Central Park by Guillaume Musso (ebook reader macos .TXT) 📕

“A corpse, I hope.”

The road.

Speed.

The landscape rushing past.

The roar of the V-8 engine.

On the car radio, the timeless voice of Otis Redding.

A huge tachometer in the center of the antique dashboard.

And the amber and honey highlights in Alice’s hair.

They had left Manhattan and driven for almost two hours, crossing through most of Connecticut on I-95, then getting on I-91, which took them north. Traffic was moving easily, the sky cloudless, the road edged with pine trees and occasional ginkgos, elms, maples, and oaks. They had hardly exchanged a word on the trip, both of them lost in their thoughts, alone in their suffering.

The Shelby GT drove like a dream. Behind the wheel, Gabriel imagined himself for a moment as a young man in the sixties, proud of his Mustang, driving his girlfriend to see the latest Steve McQueen movie while listening to Roy Orbison or the Doors and worrying about being drafted, maybe sent to Vietnam.

He turned toward Alice. Her face hard and closed, she had sunk into her own thoughts, fingers tensed around her cell phone, waiting for a call. With her army jacket, her pale face, high cheekbones, and hair tied in a ponytail, she was beautiful in a wild, almost warlike way. But that was hardly surprising; Alice Schafer was at war. Behind the toughness of her features, though, it was possible to glimpse, now and then, the shadow of another woman, softer and more peaceful.

He wondered what she had been like before. Before the tragedy. Smiling, calm, happy? Could he have fallen in love with such a woman if he’d met her on the streets of Paris? Would he have approached her? Would she have looked at him? He played the scene over in his head, enjoying these mental ramblings.

On the car radio, Otis Redding was replaced by the Clash, then U2, then Eminem, and the spell was broken. Goodbye to the 1960s and these romantic digressions. Back to reality.

He glanced again at Alice, catching her eye as she rearranged her ponytail.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Keyne.”

“I’d like you to explain something to me.”

He left the phrase hanging. She held his gaze.

“How can you be so sure that the fingerprints on the syringe aren’t Vaughn’s?”

She shrugged, visibly irritated. “It’s an assumption, not a certainty.”

“Don’t bullshit me. In spite of all the evidence, you haven’t believed for a moment that Erik Vaughn is in the U.S. I’ve interrogated enough suspects to know when someone is lying to me.”

She defended herself half-heartedly: “What gives you the right to—”

“Let me remind you that I am the only cop with the authority to investigate this case!” he interrupted, raising his voice. “I’ve been aboveboard with you. I gave you all my information, even though I didn’t have to.”

She sighed.

He went on: “You said you wanted us to work as a team and you asked me to plead your case with my bosses so they’ll let you join the investigation. Fine, I agree, even if I’m risking my own credibility. But if we’re partners, we have to tell each other everything. Okay?”

She nodded. This was the type of speech she liked.

“So I’m asking you again, Alice: How can you be certain that the prints on the syringe are not Vaughn’s?”

She massaged her temples and took a deep breath, then confessed.

“Because Vaughn is dead, Keyne. He’s been dead a long time.”

I remember…Less than two years ago

I remember.

December 5, 2011.

The pale brightness of a hospital room.

A low winter sun, its light barely leaking between the blinds.

The foul smell of antiseptics and microwaved meals.

Wanting to die.

Two weeks have passed since I was attacked by Erik Vaughn, two weeks since Paul’s death. I am lying on my back in bed, staring into space. There’s an antibiotic drip attached to my forearm. Despite all the painkillers I’m being given, the slightest movement cuts into my abdomen. Despite all the antidepressants and antianxiety drugs I’m taking, the slightest thought rips open my heart.

By the time the paramedics got me to the hospital, I had lost a lot of blood. They did an ultrasound that confirmed that the baby was dead. The knife blade had perforated the wall of my uterus, severed an artery, and damaged my small intestine.

I had never needed Paul by my side more than I did at that moment. I needed to feel his presence, to mourn our baby together, united in our pain, and to ask his forgiveness. Forgive me, forgive me…

Just before they took me into the operating room, they told me he was dead. Just before they opened up my abdomen to remove my murdered baby. The last ties holding me to life were broken. I screamed with rage and despair, hitting out at the doctors who tried to calm me, before I sank under the waves of anesthesia.

Later, when the operation was over, some bastard of a doctor told me that I had been “lucky in a way.” My pregnancy meant that the fetus occupied so much space that my organs were pushed toward the back. So my baby took the full brunt of the knife wounds that otherwise would probably have killed me. My baby saved my life.

This idea is unbearable to me.

My internal wounds were sutured and part of my intestine removed. They told me that they had managed to save my uterus, meaning I could get pregnant again in the future.

As if, after all this, I might ever have another love, another pregnancy, another baby.

My mother came on the train to visit me but stayed only twenty minutes. My brother left a message on my voice mail. My sister just sent me a text. Thankfully, Seymour drops by twice a day and does all he can to console and encourage me. The other guys from the division come too, but in their silences I can sense their disappointment, their anger—not only did I double-cross them, but I screwed up one of the department’s biggest investigations in years.

I see it in their eyes as they stand