and then there was Capucine, still clutching her
basket. Two men had her, firmly held by the upper arms, he could see that much
out of his peripheral vision.
He
stopped, and turned to his left to face them.
“Life
is a game. There are no rules.” He took another left-handed puff and blew smoke
in their direction.
They
kind of froze when they saw that 7.65-millimetre MAB hanging there in a brown
leather holster.
He
spat the cigar out, off to one side.
“Fuck
you, all of you, and all of the God-damned fucking horses you rode in on…”
“Fuck
off, wise guy—I’ll shoot the girl right now if that’s what you want.”
“Hey.
Monsieur Blue Eyes. How’s the fishing these days, or were you just trolling for
queers.”
The
man’s mouth dropped and his eyes bugged out at that one—but this was their
friend from the riverbank, sure as hell…
Éliott
stared at them, wordless, then engaging the eyes of Capucine. He winked, and
the one holding her stared in amazement. His face was turning red. She gave him
the slightest of nods and her eyes darted back and forth…thinking it through,
measuring distances, calculating the odds here and there…her head cocked a
little and she was right back on him.
There
were the four toughs and a smaller man, older, in a sleek grey suit.
That
would be the boss.
“Maintenon’s
not here. Which one of you fucking cocksuckers is left-handed. I will trade you
this old hermit that lives here—for that man. You can keep the girl, she don’t
mean nothing to me.” He glared at them. “Yeah, I figure it was a left-handed
piece of shit that hit that old man on the head, with a big fucking stinking rock
that you picked up, right there on the trail. Cocksucker. Right by that log on
the riverbank. I want that miserable, low-life piece of shit.”
Éliott
made a couple of funny little signs. They knew she was deaf all right, and
possibly didn’t see much harm in it—not understanding the significance of it
all. Pissed-off as they were. It was like they just couldn’t take it seriously.
They were after Maintenon—not him. First, he crossed his hands across his
chest, and then put them out wide, just like the fucking Pope. The symbol for
love. Then he held up the right hand, palm facing her, index finger pointing
straight up. He stuck out his thumb, sideways, then he lifted the pinky
finger…the letters I, L and Y. I-L-Y—I love you. He waggled the little finger,
just so she got it.
“It’s
okay. I’m just letting the girl know everything’s going to be all right—”
She
stared, open mouthed as the scumbags looked on in sardonic amusement. They
looked at each other, grinning, fools that they were. Tears popped out in those
beautiful eyes, and she nodded.
Both
hands up and in front again, he closed his fists and then spread his
fingers—drop.
Just…drop. And just like all the others, her
eyes were on that gun on his belt, and right back up again...
Capucine
went limp, half-hauling the stupid bastard down with her, and, just at that exact same second the hermit stepped out of the
doorway, shotgun leveled and cocked on the left side barrel. His finger was on
the trigger and the thumb right there by the right-side hammer.
Éliott’s
right hand, already dropping, slapped leather about the same time they all
stopped, turned to gape, to think, and then try and decide what to do with
their fucking guns, now that there were two targets, and with the girl kicking
up trouble. What were they doing, waiting for instructions…too fucking late, Monsieur.
He
shot the one half-standing over Capucine as she rolled and twirled her legs and
brought him down anyways. It looked like he’d gotten that one right in the
temple and he wasn’t getting up. The one almost directly behind them, his own
vision and attention suddenly obscured and diverted, stepping back quickly and
trying not to get entangled, flinched about the time the hermit’s shotgun
boomed, hopefully taking the one on the farthest left. Éliott had already
pulled the trigger on this one. Another hit, right in the guts. He went down,
clutching his middle, eyes wide and horrified and staring straight into his
own.
He
was screaming bloody murder and good for him…
There
were a couple of reflexive pistol shots, coming in their direction but they
missed, spanking off the ground into whining richochets…
The
shotgun boomed again, there was a lot of yelling and now the sound of dogs
barking off in the distance. Éliott found the little man in a grey suit through
all the smoke and carnage. It was the fog of war, and he lined up on a running
target. He squeezed off shot after shot until the fucker went down, sliding
along face down until he hit the base of a small tree. One more squeeze and she
just clicked. He dropped the weapon and pulled the other one. There might have
been a little twitch or two, but the man in the grey suit was definitely down.
.jpg) |
| Smirnov down after five shots in the back. |
Capucine
was up on her feet in an instant, eyes blazing at Éliott in one quick flash,
and then she was gone, bounding away like a fucking rabbit.
Someone
was yelling and fucking clapping…clapping? Dropping into a crouch, he spun to
the right, both hands on the weapon. There were people in the woods.
“…don’t
shoot! Éliott. Hold fire! Hold fire. It’s me! It’s Hubert! It’s Alphonse and
there’s another officer…Constable Garnier.” They were up and crashing through
the underbrush. “Hold fire! Hold your fire!”
The
hermit, behind, was reloading, hands shaking all over the place in sheer
excitement, or sure as shooting…he would have fired already. Two hot
shell-casings lay, still smoking on the ground at his feet.
He
was cussing and groaning something awful. A fresh shell dropped and he stooped
to scrabble at it.
“Fuck.”
“Hold
on, sir. They’re friends of mine.” But there were more people coming up the
trail, and the dogs were much closer now…just around the next corner. “You okay
with that thing?”
The
hermit nodded grimly, snapping her shut and cocking one barrel…one at a time,
that’s the way.
“Bring
‘em on, partner.”
And
there they were, five or six of them, fucking big ugly dogs, straining at the
leash and being rather strenuously held back by men in the blue uniforms of the
police.
“Hold
fire! Hold fire!”
That
sure sounded good from where he was standing.
He
heaved a big breath, and then another—
Thank
God.
Now,
the only question was what had happened to Capucine. She sure as hell wasn’t
with these guys.
There
were five bodies lying around in some state of disarray. They couldn’t all be
dead, or so he thought, although the one guy had gone real quiet. His eyes were
still open and he moaned and groaned, flat on his back. With a little luck,
they might even have one or two left to talk. He put the gun up as the local
cops arrived and the three Paris detectives waded through chest-high weeds and
stumbled over rocks and berry-canes as they picked their way down the slope. He
bent and picked up his own gun. Pulling the clip, he reloaded, also taking a
quick look to make sure the tip of the barrel wasn’t clogged with good old
topsoil.
Now,
it was all over bar the shouting.
Maybe.
Hubert
got there first.
“That
was a beautiful thing to see—just beautiful.”
This
was one report he would enjoy writing.
“Nice
shooting, young man.” Alphonse patted him on the back. “You might want to go
after that girl, Éliott.”
Éliott
nodded, eyeing the new guy, but it was only to be expected. No one was
irreplaceable, after all.
“Good
morning, detective. I’m Garnier—” He took a good look around. “Nice work,
incidentally.”
Éliott
grunted in sheer relief.
“Thank
you, thank you very much—”
“We’d
better check these bodies. Secure those weapons.” Showing his identification,
Garnier grabbed a shoulder and went off with one of the locals to do just that.
As
for the hermit, he’d taken one look at the descending crowd and retreated back
into his hidey-hole; with the door bolted and the curtains closed.
“If
that wasn’t Gilles, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
“Here.”
He handed off the hermit’s Beretta to Alphonse. “Want to make a bet? I’ll give
you ten to one, that this weapon is registered to the Inspector.”
“Oh—oh.”
“…you
might want to get these damned dogs out of here, or you’ll never get him out of
there.”
Éliott
could only give the barest of explanations, and then he was off, sprinting down
that trail after Capucine.
***
 |
| érotisme et transgression |
Well,
she wasn’t at home. The place was locked up and clearly her mother and any
other family members were out. It was like he knew virtually nothing about her.
She might have locked herself in. He took a look behind the house, and there
didn’t seem to be too many bicycles around. With no idea of whether she had
friends or relatives nearby, he set off down the road to the village. Banging
on doors and windows wasn’t going to do much good if she was still in there,
yet he rather doubted it.
It
was going to be a hot day after all—
He’d
run out of steam but he could still walk. The ankles were still tender, even
now.
He
hadn’t gotten more than a few hundred metres down the road when a big black car
pulled up alongside.
The
passenger side window was open and Alphonse was alone in the car.
“Come
on, boy, hop in. I’ll give you a ride.”
The
vehicle stopped and Éliott climbed in.
“Not
at home, eh?”
He
shook his head.
“No.
I don’t think so.”
“We’ll
find her…somewhere.”
“Yes.”
“I
doubt if she’ll go to the police station. They’re saying she blew right through
them. One guy fell down trying to get
out of the way. It’s a good thing he managed to hang onto the dog, or she’d
still be running. Or maybe treed somewhere. She just jumped right over him and
kept on going…” He looked over at Éliott. “I understand she has a few ribbons
for track and field. Back in high school, you know.”
“Huh.”
Their
eyes met.
“Why
don’t we try the Church? Wouldn’t surprise me, you know.”
Éliott
nodded, but surely, someone around here would have seen her.
It
was as good a place to start as any.
***
Alphonse
had stayed in the car.
A
bicycle leaned up against the wall, just beside the steps out front.
Éliott
opened up the door to the fine old church and saw a forlorn figure, right side,
right up in the front row. She was kneeling at the end of the pew, hands in the
classic position.
It
was her.
Head
down, in prayer, of course she wouldn’t hear the door. The place wasn’t real
big. Just then, the door of the confessional booth opened and an elderly woman
in a veil came out, clutching her purse and adjusting her hat, glancing
incuriously at him on the way past. The door on the other side opened and the
priest came out, stopping at the sight of him.
Seeing
a stranger in his church, and knowing a little or maybe even a lot about the
girl, he came and stood protectively at the head of the centre aisle. All set
to provide passive, non-violent resistance or something like that—
The
shepherd of his flock.
“Good
morning, sir. Welcome. Was there something I can help you with—”
“It’s
all right Father.” Éliott genuflected and did the blessing, crossing himself
with a little dab of the Holy Water. “I’m Detective Éliott LeBeaux of the Sûreté. I was just wondering. How much does a marriage
license cost around here, anyways?”
The priest relaxed. He nodded and smiled.
“Normally, about fifteen francs. In this case, we
might be happy enough to waive the fee.” He coughed, reached over and touched
Capucine on the shoulder, seemingly oblivious to all around her, eyes closed
and lips moving silently. “You, ah—you might want to ask the young lady,
first.”
She straightened up, saw the Father, and also,
that he was intent on something else.
She looked around.
“Éliott!” In something less than a couple of heartbeats, she was up from the
pew and into his arms, which had closed around the girl in something that was
both beautiful and natural.
They
had eyes only for each other, although the world still turned around them…
Whatever
it was, it was as big as all of life—and death, and beyond.
It
was—love.
And
that was about all anyone could ever really say.
The
Father gave his head a little shake. He gave a little nod and fought back a
smile.
Turning
to the altar, he bobbed and made the Sign of the Cross.
Turning
again, he engaged Éliott through the poor guy’s watering eyes.
“There
are days like this, when I just love my job.” He glanced up at the Cross in the
wall. “Anyways, whenever you beautiful young people are ready, I shall be in my
office.”
Turning,
with a little swish from the vestments, he headed for a narrow door off to the
side.
He
stopped and looked back.
“I'll tell you what. I'll pay the fee myself. Just this once.” He smiled. “Bless you, my
children.”
And
then he was gone.
The End
Previous.
Previous.
Chapter Thirteen.
 |
| "...thank you...thank you very much." |
Chapter Twenty-Seven.
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Louis has books and
stories available from Google Play.
Thank you for reading.
