laugh.
He realized that heâd pissed his pants, but, fine, anything was better than a meeting with the Grim Reaper. For those last few seconds, heâd really thought that this was the end of the line.
He remembered the broken mussel shell. It seemed ridiculous now to think that heâd knelt there, practically worshiping it, thinking it would be the last thing heâd ever see. It was a shell. Thereâd be thousands more of them in the years to come.
Yet heâd been ready to give up, to roll over and play dead.
Was that what the Stuffer wanted? To humiliate him? To put him eyeball-to-eyeball with Death and terrify him into giving up the hunt, maybe even turn in his badge and leave the force?
âIf you think Iâm falling for that shit,â he muttered, âyou can think again.â
He staggered out of the cabana, moving even more slowly and woodenly than usual. Spend a couple hours flat on your forty-year-old ass, though, and who wouldnât pay a price?
He pulled an old pocket watch from his breast pocket, wondering if that might have been what saved him, but there wasnât a scratch on it. It had belonged to his father-in-law, an antique from La Belle Ãpoqueâand, like so much in Styxâs life, it was broken. Heâd taken it from Grandpa Marcâs house with the intention of selling it at the flea market, but for one reason or another heâd held on to it and begun carrying it around. A sort of rabbitâs foot.
But what about the blood? Imagination? No, heâd really seen blood. Or had he? Heâd tasted it in his mouth, sweet as honey, thick as molasses. Had he simply bitten his tongue out of fear? But then what about the bloodstains on his clothes? He couldnât see it now in the dark, but when the first bullet had hit him, a dark-red flower had blossomed on his shirt front.
Hadnât it?
You heard about people hallucinating in extreme situations, like when they were staring the Man with the Scythe in the eyes.
He patted his shirt and trousers experimentally. His clothes feltwet and heavy, but then it had been damp in the wooden cabana, and heâd apparently been dragged there through the rain.
Oh, fuck it , he thought.
The important thing was that he wasnât dead.
And that feeling, man, there was nothing like it. He wouldnât recommend it, but thinking youâd breathed your last breath and then realizing it had all just been one giant sick joke . . . priceless.
The adrenaline coursed through his body, and he understood how race-car drivers must feel, putting their lives on the line and living out there on the edge.
He felt reborn. Heâd been given a second chance. The Stuffer had been wrong: his second half was still to be played, and, now that heâd seen how quickly it could all come to an end, he was going to play it to win.
The shock of his resurrectionâand it was a shock, that was undeniableâalmost nailed him to the ground. A full-grown man with a full-blown midlife crisis, a chief inspector with the Ostend police whoâd peed his pants with terror, and here he was, stumbling toward a new horizon on bare feet.
Isabelle , he thought. Victor .
He felt for his phone to call them and tell them he was okay. They didnât have to worry about him. He wasnât dead. He was coming home.
But then he remembered that heâd left it at home, remembered what had happened, remembered the pursuit across the sand.
God, Ostendâs beautiful when youâre not dead , he thought.
He turned his back on the sea and wondered how he would explain it all to Isabelle. The feelings, the sensations of his near-death experience. It was as if heâd survived a horrible car crash or been rescued at the last second from an attempted suicide.
Isabelle would understand. As the chief of nursing of the geriatricsward at Damiaan Hospital, she saw it every day. How many times had she told him of bringing a
He realized that heâd pissed his pants, but, fine, anything was better than a meeting with the Grim Reaper. For those last few seconds, heâd really thought that this was the end of the line.
He remembered the broken mussel shell. It seemed ridiculous now to think that heâd knelt there, practically worshiping it, thinking it would be the last thing heâd ever see. It was a shell. Thereâd be thousands more of them in the years to come.
Yet heâd been ready to give up, to roll over and play dead.
Was that what the Stuffer wanted? To humiliate him? To put him eyeball-to-eyeball with Death and terrify him into giving up the hunt, maybe even turn in his badge and leave the force?
âIf you think Iâm falling for that shit,â he muttered, âyou can think again.â
He staggered out of the cabana, moving even more slowly and woodenly than usual. Spend a couple hours flat on your forty-year-old ass, though, and who wouldnât pay a price?
He pulled an old pocket watch from his breast pocket, wondering if that might have been what saved him, but there wasnât a scratch on it. It had belonged to his father-in-law, an antique from La Belle Ãpoqueâand, like so much in Styxâs life, it was broken. Heâd taken it from Grandpa Marcâs house with the intention of selling it at the flea market, but for one reason or another heâd held on to it and begun carrying it around. A sort of rabbitâs foot.
But what about the blood? Imagination? No, heâd really seen blood. Or had he? Heâd tasted it in his mouth, sweet as honey, thick as molasses. Had he simply bitten his tongue out of fear? But then what about the bloodstains on his clothes? He couldnât see it now in the dark, but when the first bullet had hit him, a dark-red flower had blossomed on his shirt front.
Hadnât it?
You heard about people hallucinating in extreme situations, like when they were staring the Man with the Scythe in the eyes.
He patted his shirt and trousers experimentally. His clothes feltwet and heavy, but then it had been damp in the wooden cabana, and heâd apparently been dragged there through the rain.
Oh, fuck it , he thought.
The important thing was that he wasnât dead.
And that feeling, man, there was nothing like it. He wouldnât recommend it, but thinking youâd breathed your last breath and then realizing it had all just been one giant sick joke . . . priceless.
The adrenaline coursed through his body, and he understood how race-car drivers must feel, putting their lives on the line and living out there on the edge.
He felt reborn. Heâd been given a second chance. The Stuffer had been wrong: his second half was still to be played, and, now that heâd seen how quickly it could all come to an end, he was going to play it to win.
The shock of his resurrectionâand it was a shock, that was undeniableâalmost nailed him to the ground. A full-grown man with a full-blown midlife crisis, a chief inspector with the Ostend police whoâd peed his pants with terror, and here he was, stumbling toward a new horizon on bare feet.
Isabelle , he thought. Victor .
He felt for his phone to call them and tell them he was okay. They didnât have to worry about him. He wasnât dead. He was coming home.
But then he remembered that heâd left it at home, remembered what had happened, remembered the pursuit across the sand.
God, Ostendâs beautiful when youâre not dead , he thought.
He turned his back on the sea and wondered how he would explain it all to Isabelle. The feelings, the sensations of his near-death experience. It was as if heâd survived a horrible car crash or been rescued at the last second from an attempted suicide.
Isabelle would understand. As the chief of nursing of the geriatricsward at Damiaan Hospital, she saw it every day. How many times had she told him of bringing a
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