Where was Burdmoore?
Officials had cleared a center lane between the food stands. A farmer was being guided toward the little party of Platon and his red-vested handlers. The Serb was behind them, looking bored and inattentive.
I used to love her. (Ooh yeaah.) But I had to kill her.
The farmer summoned to meet Platon had boils all over his face, as if someone had hastily sculpted his visage from lumps of clay. He led a piebald cow with a glossy blue ribbon around its neck toward the deputy minister. Fair officials looked on proudly.
Two teenage girls passed by, long-limbed and golden, in very short shorts, and the Serb turned to watch them. One of the girls caught his eye, and nudged the other. The two girls stopped walking and consorted. Anyone new, anyone in a suit, was someone to flirt with.
Where was Burdmoore?
The Serb, with native fluency in Jailbait, was chatting up the girls. He was focused on them as if his primary duty was not to guard the subminister but to get into the pants of one of the girls (while no doubt using his security credentials to loosen them both up). The Serb’s heavy brow was less severe, I noticed, now that he was grinning.
The subminister shook the farmer’s hand, pretending not to be offended that the man’s face was studded with boils. He pretended to pet the farmer’s prizewinning cow. Everyone seemed uncomfortable, especially the farmer. A red-vested official took photos.
The two girls walked off and the Serb followed, as if they’d just made some kind of agreement. One kept turning her head. The Serb smiled, eager on their heels. He’d forgotten all about Paul Platon. This was just a bullshit assignment anyhow. An ag fair in the sticks. Might as well try to have a little fun.
The band finished “Used to Love Her” and started in on “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” The guitar player wasn’t skilled, but he managed to crank out the blistering opening melody in a way that was at least recognizable.
Young mothers in halter tops and exposed midriffs were dancing in front of the stage, young men in T-shirts advertising farm equipment or Red Bull moving their heads to “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” A toddler stood alone and bopped its knees stiffly to the rhythm, the best it could do to dance. Like that baby, I find it impossible not to love Guns N’ Roses.
The Serb and the girls had gone off behind a mobile generator.
I heard chanting and cheering. Mr. Crouzel was coming down the road on his tractor. Aurélie and a bunch of other Moulinards followed the tractor on foot, holding banners. Banners I’d watched them make. “Water for All.” “Megabasins No.” I saw the mirror-flash of milk tankers.
The protest was starting. Platon would be trapped. The Serb was gone. And Burdmoore, to my relief, was walking toward me.
There was no point scolding him for being late. I quickly passed him the P38. He reacted like a baby boomer being handed the keys to a 1965 Ford Mustang.
“Wow,” he said. “This thing takes me back.”
He held the P38 and discreetly cocked its hammer, then slipped it into the pocket of the jacket he wore.
Protesters were swelling into the parking lot, in front of the Crossback. Georges the chauffeur took in the scene and quickly got into the car.
Crouzel shut off his tractor. Aurélie, with a bullhorn, guided the protesters in chant. They descended onto the grounds of the fair. People stepped back to make room for them.
Burdmoore raised his voice, so that I would hear him over the din of protesters and “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”
“You want me to use this thing? On this guy Paul Platon?”
Something was off.
“Just walk up on him, firing?”
The ribboned cow had started to stomp and kick. The old farmer lost control of its halter.
Two of the men in red vests pulled Platon out of the way of the cow.
The tankers were starting to flood the D79 with milk. It splashed out from their tanks, filled the irrigation trenches next to the road, and poured down into the parking lot, sending people running.
“Do you think I left my brain in a trash can someplace?”
“What?”
“Do you think I’m seriously going to run at this guy, in front of all these people, with cops bearing down, and fucking shoot him? Are you nuts?”
The band had stopped playing. I heard police sirens, impotent, trapped behind the milk tankers.
“But thanks for this, sister.” Burdmoore patted the jacket pocket where he’d put the gun.
“I’ll keep it as a souvenir. It’ll remind me of that time some crazy chick came to Le Moulin and tried to stir up a bunch of shit and no one went for it.”
He walked off toward the protesters.
“THIS IS YOUR FAIR, this is your land, this is our life! Protect it! These people are your enemies!”
“Megabasins, no! Farmers, yes!”
I heard vehicle doors opening and more sirens. There was a showdown on the road. People in black, their faces masked, but Moulinards no doubt, had formed an offensive line.
Behind that line, police started firing tear-gas canisters. People were screaming and running to avoid getting gassed.
I followed Platon and the two fair officials who were trying, with no script or plan, to escort him to safety.
They headed toward the back side of the lake, away from the crowd. It was the same direction I needed to go, toward the fishermen’s road to freedom.
Things had not gone as planned. My priority was to get out of here regardless.
