Page 30 of The Grey Wolf
Charles was lying on his side, and Gamache didn’t dare turn him. Not for fear of doing more damage—it was clear the man was either dead or dying—but if he was still alive, Gamache did not want to inflict even more pain.
He laid himself down on his side so that his body was within inches of the other man’s. Charles’s grey eyes were glassy, staring. Blood bubbled on his lips. He was breathing. Barely.
Gamache reached for his hand and held it.
“Charles,” he said softly. “Charles.”
He repeated the name, hoping it would comfort the dying man to know he was not alone. For just an instant, the eyes focused. And the lips moved.
Gamache inched closer. He could smell the hot tar of the road and the slight scent of sweet whipped cream on Charles’s weak breath. He felt the asphalt warm beneath him and the late-afternoon sun on his face.
And he knew he had to do it. He had to ask one more, one last, time.
“A name. Give me a name, son.”
“Family,” whispered Charles.
“I will,” said Armand. “I’ll tell your family. I promise.” He felt Charles squeeze his hand and saw, just for an instant, panic in those eyes.
Then the panic left. Everything left.
And Charles was gone. And everything he knew was gone.
“Patron, are you all right?”
It was Lacoste’s voice. She was kneeling beside him, her hand on his shoulder.
“Sir, are you all right?” Now it was the voice of a paramedic, and Gamache realized he was lying in the road, giving every impression of being far from “all right.”
He struggled to his feet. After giving him a quick once-over, including shining a light into his eyes to see if there was a concussion, the paramedic’s firm hand moved him aside to better examine the man who would not get up.
Lacoste was saying something. There were screams and shouts from the sidewalk.
Gamache realized that the ambulance must have already been waiting. He wondered whether it was Lacoste or Beauvoir who’d thought to order one out. Just in case…
“He’s dead,” snapped the paramedic and, leaving the body, she rushed to others who could be helped.
Gamache looked around. Men and women were just beginning tosit up, some staggering to their feet, holding parts of their body that were in pain.
The attack had happened, what? A minute earlier? Only that. If that.
The SUV was gone. The wailing of the police sirens receding.
“Did you get it?” He turned to Lacoste.
“On video, yes.” She followed him as he walked quickly, limping slightly, into the chaos.
“Our people took off after him, and the Montréal cops are alerted. We’ll get him.”
Onlookers were already taking out their phones to record and post. Some no doubt live-streaming on the internet. Gamache was tempted to go over and unload his rage on them. Instead, he pointed at one of his agents.
“You there. Stand in front of them. Try to block their view of the body.”
“Oui, patron.”
“Here.” Gamache took off his jacket and was a little surprised to see it torn. “Put it over him. Wait.”
Taking the jacket back, Armand removed what was in the pockets, including the two notes. “Now, go. Stand guard over the body.”
