Nightmare in Burgundy Read Online Free PDF Page B

pulling his bathrobe tighter.
    “One of the Mancenot brothers fired,” replied the café owner. “It’s that moron, Ernest!”
    The man with the gun was still standing in the frame of the window, his weapon at arm’s length. He had the crimson face and bewildered look of lonely old men who drown their celibacy in cheap liquor and hatred of the world. Behind him, a furtive silhouette was pacing under the halo of a bare lightbulb.
    “And Honoré does not dare show his face. Look at that!” shouted the fat woman’s husband.
    “That’s the end of them pissing us off, those assholes!” the shooter yelled, sticking out his chest. “Two buckshots full blast. I didn’t miss!”
    “Shut your mouth, Ernest!” the café owner yelled, his jaw tense.
    Then Cooker saw another body lying a few yards away from the group. He approached the second victim, whose left cheek had been blown away by the volley of lead. The other side of his face was intact, his open eye looking dazed. The kid could hardly have been eighteen. His long hair was soaking in a bloody pile of flesh and bone shards. No one else dared to look at him. He was lying there, his head mangled, abandoned to the cold and wind. Cooker suppressed a gasp of disgust.
    The girl arrived with the checkered blanket. Someone grabbed it to cover the boy whose blood continued to pool on the pavement. His legs were shaking faster and faster; a red dribble was beginning to flow from his nose.
    Cooker heard the wail of sirens. An ambulance with a flashing blue light turned from the highway to cross the bridge and was speeding toward them. It was closely followed by a police car. Everyone moved aside when the paramedics and police officers leaped from their vehicles. Ernest Mancenot had disappeared from the window. The police officers walked around the victims without hiding their revulsion. The paramedics quickly decided to transport the wounded boy to the hospital in Dijon and to call for a second ambulance to take the dead boy to the medical examiner’s office. They carefully slipped the curled-up boy, his legs still shaking, onto a stretcher. As the speeding ambulance disappeared, the police officers started questioning members of the crowd.
    The café owner spoke up and explained briefly that the two boys had been shot down by one of the Mancenot brothers while they were getting ready to spray paint the wall of the post office. Cooker turned and then saw the black inscription on the facade, near the mailbox: “In V...” in round, thick letters. The victims had not had the time to write any more than that. Old Ernest had shot them down in the middle of the act. The can of spray paint had rolled into the gutter. An officer recovered it and wrapped it in a plastic bag.
    “Do you know the victims?” the captain inquired.
    “Cedric and David Bravart, two cousins,” replied the woman with the triple chin. “One of them is from Vougeot, and the other is from Gilly. That one there is David.”
    The policeman glanced at the body, frowned, and raised his head in the direction of the window, where Ernest was now standing again.
    “Mr. Mancenot! Put down your gun, and get out here!”
    “I did my job!” the old man barked.
    “I am waiting for you, sir! Do not make us come and get you!”
    All eyes were focused on the Mancenot brothers’ house, an austere and charmless building weighed down by its granular and graying stucco. Minutes ticked by. The police officers were waiting near the entrance. Cooker sneezed and crossed his arms to warm himself. His feet were freezing. He was thinking about going back to the hotel and putting on something warmer when the Mancenot brothers stuck their drunken faces through the half-open door. Ernest spat on the ground and looked around defiantly.
    “Two cartridges, two targets! Gotta have balls, that’s all!”
    He was summarily handcuffed and pushed into the police cruiser, while Honoré, looking even more stunned than his brother, began