The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

whether Imogène is at home or if you’d seen her car leave.”
    “That crazy bitch,” the big man said. “No, we’ve seen no cars coming and going until you arrived. And we’ve seen no deer close enough for a shot, not even those skinny ones that come from her land.”
    “They probably know you’re here,” said Bruno. The shorter man lifted a hand to pull his baseball cap farther down over his eyes, and Bruno recognized him as Guillaume, a bartender at one of the big campsites in summer who signed on as unemployed for the rest of the year. The gendarmes had picked him up a couple of times on suspicion of dealing drugs to campers, but nothing had ever been proved. Guillaume was a notoriously poor shot but still had the right to hunt his quota. Such men were useful; a keen hunter could go out with Guillaume, shoot in his stead and share the meat. And there were some who just liked extra opportunities to shoot to kill.
    “Bonjour, Guillaume,” Bruno said. “Who’s your friend?”
    “I’m Fabrice,” said the gamekeeper. “I’m just spotting for Guillaume.”
    “Don’t you work for the Patriarch? Wasn’t it you I saw at his party carrying away that drunk?”
    “That’s right. He was plastered, didn’t give me any trouble. Laid him down and he went right to sleep.”
    “Do you know he’s dead?” Bruno asked. “Died in his sleep. I’ve just come from the château.”
    Fabrice shook his head, looking surprised. “Poor bastard.” Then he shrugged and said, “There are worse ways to go.”
    Bruno considered checking their permits, but he needed to see Imogène and so just wished them luck, told them to watch out for his return and headed back. He drove on at a crawl but had to keep stopping as the deer strolled along the road and gazed at him incuriously, somehow knowing that they faced no danger on these lands. He found it rather beguiling, thinking that a real refuge such as this could be a wonderful place, so long as there was sufficient food and water and a rational culling or export plan to prevent overpopulation. Perhaps that could be a solution, and maybe funds could be raised to help Imogène pay for the fence and the food. But she was unlikely to accept the culling. Bruno knew he’d have to try, pointing out the desperate thinness of the deer and the weakness of the young fawns he saw.
    As he parked the van and climbed out, looking at Imogène’s run-down house with its missing tiles and sagging shutters, deer came up to nuzzle Bruno, doubtless hoping for food. She must feed them herself with what little money she has, he thought. He knocked on the door, which was suffering from years without repainting, and got no reply. But her old Renault 4 was parked beside the house, and her bicycle was on the porch. He knocked again and called her name, saying it was Bruno.
    “What do you want?” she said from behind the closed door.
    “There’s been another accident on the road. One of your deer had its legs broken.”
    “So what did you do, kill it? That’s all you know what to do. Kill, hunt, kill. Why can’t you leave the animals in peace?”
    “Because they’re starving, Imogène. The fawns are dying. The deer are desperate, so they come onto the roads. This can’t go on, Imogène. Open the door and let’s talk about this. I have an idea that might help.”
    The door opened, and Imogène eyed him suspiciously. “What sort of idea?” She looked normal enough—short gray hair neatly brushed, brown corduroy slacks and a bulky sweater. She wore neither makeup nor jewelry. The sound of a piano concerto came from the room within.
    “You only have a few weeks to put up a fence, and you can’t afford it. That means you either pay a stiff fine, which might mean having to sell your property, or you let us organize a cull of the deer. You’re now a bigger danger to these starving deer than the hunters.”
    “You’ve said that before. I’m trying to raise funds from other animal lovers.