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Annie hesitated, then shook her head. As did the others.
“I told you. I saw it,” said Reine-Maire. “And so did my husband. You have two witnesses.”
“Your name?”
She gave it.
“It’s Friday night, it’s dark,” said the cop. “The man’s in a black overcoat. The driver might’ve had too much to drink. Don’t you think it’s possible—”
“It was deliberate.” Armand took out his card, scribbled his Paris mobile number on the back, and handed it to the gendarme. “I’m going with him.”
Armand followed Stephen into the back of the ambulance, and after a very brief argument, the paramedics relented, realizing there was no way they’d be able to get the man out.
“I’ll let you know which hospital,” Armand shouted to Reine-Marie as the door slammed closed.
“Will he be okay?” asked Annie.
Did she mean Stephen or her father?
As the ambulance sped off, Reine-Marie took her daughter’s hand while Daniel put his arm around his mother’s shoulder.
All emergency waiting rooms looked the same, smelled the same, felt the same.
They’d taken Stephen to the hôpital Hôtel-Dieu, on île de la Cité. Almost in the shadow of Notre-Dame.
Armand stared at the swinging doors, where the paramedics had rushed Stephen. And which now separated Armand from his godfather.
He could have been anywhere. In any hospital in any city. Time, place, did not exist here. Did not matter here.
The others in the room, waiting for news of their loved ones, looked gaunt with anxiety and exhaustion. And boredom.
Armand had washed the blood from his hands and face. But couldn’t get it off his clothes. They’d be thrown away, he knew. He never wanted to see them again.
It was ridiculous to blame the shirt and tie, the jacket and slacks, for what had happened. But even the socks would be tossed out.
He’d called Reine-Marie first, to let her know where they were. She’d arrive soon. He suggested the others return home and wait for news.
Then he’d called his friend.
“I’ll be right there, Armand.”
Reine-Marie arrived within minutes, with Annie and Daniel. Jean-Guy and Roslyn had returned home to the children.
“Any news?” Reine-Marie asked, taking Armand’s hand.
“None.”
“He must be still alive,” said Daniel. He put his hand on his father’s arm.
“Oui.” Armand gave his son a thin smile of thanks, and Daniel dropped his hand.
“Armand,” came a voice from the entrance.
A slender man, in his late fifties, and wearing clothes clearly just thrown on, walked rapidly toward them. His hand out.
Armand took it. “Merci, mon ami. Thank you for coming. Reine-Marie, you remember Claude Dussault?”
“Of course.”
