Murder at the Lanterne Rouge

Saturday, 3 P.M.

CLODO BLINKED AT the bright white light. He was cold all over. Even the blood coursing in his veins felt cold.

“He’s responding,” a voice said, and the white light receded. “Two more milligrams of morphine.”

“Can you feel this, Clodo?”

He floated on a river, strains of an accordion drifting in the air. Sun speckles shivered on the water’s surface.

“Feel what?” Clodo asked.

“Good.” The voice moved away. “Rest for a while.”

His aunt—he was dancing with his Aunt Marguerite, a long, thick braid down her back, and it was 1942. His parents watched them, laughing and drinking wine. It didn’t matter that he’d never danced with Marguerite before. Or that his parents were already gone in 1942. Light glimmered on their wineglasses; his mother crinkled her nose like she always did.

“Try not to move, Clodo.”

“But why not?” he said. Joy filled him. They were there all together at the river. “I’m at the bal musette.”

Footsteps. “Never seen one survive.” A muffled conversation. “He thinks he’s dancing, doctor.”

“His dancing days are over,” a man was saying. “If you think he’s up to it, I need to question him.”

“We’re monitoring his morphine drip,” another voice said. “Give him some time. The first few hours post-surgery are critical. No drug stills the phantom leg pains after amputation.”

What were they going on about? Now he was dancing with his mother, her flower-print sundress twirling as they spun to the music, her head thrown back, happy and laughing. But her face changed. Now it was the man, and he was yelling. Yelling until the plastic silenced his screams.