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Epilogue October 18

Similar to what he had been doing for more than a month, Brian tried to imitate the ease with which Jeanne mounted her horse. As per usual, it didn’t quite work, as the horse moved just as he was throwing his leg over the animal’s back. Getting himself up off the ground and readying himself for another try, he was prepared to blame the horse if Jeanne said anything derogatory, but she didn’t. Although he didn’t fall on his next attempt, it was hardly an impressive mounting, and he could hear her giggle as he settled into the saddle.

Prepared on their white Camargue horses, they started off just after four p.m. on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Their goal was the Mediterranean coast, which lay about nine miles due south. This was to be their first visit to the beach since their arrival in Camargue five weeks earlier. It had been Jeanne’s idea to go for a seaside picnic as a change of scene. She’d been eager to show the coastline to him, as it had been one of her favorite destinations when she was a teenager.

The Camargue had turned out to be as interesting for Brian as Jeanne had suggested it would be. He had no idea such a wild, mostly uninhabited place existed in France where there were many more horses, cattle, and sheep than human beings. Those parts of northern France where he’d visited as a boy along with his siblings had every square inch taken up by old stone walls, carefully planted hedges, paved roads, planted fields, and venerable buildings, all evidence that the area had been occupied and altered by humans for untold centuries. In sharp contrast, Camargue was more than three hundred square miles of open space with a flat horizon that seemed to go on forever. One-third of it was lakes, brine lagoons, and marshland. Often the only signs of human interference in the natural order were some cultivated agricultural fields in the northern part, a number of man-made canals that were straighter than natural waterways, and a lot of dikes to keep certain areas dry in times of rising waters. The rare homes were simple, quaint, white stucco structures with picturesque water-reed roofs, exactly like the one that Jeanne and Brian had been occupying since their arrival.

The night of the shooting had gone exceptionally smoothly, which they had attributed to a combination of their extensive planning and the rigid schedules of both Charles Kelley and Heather Williams. On top of that was good luck — a lot of good luck. By the time they’d returned to Butler Marine that night, gotten their deposit back for the Zodiac and fishing gear, and picked up the Subaru, it still wasn’t quite seven-thirty. With such efficiency, they had time to spare, giving them an opportunity to stop for food on City Island, which they ate while driving out to Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn to return all the borrowed ESU equipment. The original plan was for Brian to make the visit himself after dropping Jeanne off at JFK Airport, but with so much time on their hands, she had preferred to stay with him to limit how long she’d have to cool her heels in the terminal.

Even returning the equipment took less time than planned. Probably because of the pandemic, there were only two duty officers at the ESU Academy, neither of whom Brian knew. Usually there were always a number of ESU officers hanging out instead of cruising the city awaiting action. What took the most time was Brian’s decision to write a thank-you note to Deputy Chief Comstock for offering him the chance to rejoin the ESU. In the note he explained that Juliette’s sudden and unexpected death had caused him to change his plans, and he wouldn’t be rejoining. As a postscript, Brian said that he thought the Remington MSR was a superb piece of engineering and that it should be considered as part of the NYPD’s armory, the cost notwithstanding. He left the rifle on Michael’s desk with the note on top.

Then after dropping Jeanne off at JFK, Brian had so much free time that he decided to drive home to leave the car in the driveway, blow off some steam for a few hours in the workout room, and then use a ride-share to get out to Newark around 6:30 a.m. Originally, he had planned to leave the car at the airport and call Camila to retrieve it.

“Come on, slowpoke,” she teased as she interrupted his reverie by suddenly turning her horse off the dirt trail to begin galloping across a wet, marshy field and putting a huge flock of greater flamingoes to flight in the process. Another thing he had learned about the Camargue was that it’s the home to more waterbirds than he’d seen anywhere else in his life.

Brian urged his horse to follow, but the animal wasn’t so eager to pick up the pace, and he wasn’t sure how to make him change his mind. Finally, he was able to get the horse to canter but not gallop. Ahead, Jeanne had pulled up to wait for him. For several weeks both of them had been riding with the gardians, otherwise known as the Camargue cowboys. The gardians had begun a roundup of the semi-feral cattle that lived on Jeanne’s parents’ land. As a consequence, he was learning to ride, and he was also recalling his French.

All in all, Brian was slowly becoming comfortable with his new life, had begun to relax to a degree, and felt extraordinarily lucky that he’d met Jeanne. Otherwise, he might have ended up in Cuba for whatever that might have meant. When the two of them had first arrived in Arles, the major French city just north of the Camargue, after their drive from Frankfurt, Brian had no idea of what the near future would bring. Although he’d worried about his acceptance by her parents, it turned out to not be a problem. They had driven north to Arles to pick up Jeanne when she returned the rental car. If they had been surprised by his presence or the fact that Jeanne had driven all the way from Frankfurt rather than flying into France itself, they didn’t let on. She had explained that they were so surprised and pleased by her unexpected return to live in France that they weren’t about to question any of the details, including what the relationship was between her and Brian, at least in the near term.

“You have to move your body more forward if you want your horse to gallop,” Jeanne reminded Brian as he reached her. “And don’t be afraid to use your legs, that’s the key.”

“You make it look so easy,” he complained.

On the opposite side of the expansive marshy field, they picked up another trail heading south, lined on both sides by tamarisk and white poplar trees. Jeanne explained that it was a more direct route to the sea, which she’d forgotten about.

As they walked southward, Brian went back to his musings. So far, the fallout from Heather Williams’s and Charles Kelley’s deaths had exceeded expectations. The following day it was front-page news, with wild speculations regarding the perpetrators. Some journalists, particularly those on Fox News, indulged in creative conspiracy theories involving homegrown far-left terrorists, citing the victims’ wealth and standing in the financial world. On the second day the killings had moved to a back section, but on the third day, thanks to the manifesto Brian and Jeanne had sent to the New York Times about the two executives and the role that private equity and the profit motive were playing in healthcare, along with the complete list of the residents of Inwood that the Manhattan Memorial Hospital was suing for extravagant bills, the story moved back to the front page. Healthcare, its costs and payment arrangements, plus the fact that US legislators had been asleep at the wheel while the system got out of hand, were becoming a progressively bigger story, to which the killings of Charles Kelley and Heather Williams were adding a real immediacy.

Although the media response so far was better than he’d hoped, there was one issue that confounded Brian: how long it was taking for him to become more than a person of interest. His only explanation was that the detectives of the NYPD weren’t approaching the case with their usual gusto, perhaps because of his many friends, particularly in the ESU. What he did know was that his sudden disappearance combined with his enormous debt to MMH had raised appropriate suspicions and that he’d been tracked to Frankfurt and Interpol was supposedly looking for him. But that was it. According to the papers, his parents and siblings had all been interviewed, but Brian had made sure that they knew absolutely nothing. He imagined they must have felt confused and devastated by his sudden disappearance, but he knew it was for the best.

And now Brian was actually looking forward to being exposed. He wanted the story of Emma’s and Juliette’s avoidable deaths to be revealed, as it would put a shockingly human touch to the generalizations put forth in the manifesto. His current pleasant interlude in Camargue was just a precursor of what was to come when he’d be formally charged, and his extradition requested. Only then would the whole US healthcare mess become an international story of shame about capitalism run amuck with real victims.

“Well, what do you think?” Jeanne asked when they finally arrived at the seacoast. They had pulled to a stop at the edge of a vast, totally empty, sandy beach that stretched out in both directions. Huge cumulus clouds were arranged along the horizon with the late-afternoon sun tinting them gold, and a mild onshore breeze caressed their faces.

“It’s gorgeous,” Brian observed. Despite there being only small dunes at the beach’s edge, the scene and time of day reminded him of the fateful afternoon two months earlier on Cape Cod. With some effort he pushed the recollection out of his mind, as he didn’t want to think of the disastrous consequences set in motion on that August day. “Where are all the people?” he asked, to stay in the present.

Jeanne laughed instead of answering, and with a toss of her head, she gave free rein to her horse, which was eager to gallop in the wash of the waves. Brian attempted to follow by rising up in his stirrups, leaning forward, and using his legs as she had explained to him earlier. To his surprise and glee, the horse obeyed on this occasion. A moment later he was racing behind Jeanne, holding on for dear life while scrunching his eyes against the salt spray that her horse was kicking up.

The sense of freedom was exhilarating and for a few minutes he reveled in the ability to think of absolutely nothing. Unfortunately, it came to an abrupt end when Jeanne pulled back on her reins and Brian followed suit. For a few minutes they walked the horses, allowing the animals to catch their breaths.

“Let’s stop here,” she said, pointing to a copse of gnarled tamarisk trees at the back of the beach. They dismounted and let the horses forage for what they could find in the beachgrass and wild alfalfa behind the narrow dunes.

Surprising Brian, Jeanne pulled a blanket out of her backpack along with some local cheese, bread, and a split of white wine. “Surprise,” she exclaimed with an impish smile. “A little treat for us.”

He spread the blanket while Jeanne opened the wine. A moment later they were sitting down, savoring the seascape and the wine. But their cheer and good spirits didn’t last. Within minutes Brian realized they weren’t alone. Over the sound of the breaking waves and despite the onshore breeze, he heard the characteristic whine of mosquitoes, and a second later several landed on his bare arms intent on a blood meal. With a sense of panic he recognized the characteristic markings: black bodies with white polka dots and white ringlets on their legs. There was no doubt in his mind — they were the dreaded Asian tiger mosquitoes.

“Oh, my God!” Brian shouted. He leaped to his feet while feverishly fanning away the cloud of insects now circling his head. “We’re being attacked.”

Taken aback, Jeanne said: “It’s just mosquitoes. Camargue is known for them.”

“These aren’t ‘just’ mosquitoes,” Brian cried. “They’re Asian tiger mosquitoes. We have to get the hell out of here!”

Sensing his desperation and urgency, she rapidly gathered the food, the wine, and the glasses. Brian snatched up the blanket. They then ran back through the dunes to fetch the horses.

A short time later as they were cantering back along the water’s edge to the spot where they’d arrived at the beach, Jeanne called over to Brian, who was riding abreast: “It just occurred to me why you are so upset. The day we met you told me about Asian tiger mosquitoes and your barbecue.”

He nodded before yelling back: “The bastards carry the virus that killed Emma and Juliette as well as a bunch of other deadly diseases. I didn’t know they were in France, too.”

“I didn’t know, either,” Jeanne said with worry. “But we don’t have eastern equine encephalitis here. At least I’ve never heard of it.”

“You can’t be sure in this day and age,” Brian countered. “Just two months ago, I didn’t know we had EEE in the United States. And now with climate change and the way the world is interconnected, it could be anywhere, just like the Asian tiger mosquitoes. As the Covid-19 pandemic has shown, we’re in an existential war with viruses, and I’m afraid we’re at a distinct disadvantage.”

“What are you talking about?” she questioned. “What kind of disadvantage?”

“Viruses have been around adapting and evolving for more than a billion years before we humans ever appeared on the scene. Biologically speaking, that is one hell of a head start, so only God knows who is going to prevail.”

“You’re scaring me,” Jeanne said, casting a troubled look in Brian’s direction.

“We all should be scared. A competitive viral challenge is one we humans have to face.”