"Very good. Tell them to avoid contact with him until I arrive." The steady beat of the helicopter blades reminded Marchand of a hummingbird in slow motion. He found the droning somehow consoling.
"Captain, we approach the mountains. The winds and narrow passages will soon make further use of the bird impossible."
So much for reassurance. "Very well, Claude. Contact the ground units and find a place for them to meet us when we land. We will resort to the ground."
Leblanc looked in his mirror again and laughed. He had spotted the trailing patrol cars almost as soon as they spotted him. Now these amateurish boobs were trying to remain subtle. Well, as long as they kept their distance he would let them play their game. He knew he was closing in on his prey. And on these mountain roads, given the condition of their car, he could move in and pounce on them at his leisure.
He saw the helicopter and knew who directed it. He also knew that Pierre would have to abandon it soon or risk crashing. He laughed again. He, Francois Leblanc, the one they called insane, obsessed, a fugitive from his own comrades - he now held all the trump cards.
As he climbed up the hillside on the corkscrew road he noticed how little he could see of the traffic above him. That meant that the cars below him, i.e. his pursuers, could see little or nothing of him. He decided to test this theory.
He leaned on his throttle and put himself about three switchbacks ahead of the hunters. As he rounded the next left-turn curve, he pulled over to the wrong side and waited. Minutes later, three of the compact police cars zipped past him, oblivious to his presence. To prolong the game, since his own car was standard issue like theirs, he fell into rank behind them and became the tail of their caravan. Three kilometers later one of France's finest noticed that they were four cars instead of three.
Leblanc listened to the radio chatter as the officers studied what to do. In the end they decided to pull off and take a head count. Delighted, Leblanc made the swing to the left with the other cars. He rolled down the left window, drew up alongside the motorcade in a slow roll and, as the officers vacated their cars he called out the window, "Do not count your heads, gentlemen! You will find you have none!" He laughed his derisive cackle and stomped the accelerator. His rear tires raised an ocean of dust and gravel that sent the officers into a mass coughing fit. By the time the air cleared, Leblanc was far out of sight.
"Fools! Idiots! Bungling incompetents! Morons! Brainless clods!"
"Calm yourself, Captain. He can only go up the mountain. We will catch him."
Marchand sighed and watched the car that carried him up the undulating path. "Perhaps you are right, Claude. He was a fine officer, and it should not surprise me that he is able to play this cat-and-mouse game with my other men." He wished he had more vodka.
Claude held his peace. Rather than make loud claims about his superiority, he preferred to act quietly and prove it. Claude Dupont, personal attache to Captain Marchand, paused to admire himself. He was about Bill's age, tall and extremely good looking. He had captured every possible honor as a police cadet, spoke four languages fluently, could fly any aircraft that the State Police owned and had a genius propensity for logic problems and study of people. He knew what Leblanc would do, and he would be there to thwart the big man's plan.
He reviewed what he knew about Commander Leblanc. Born to a poor family, father beat him and his mother regularly. Grew up angry and mean. Fought his way to a conviction for armed robbery, sentenced to four years in prison. Helped foil a planned prison riot, earned a pardon. Studied law at night and earned his way onto the State Police roster under a special project for reformed felons. Rose to the rank of Commander in two years despite several inconclusive investigations for use of excessive force. Wounded twice in the line of duty, Marchand's personal favorite. Recently, though, Marchand began to dislike Leblanc's tendency toward violent solutions to tense situations. When Leblanc shot a teenager who had been robbing an old man, Marchand tried to demote him but was overruled by the Commissioner. Upon this fall from grace, Leblanc only grew more violent, determined to prove that he was the best. One of a handful of men allowed to call Marchand by his first name; Claude snarled inwardly that he did not yet hold a place in that handful.
"Why do you make such a face, Claude?"
Claude snapped back to reality. "Pardon, mon Capitaine?"
"English, please, Claude. It is the language of the united world, after all."
Claude gave a wry smile. "And it is also harsh, barbaric and inconsistent. Quite unlike our lovely, fluid French."
Marchand laughed. "Yes. Our spoken tongue sounds much more pleasant. Our written symbols, however, are no less inconsistent."
"What do you mean?"
"Tell me this, Claude. Roughly three quarters of our alphabet are not sounded at the end of a word. How do you know which to place at the end of any given word?"
Claude tried to do a casual shrug. This line of thought made him uncomfortable. "I suppose I learned to spell words as a child in school."
"But what are the rules that determine which letter goes where? Why do we spell vous v-o-u-s and not v-o-u-t?"
Claude felt foolish. "I - I do not know."
"Nor do I. You see? Inconsistent."
Claude had had enough. "I cause us to digress, Captain. What was it you said to me before we took this little detour?"
Marchand laughed again and made a mental note that, when backed into a corner, this man changed the subject rather than face the possibility of being shown wrong. "I do not recall. It must have been unimportant."
Claude shifted in the driver's seat. He had the awful feeling that he had just moved another step away from the privilege of calling Marchand "Pierre." But he wasn't sure why, or what he had done wrong. He gradually increased his speed and closed the small gap between him and the rest of the police caravan.
"I don't believe it. From this thing I could understand. But from yours?"
Simon smiled and spread his arms. "I should have bought American?"
Everyone laughed, then Bill stepped to Simon's sparkling new Mercedes. "Sally" had cooled sufficiently and sat purring contentedly, ready to go. Now Simon's car refused to start. The new engine couldn't seem to take a lesson from its elder.
"Pop the hood, Simon."
"Qu'est-ce que vous dites?" Paul stepped to the car. "Bill speaks American fluently and I am learning. He means this." reached in the door and pulled the hood release. A little clunk and the car opened its mouth.
Simon turned to Bill. "Why did you not say what you need?"
Bill turned red and laughed. "I thought I did."
Paul said, "No matter, Simon. You, too, will learn American. Bill and I will teach you. Shall We examine the car, Bill?"
"Good idea. Girls, keep an eye out down the hill. Let us know if you see any cop cars."
Simon shrugged and started to mumble something in French. Bill leaned over to Paul. "What's he saying?"
"I cannot hear it all, but something to do with people speaking incomprehendable nonsense."
"I had to ask."
From the barricade at the edge of the turnout, Molly called, "We've got trouble."
The three men rushed to where she and Marie stood. Marie pointed. "It is still very far away, but that is a police car."
Bill squinted. "Just one?"
"That is all I see."
"Well, guess who, folks."
Molly eyed him. "Is that a trick question?"
Simon swore in French, then apologized. "The question now is, what shall we do?"
Bill strained to see down the mountain. "Marie's right. He's still a long way off yet. Let's see if we can get your car going. Keep watch, gals."
Simon waved his arms helplessly and moved back to his car. Bill stepped to his side. "What's wrong, Simon?"
"I do not understand a word you say!"
"Is that all? Half the time I don't, either."
Simon stopped and took Bill by the arm. "Tell me, Bill. Are you insane, or am I?"
Bill's laughter echoed all over the region. "Probably both of us, Simon. I forget who it was that said it's insane to be sane in an insane world."
Simon smiled. "I think you mean, 'It is unreasonable to be reasonable in an unreasonable world,' and the name slips me, as well. Let us see to my car, eh?"
"Good idea. Paul's already at the car."
They knocked, jiggled and pleaded for a little over a minute without success. Marie called all three by name. "You may wish to see this."
Once again they ran the twenty yards to the guard rail. Molly pointed. "Four more cars. About a kilometer behind the first."
Bill stared. "Why such a gap, I wonder?"
"I don't know. But the followers seem to be narrowing said gap a bit at a time."
"It's almost as if - naw, that's crazy," Bill exclaimed. "But it sure doesn't look like we'll be able to get Simon's car cranked up before they get here."
Simon said, "What then shall we do?"
Bill thought for a moment. "Maybe we can head 'em off at the pass."
Simon wanted to scream. "We cannot get to the pass! It is 30 more kilometers ahead!"
"Figure of speech, Simon. Paul, how far would you say it is to that third level down there?"
Paul studied. "About two hundred meters."
"How much is that?"
Molly stifled a laugh. "Roughly the same number of yards."
"Yeah. Easy rifle shot. Paul, can you take out that lead car's tire when he gets to that level?"
"I can."
"Good. That'll slow them up and buy us some time. We can watch and see how many of the others stop to help, and how many keep after us."
Leblanc's car crawled up the mountain road below them. Paul raised his rifle and sighted. Bill said, "Whenever you're ready."
Paul's rifle cracked. The shot rang for nearly ten seconds in the mountain air.
Leblanc only faintly heard the shot, but he heard and felt his tire burst. With great effort he urged his crippled vehicle to the roadside. He got out, took one quick look at the tire and turned his searching eyes up the mountain. Bill hissed, "Get back!"
Everyone stepped away from the railing. Leblanc saw no one. He knew they had to be up there. No one else would have a reason to shoot his tire. The only question was how far up they were.
He looked back at the tire and laughed suddenly at the irony of it. He didn't even entertain the idea of a deadly shot from above; he knew his foes too well to think they would shoot him down in cold blood. But they might as well. He had chased them across a nation, hoping to catch them and regain Pierre's good graces. Now, his prey had unwittingly dropped him into the hands of a more deadly enemy: Pierre Marchand himself.
Marchand was afraid of him. Leblanc had known that for a long time, had even cultivated the fear. But now that new upstart Dupont wanted him out of the way. Leblanc knew where such a combination would lead now that he had disobeyed a direct order. Well, so be it. He drew his revolver, crouched behind his car's nose and waited for his former friend to come and try to kill him.
He caressed the stainless steel barrel as if it had been the wife he never had. Eight inches of mortal accuracy. He could pick the nozzle off an aerosol can half a block away with this beauty. He smiled at the thought. He had only actually done it once, but it gave him bragging rights. He never told anyone that he had really aimed at the can's label.
Yes, it was a wonderful instrument. He would miss it. Of course, he reflected, dead hands do not miss holding things.
"What's he doing?"
''C'est impossible!" Simon said. "He prepares to fight his own!"
"Naw! It couldn't be. Could it?"
Paul said, "As odd as it may seem, the cars below do not appear to pursue us. They pursue him. And he fears them. He makes ready to fight them."
"What shall we do?" Marie asked.
"Who knows?" Bill responded. "Wait and see what happens is all I can think of."
"We should pray for knowledge what to do."
"Fine, Marie. Go ahead. Me, I want to see what's going on." He saw the hurt look on Marie's face and was instantly sorry. He turned to Molly. "That was dumb, wasn't it?"
"Need you ask?"
"I guess not."
"Perhaps you should go speak to Marie."
"Yeah. Hey, Marie, look. Where'd she go?"
Marie had walked off by herself. Even from a distance Bill could hear her crying.
He jogged to where she stood with her back to everyone. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she didn't move. He said, "Marie, I'm sorry. I Acted like a major-league jerk."
Marie turned on him like a cornered bear. "You it was who taught me to pray, who told me God hears and gives answer! And you treat me so when I say we need to pray to save our lives! What are you, Monsieur Hall, to say one thing and do another?"
Bill fidgeted with his nose. "Well, it's not terribly profound, but all I can think of is, 'PBP, GINFWMY.'"
Marie wiped her furious eyes. "And what is that? More American nonsense?"
"Sort of. It stands for, 'Please be patient, God is not finished with me yet.' In my case, He's got an uphill job and a long way to go."
She calmed a little. "I simply seek to understand what it is to be a Christian. I look to you for this understanding."
Bill's eyes started to fill. "I'm afraid you're looking through a cracked window. I never said I was Mr. Spiritual. I probably rate a few notches below average, even. I don't know why God let me go on living through all this, unless He figures I'm too stupid to cause too much trouble. Or maybe I'm just too stupid to roll over and die and get it over with." He paused for breath. "I guess what I'm saying is, you know by your instincts as much about what's right and wrong as anybody else. The Lord shows you as you go along. But please don't ever base your belief on what some person does. They'll always let you down." He hung his head. "Especially me. I'm sorry."
Marie lifted Bill's chin. "I understand what you say. And I will do this. I forgive you, dear friend."
Bill swept his right arm around her. "Thanks. I needed that."
Molly called, "If you've settled your differences, you may wish to come watch this."
Bill took Marie by the hand and practically dragged her. "Come on. Let's go watch the Lord deliver us out of Leblanc's hands. I have a hunch we're going to enjoy this." Marie ran two steps to each of Bill's and followed her hand to the railing.