Behind the Bonehouse (25 page)

They stood under a big gnarled redbud, and once Doug had lit his Camel, and pushed his glasses up his nose, and wiped his forehead with a red bandana, he shoved it back in his uniform pants pocket, and slowly cleared his throat. “This ain't easy to talk about. It ain't about the business.”

“Oh. Well, if it's not, I—”

“I don't wantta get nobody in trouble, and I don't know if it means much, or it's just me bein' stupid.”

“You say what you think you should.”

Doug watched Alan for half a minute, then said, “It happened in the winter. February most likely. See, I got me a big dog, some kinda hound mix, maybe blue tick, or bloodhound in him, and it was a Saturday, and it was warmer than it'd been. The day before'd been warmer too. And I just felt kinda itchy, like I had ta do something different, so I drove down to Cumberland Falls State Park.”

“How far's that?”

“Eighty-five, ninety miles, somethin' like that. I figured to take my son, and Merle the dog, and hike for a couple hours. Have a picnic and all in the car, then come on home. We left about six, and Joey was real excited, leavin' in the dark, 'fore his sisters was up. And when we got there, and pulled into the parking lot, Carl Seeger was there too. Standing outside his car talkin' to this other fella.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“Nope. Never looked my way. I drove right past, and parked a ways away, and he never paid no attention. Other fella didn't neither, that I could see. And he's the one that's got me worried.”

“Why?”

Doug Smith crushed his cigarette out with a work boot, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was Brad Harrison, and they was talkin' real concentrated like. Noddin' their heads, and lookin' like whatever it was was real serious and important. Like a couple a agents in a spy movie.”

“You couldn't hear anything?”

“Nope. No way. But it seemed real strange to me, that they'd go so far away to meet up. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“So now what? I mean, I don't want no trouble with Brad or Mr. Harrison. But I felt like I oughtta tell ya.”

“You did the right thing. Thank you.”

“That mean I should call the Sheriff?”

Alan looked up at the redbud, and picked off a sliver of bark. “I don't know. I wouldn't want to do any damage, if Brad doesn't have anything to do with Carl's death. Or get Brad put out with you either. Would you let me think about it for awhile, and then let you know how it seems to me?”

Doug looked at Alan for a second, and Alan could see he was thinking,
What if I'm wrong? What if Munro killed Seeger?
But then Doug nodded, and said it was time he got back to work.

After he'd left, Alan thought about going right to Bob, and asking him to help decide what to do—to talk to Brad himself, or approach it some other way.

But Brad could've gotten the Dylox, and everything else. Easier than Cecil Thompson,
or
Carl Seeger. And blood's thicker than water. An old cliché that's usually true. It makes more sense to consult Garner before I talk to Bob.

Wednesday, May 13th, 1964

It took Camille till May 11th to track Henri Reynard to Lyons. She and Jack left the next morning, passing through Tours, and on east through Orleans, then south down through Burgundy—past mile after mile of stony tan ground striped brown with rows of grape vines just beginning to sprout new leaves—stopping finally in a B&B that had been a farm workers' cottage just down a hill from the Chateau de Messey, a small country mansion outside of Oszenay, three hours north of Lyons.

They left early in the morning, and drove south to Lyons, parking on a side street not too far from the Centré d'Histoire de la Résistance in the university district.

The streets were littered and dirty, even where the buildings were old and beautiful. The shops were dingy and pedestrian looking, the traffic heavy and noisy, the smell of exhaust making Camille cough, as they threaded their way through streets thick with students—walking, and talking, and smoking at crowded tables crammed in outdoor cafes—while Camille and Jack studied street numbers.

Henri's apartment was on the second floor above a rundown corner tobacconist's, his door facing the side street. The outside of the building was smeared with graffiti and tattered posters, with advertising handbills and radical propaganda, even two red guerrilla slogans written in Italian.

When Jack shoved the street door open, they were assaulted by the smell of cat urine, and garbage cans, and what might've been dried vomit. The overhead bulb had burned out, and they had to work their up around litter on worn wooden stairs, before they stood by a peeling gray door and looked at each other for most of a minute, before Jack knocked.

They heard voices, and shuffling feet, and locks and chains clicking and rattling, before a young woman, who might've been a college student, opened the door wide. She was barefoot and tiny, not more than five feet tall, wearing a man's pale blue shirt tied in a knot at her waist above short white shorts. Her legs were sturdy, and her face was pale and round, her dark eyes outlined in thick black liner, her lips pouting under white lipstick, her blond bangs hanging in tendrils, the back twisted on top of her head in a Bridget Bardot tousle.

She gazed at them, one hand on her hip, before she said, “Qui est vous?” as she looked Camille up and down.

The end of a greasy brown sofa was visible just beyond her, and there Henri sat in dirty chinos and a half-buttoned shirt holding a pack of Gauloise in one hand, while he lit the one in his mouth with a large embossed silver lighter. There was a glass of red wine on the coffee table in front of him next to an open newspaper, and though it was almost eleven, there were dirty dishes and clothes and magazines strewn all over the room—on the mattress on the floor too, and wherever else there wasn't a piece of camera equipment. Pamphlets were stacked in a lopsided pile under the window that faced the front, its glass so filmed with grime and smoke, the buildings on the opposite side were a smudged yellow blur.

Henri's face had frozen—a stunned wariness in his narrowed eyes, his mouth falling open—the instant he'd recognized Camille and Jack. He shot off the sofa and barricaded himself behind the far end, his back to the front windows, before he asked why they were there. Which was when the girl moved across to him, watching them the way he was, as she asked who they were.

Henri looked nothing like he had in 1944. His stomach strained against his shirt like a watermelon hanging above his belt, and the black hair—once wild and wavy, helping to make him look dashing and romantic—was reduced to a patchy fringe. His face was puffy, and his eyes were red-rimmed and strained above pale pouches, but there was the same old seduction in his smile when he told the girl to leave. This was business. He'd call her later to arrange when they'd meet.

She said no, why should she leave? She was his fiancée. She kept no secrets from him. And he pulled her against him, and whispered in her ear, then slid a hand across her rear end, telling her to go on and go, that they'd talk before they met for dinner.

She slipped on her sandals, and walked out, but she didn't look mollified when she snatched a green canvas satchel from the floor, and slammed the door behind her.

Jack stepped toward Henri, stopping just beyond the end of the sofa by the door, his hands clenched at his sides, before he said, “I know what you did to the Resistance in Tours,” in a sharp clipped voice.

“Do you?”

“You wanted Lebel killed. You turned us into the Gestapo and the Vichy police, and if the rest got tortured to death, too bad. Because you—”

“Camille was released. That was not an easy accomplishment when—”

“And you set me up to take the blame.”

“What do you have to complain of? You were released! You, the interfering American, the—”

“And it's time the families of the people you murdered finally hear the truth.”

“Is it? And who would believe you? You have no proof! I have a following who read and support my work. My testimony is in the archives of the Musée de la Résistance giving a very different explanation. The Centre d'Histoire de la Résistance et de la Déportation here in Lyons as well, they record the events
very
differently, I can well assure you. No, monsieur, no one will believe you,
or
my dear Camille, for she herself is suspect, as the only member of the Resistance released by the Gestapo. Aside from you, of course. The lone American.”

Henri was smiling now, shaking a cigarette from the blue pack, a chuckle bubbling from his throat. “You, who were thrown from a Gestapo automobile to land indelicately in the gutter! No, there are many still in the Lourraine who have long suspected dear Camille's complicity. Yours,
and
hers as well. Without proof?” Henri shrugged, then leaned against the greasy coffee-colored wall and lit his Gauloise. “Your claims will fall upon closed ears.”

Jack walked behind the sofa, the entire stained length of it to the end by the window, his whole body clenched and sweating, as he stared at Henri Reynard.

Jack stood absolutely still then, arms straining, rigid at his sides, fighting back revulsion, as he watched Henri Reynard's fleshy lips sipping blood red wine. “I've lived with what you did to Lebel—and me, and all the rest—since 1944. I will not stand by any longer and let you—”

“Oh, mon coeur, it bleeds, yes! Quelle une tragédie! The poor simple American!” Henri had tossed off the rest of his wine and was pouring another glass.

Jack watched him in silence for half a minute, knowing too well what it was like to
not
be able to
not
drink another glass, or open another quart of vodka, or keep from crapping yourself in the night and puking on the floor. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his eyes still on Henri. “Of course seeing what you've become makes me think that—”

“Oh? And what would that be, monsieur?”

“That justice has been done.”

“And you mean by that what?”

“You were handsome and quick and charming. Now you're a middle-aged hanger-on. One of those we've all seen. Even when we'd rather—”

“Oh?” Henri had saluted Camille with his wine glass, even before he asked, “And what sort is that?”

“The artsy poseurs. The leftwing cranks. The ones who cling to the fringe of every college campus trying to impress immature kids who don't know enough to see what you've become, while—”

“And you! Who are you, and what do you know of the—”

“While you're hoping you don't look too out of shape to seduce someone susceptible.”

“This is so much fantasy! And you! The American who could not even comport himself during the war as—”

“I wasn't a traitor who murdered his own people!”

“Oh, and you appear and lecture me? The coddled American, who came to manipulate
us
!
We
who had waged war through all the dark years!
You
, with your little gadgets, and your parcels of money. And childish Camille, so easy to lie to, so willing to believe when—”

Jack grabbed Henri by the throat and pinned him against the wall. He held him there, glaring at his red-rimmed eyes, before he let him drop and crumple on the floor.

Henri screamed, “You bastard! You think I shall let you walk out—”

Jack had pulled a thin silver rectangle from his pocket and was holding it at shoulder level, smiling at Henri.

“What is that?” Henri was pushing himself off the floor, tugging his trousers in place.

“One of those American gadgets. A tape recorder the size of a lighter that recorded everything you said.”

“Wait!”

Jack had already stepped into the hall, when Camille said, “The families of the dead? It is time they learned how their loved ones were killed!” She closed the door, and ran down the stairs, hearing the door fly open, and Henri hollering behind them.

“Is it really a tape recorder? One so small without a cord?” Camille was watching Jack's face intently, as they made their way through a milling crowd, heading toward their car.

Jack laughed, and said, “No, though I wish it were. It's a Minox camera. Used during the war by American army intelligence. Did you see his face?”

“I did. It made the drive worthwhile. And you? Was it enough for you?”

“What else could we do? We don't have any proof. So, all things considered, it's the best I could've hoped for. Thank you. I couldn't have found him without you.”

“And you are satisfied? You did not wish to kill him? Or make him suffer pitifully?”

Jack didn't answer until they'd gotten to their car. “Two years ago it would've been different. But, no. He admitted what he'd done, and I got to clamp my hands around his throat and drop him on his rear end. I couldn't have asked for more.” Jack smiled.

And Camille smiled back at him and slipped her arm inside his.

Garner Honeycutt's office was in an old brick feed store in downtown Versailles on the west corner of Rose Hill and Main, two blocks south of the courthouse.

The faded black door stuck at the bottom and creaked when Alan shoved it, and the scarred pine floor squeaked as he and Jo walked across it to stand in front of the receptionist's desk—broad and deep, and piled with files—with no one sitting behind it.

They stood there. Waiting. Feeling conspicuous—till they heard a door open on their right halfway down the hall that ran to the back of the building.

A tall stooped elderly man, with swirling white hair above an ancient black suit, carrying a sheaf of papers, shuffled away toward the end of the hall, muttering something and waving his free hand, till he turned right and disappeared up a flight of stairs.

Jo and Alan looked at each other, eyebrows raised in surprise, as Jo whispered “Now
that's
a character out of
Bleak House
”—before another door opened on the left side of the hall and a gray haired woman in a brown shirtwaist dress strode straight toward them.