Page 32 of The Grey Wolf
“Because of the angle, we don’t have the driver’s face,” said Lacoste.
“Pardon?” said the man she was helping.
“Not talking to you. Are you okay?”
“You asking me?” the man said.
She nodded and so did he. “I’m okay, I guess.”
“I saw him,” said Gamache.
“You did?” She stood up and stared at the Chief Inspector.
His greying hair was disheveled, as were his clothes. His white shirt untucked and smeared with blood. His tie was loose and off to one side. The knees were torn from his slacks and slightly bloody. His right hand was bleeding from scrapes on his palm where he’d braced for the impact. He was clearly not seriously hurt. Not what it could have been. What she’d thought it would be, in that terrible instant.
“Can you describe him?” she asked.
“I can do better, Isabelle. I can show you a photo. It was the man who dropped off the package this morning. I’m sure of it.”
Dear God, was it only this morning?
It took her just a beat to understand what he was saying.
“Shit.” She scrolled through her images, found the photo, and sent it out. There was no clear shot of the man’s face, but it gave an impression.
“There was a woman on the terrasse,” said Armand as he helped someone else. “You might not have seen her. She came out behind you and waved at the vehicle. She must’ve signaled it.” He scanned the scene. “I can’t see her now.”
“We had cameras outside,” said Lacoste. “I’ll find her.”
Gamache assessed the situation. The chaos had settled down. Beauvoir had gotten it under control quickly and was organizing the medical efforts. More ambulances and paramedics were arriving.
The damage was not as bad as it looked, not as bad as it could have been. Most of the injuries had happened when people fell off their chairs, knocking the heavy tables over on top of themselves as they scrambled out of the way of the vehicle. People had cuts and bruises and were more shocked than hurt.
Though shock was itself an injury.
“I have some photos,” said Lacoste.
Gamache swiped through them quickly. “That’s her.”
Lacoste got the picture out with a message to pick the woman up but approach with caution, while Gamache made his way back to the man and his granddaughter.
Paramedics had put a bandage on the girl’s head and were now working on the grandfather.
She was just a little older than Armand’s own granddaughter Florence.
He knelt, placing himself so that he blocked her view of the lump lying in the street, though of course she’d already seen it. Him. Only Charles’s twisted legs were visible, sprawling out from under Gamache’s suit jacket. Charles’s shoes had been knocked off in the impact and were lying on the road.
The girl had stopped crying and was looking, in some amazement, at the scene around her.
“Is your name Patricia?” Armand asked.
She nodded.
“You are very brave.”
She nodded again, agreeing with him. He took out his clean handkerchief and licked it, making it moist so that he could wash the tears and congealing blood off her face.
Her deep blue eyes were watching him. Then they dropped, and she smiled.
