She drove. I sat in the passenger seat, well-fed, well-rested, and clean. Truth be told, I was still buzzing from the kiss with Nazari. A happy man.

The car was big and luxurious. Leather seats and dash. Glossy oak paneling inside. Simone slipped on a pair of large sunglasses. Which made her look like a purple bug. She rolled the big car down the gravel drive. I pushed a button and the window descended smoothly. Little servo motors hummed in perfect synchronicity. The sound of the tires moving across the driveway pebbles was louder than the massive engine, a soft and reassuring twelve cylinder purr in the background.

Madame Vaugeois made a right turn and gave the engine a touch more gas. The Mercedes growled a little. It was a great day. Sunny and clear and dry. The trees on either side of the road still had the fresh green of late spring, before the summer starts getting old. I let the slipstream wash over my hand. She looked at me and smiled. She said, “Tom.”

I said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Then we heard the whine of a trail bike engine revving. It was like the sound of a chain saw. But more annoying. We were almost at the bridge. I looked through the trees and could see a white bike moving along a parallel dirt trail. Keeping pace with the car. She said, “Pests.”

I said, “You see them a lot?”

She laughed. “They ride along the trails next to the river.”

“Who are they?”

She was irritated. Flung her hands in the air. “Them. I don’t know. Teenagers.” She turned east after we hit the main road. She glanced at me. “Noise pollution. They should be banned.”

The ponytail guy with the blue eyes was one of these trail bike kids. I figured the trail bikes were popular sport for the kids cooped up in Les Brosses. Then I thought about the attack on Gilles Vaugeois, the screwdriver to the head. Getting through that skull would have been tough. Certainly for someone using muscle power. But it occurred to me that, with engine power, the attack made more sense. Then I pictured the scene, one of those kids on the back of a trail bike, plunging the screwdriver into old Gilles.

“Why do they ride here?”

She looked at me. “It’s public space. Forest with trails along the river. I imagine they don’t have many other places to go.”

“You can call the police to report a nuisance.”

Vaugeois laughed. “That would only make it worse. Imagine if they knew it was me calling the police!”

I tried to imagine what would be worse than a screwdriver in the head. I said, “I could have a word with them if you like.”

“With the police?”

“No. With the kids on the bike. I’ll ask them not to buzz too close to the house, if it disturbs you.”