Nightmare in Burgundy Read Online Free PDF

to—”
    “Take this. It’s a gift,” the monk interrupted, handing him a hardback fabric-covered New Jerusalem Bible . “I suppose you don’t have one with you, since you’re traveling.”
    “No, I don’t, I confess.”
    “In that case, your penance will be to reread certain passages, even if it means you fall asleep doing so!”
    The two men promised to see each other before the winemaker left town. Brother Clément stayed in the library, citing overdue research as an excuse, and did not offer to walk his visitor to the door. But he did point Cooker to a secret passage to use as a shortcut.
    As soon as Cooker was outside the abbey, he took a deep breath and strolled among the poplars. Then he slid behind the wheel of his convertible and sat quietly, as though protected by the fog of condensation on the car windows. With his hands on the steering wheel, his eyes half-closed, and his lips moving over the verses of the psalm, he dwelled on the powerless lamentations. At last he took out his cell phone and pressed the contact button, where his assistant’s number was on his list of favorites.
    “Hello, Virgile?”
    “Yes, boss. Is something wrong?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “You told me you would call tomorrow afternoon. I am surprised to hear from you so soon.”
    “Do you know Burgundy, Virgile?”
    “Not really, boss. Not at all, in fact. Just what I’ve read in books.”
    “Okay, then come and get a taste of it,” Cooker said. “I’ll expect you tomorrow.”
    “How do I get there?”
    “Figure it out. Ask my secretary to get you a ticket.”
    “By train? I’ll have to route through Paris. That’s a long way, boss!”
    “And stop calling me ‘boss.’ You know how much that irritates me.”
    “Yes, bo... uh, sir!”

 
     
     
     
     
    4
    He was dressed in a fine linen tunic and had Roman sandals on his feet as he climbed Mount Sinai on the back of a mule. Two shots rang out. In the distance, the half-nude Jesus, a chastely veiled Mary Magdalene, the faithful Emmaus, and half a dozen apostles were assembled in the shelter of an olive tree. The violent echo of the explosions faded into the night.
    Cooker sat up suddenly in his bed, felt around for the light switch, and knocked the Bible off the night table. Outside, he could hear shutters banging open and several piercing screams.
    Wearing a bathrobe made of wool from the Pyrenees and a pair of kidskin slippers, he walked down the steps of the annex, crossed the courtyard, and found himself on the main road of Vougeot. A group of villagers were gathered a few feet from the post office. An elderly man with a moustache was yelling from a window and brandishing a hunting rifle.
    “Don’t mess with the Mancenot brothers! Don’t mess with us!”
    Cooker cautiously approached the circle of people gathered on the sidewalk. He recognized the woman with the triple chin and her husband, as well as the owner of the Rendez-vous des Touristes, who was kneeling by a body. A rather lost-looking woman stood apart from another group of people he didn’t know, all motionless in the freezing wind.
    “Go get a blanket!” a small bald man shouted to a young girl with a frightened expression. “The checkered one at the back of the linen closet! Hurry!”
    Cooker drew closer. A boy was lying on the asphalt, his body curled on its right side, his eyes rolled upward, legs twitching and trembling. Blood from his abdomen was streaming slowly through his jacket. The steady flow was beginning to form a thick shiny puddle on the pavement.
    “He’s done for, the little bastard!” the man with the moustache continued to yell, shaking his rifle.
    “Have you called an ambulance?” Cooker asked as he leaned over the injured boy.
    “Yes! They are coming from Nuits-Saint-George!” someone answered.
    “It’s better not to move him,” one of the women said as she averted her eyes.
    “Goddammit, is that blanket coming or not?”
    “What happened?” Cooker asked,