Winter's End by Jean-Claude Mourlevat & Anthea Bell

Author:Jean-Claude Mourlevat & Anthea Bell [Mourlevat, Jean-Claude & Bell, Anthea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Fiction, General, Political Science, Historical, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Action & Adventure, Adventure Stories, Social Issues, Family, History & Theory, Adventure and Adventurers, Young Adult Fiction, Orphans, Violence, Orphans & Foster Homes, Despotism
ISBN: 9780763644505
Publisher: Candlewick
Published: 2006-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Gus Van Vlyck was still in a furious temper. He was angrily pacing the corridors on the fourth floor of the high-rise building occupied by the Phalange headquarters, chin jutting out, eyes blazing. He marched into his subordinates’ offices without knocking and found a good reason to get angry at every one of them. Then he went out again, slamming doors behind him, returned to his own office, and for the tenth time made phone calls to people who kept telling him the same thing: there was no more news. As he hung up, he crashed the handset down hard enough to split it, swearing furiously.

It was not the loss of Mills that had upset him so much, still less the death of Pastor, whom he hardly knew. He had felt some slight compassion for the regional police chief on hearing of his terrible end. After all, this was the man who had obeyed his orders fifteen years ago when he’d set the dogs on Eva-Maria Bach. Many men wouldn’t have had the guts to do it, and Mills deserved respect if only for his absence of qualms. But as for mourning his death . . .

No, what infuriated Gus Van Vlyck so much was to know that Milena Bach, Eva-Maria’s daughter, was at large and that they hadn’t been able to lay hands on her. The police hadn’t been so soft a few years ago, and he was going to say so at the next Council meeting. If they gave him time to speak, that is, because some of them never missed a chance to bring up the bitter memory of his mistake, now long past but coming back to confront him full on today.

When asked, just after the execution of Eva-Maria Bach, “What do we do with the child?” he had hesitated. The mother had given them trouble enough. Why encumber themselves with the daughter and risk the possibility of her reviving the singer’s memory someday? Common sense called for the child’s death. There was a special unit for that kind of thing, efficient men who acted fast and well. You didn’t have to face the details yourself. “What do we do with the child?” All you had to do was keep your mouth shut, and the killing machines would know what that silence meant. You wouldn’t even have to feel responsible.

But his opinion had been asked, and he’d been as weak as a woman. “The girl? An orphanage, as far away from here as possible. At the other end of the country!” Even as he barked out this order, he had a presentiment that it was the wrong decision. Today he knew it, and the certainty had him seething with rage.

He left the headquarters at five in the afternoon without telling anyone. Disdaining the elevator, he ran four floors down the service staircase. Seeing him emerge at the front of the building, a driver stood up very straight, cap in hand, and opened the back door of a black limousine.

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