The Confessor (13 page)

‘The second man’s name is Boddicker,’ Victor said. ‘Harry Boddicker.’

‘Boddicker?’ came the response. ‘I know that name. Wait.’

The Frenchman heard the phone being put down – then the crisp
click-clack
of fingers on a keyboard. Then silence.

‘Stay on him at all times.’

The call was ended, and the Frenchman’s cell went back in his pocket. He zipped up his vest. It was a bit cooler than he had expected. Not that he minded – he’d come from Singapore where the air had been hot and damp. The combination always riled his sinuses – and he hated using a knife with sweaty hands.

They crossed at Place Edmond Rostand, the rotary where Boulevard Saint Michel, Rue Gay-Lussac and Rue Soufflot converged, and walked through the eastern gate of the Luxembourg Gardens. There had been more steps taken than words spoken since they left the café, the adjustment to each other’s presence taking precedence over the swap and updating of biographies – and Harry was content with that.

‘You look good,’ she said. ‘I always thought you would age nicely.’

‘You look great, and you aren’t aging at all. How exactly does that work?’

‘I sleep with lots of young men,’ she said, ‘and then murder them and drink their blood.’ The warm winter had rescheduled the bloom of things. The grass was already a brazen green. Tulips swayed in pastel congregations. She slid her arm inside his as they walked down the wide, treed promenade.

‘Why are you here, Harry?’

‘I’m on a job.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ She glanced over at him. ‘You know what I meant.’

Some human elements prove indestructible, armored against tragedy, and guilt – even the dispassionate abrasion of time. She’d never steered round a conversational corner, never put off stating what was on her mind to preserve a moment’s lightness. Harry was glad to see some of the old her was still calling the shots.

‘Listen, Chris . . . I’ve been through a lot of stuff . . . and come out the other end. The job was here – and when I thought about coming, I thought about seeing you, and that was more of a reason to come. I mean – this doesn’t feel crazy, does it?’

The view on their right opened up to display the massive Luxembourg Palace – a stately, three-tiered chunk of seventeenth-century majesty.

‘No. It doesn’t feel crazy,’ she said. Harry heard her sigh, and watched her small, elegant shoulders rise and then slowly descend.

They stopped at a pair of garden chairs and sat down. Sunshine was a sparkling gilt atop the surface of the gardens’ large, central pool, and parents kept watchful gazes on their children as they leaned over the rounded marble rim, sailing their toy boats on the water. Their bursts of sweet laughter were jazz riffs amid the birds’ steady melody.

‘You don’t drink anymore, do you?’ she asked.

‘Not for almost twelve years.’

‘I can tell. Isn’t that odd – after all this time apart?’

The Frenchman watched them from the opposite side of the pool as he made a cell call.

‘Hi,’ Dewey answered.

‘Where are you now, Dewey?’

‘Notre Dame.’ He pronounced it like the American football team. ‘Matheson went inside for a while and now we’re walking around outside. Before that he went into a big McDonald’s on Boulevard Saint Germain, then walked along the river for a while.’

‘This second man seems to be of significance. For now, I am to stay with him and you remain with Matheson.’

‘Got it. Listen . . . Can I ask you a question, Victor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Seeing as how we’re dealing with
two
guys now . . . Shouldn’t we, y’know – do you think we should get more money?’

‘Perhaps you should bring that up.’

‘Well . . . I thought, y’know, cuz we’re partners, and you’re senior, maybe
you
should bring it up.’

‘Dewey . . . I have worked with many people, but I have never had a partner.’

There were a few ticks of dead air. ‘Okay. Right – I get that.’

‘You should consider how you wish to deal with that by yourself. You see?’

‘Got it. Later.’

Dewey’s end went dead. The Frenchman took a pull on his Gitanes and ground it out. His father had told him, twenty-five years ago, sharing a bottle of Côtes du Rhône, that if you lived long enough life provided you with a surprising kind of inverted wisdom – of how few truths there actually were in the world. The son was now as old as the father had been and had come to be of the same mind – and the list was a short one.

Christine put her face up to the sun and closed her eyes. The sight of her that way made something in Harry ache. He used to lie in bed and watch her while she slept. It was something about the simple quiet in her face.

‘Papa died eight years ago,’ she said, ‘and I turned the shop into the café. There are a thousand things to do, and I keep a small staff, on purpose, so I barely have time to take a breath. I get up at five and go till eleven, then I go home and sit with a book and a glass of wine, and when my eyes start to droop I go to bed. I make sure I never have time to just
think
.’ She opened her eyes. ‘That’s how I do it, Harry.’

He could see her standing alone at the end of the hospital corridor, its cold whiteness casting her as a waif on a deserted winter street. She had sensed him there, and her head had come up to look at him, but she hadn’t moved to him. Her stillness had been a bipolar magnet – pulling him toward her and at the same time repelling him, keeping him distanced from the possibility of some awful utterance, some bare, unbearable, annihilating fact . . .

‘But you named the place “Soleil Couchant”,’ he said. ‘Not exactly the best way to keep a memory buried.’

‘No, never buried. Always in my heart. I just try and keep her out of my head.’

‘Plus facile à dire qu’à taire,’ Harry said softly, uncertainly.

Christine grinned. ‘“Easier said than done” is “C’est plus facile à dire qu’à
faire
”.’

‘What did I say?’

‘You said “Easier said than
keep silent
,” sort of.’ Her eyes suddenly glimmered. ‘It was always so sweet when you tried to talk French.’ Her cell rang – and Christine looked grateful for it. She answered. ‘Oui?’ She listened, and then stood up. ‘Harry . . . I have to go. The repair man . . .’

Harry got to his feet. ‘I’ll come back with you.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t, Harry. Maybe we should just say goodbye now.’

‘We could do that – or I could come back and sit in a corner and read the
Trib
until seven or so, then you could have dinner with me – and
then
we could say goodbye.’

She had always looked younger to him whenever she tried to make up her mind about something difficult. The shoulders shrugged downward, the head tilting to one side, the arms coming up and crossing. Like a child. Then a long sigh before she answered . . .

‘Not until nine. Then we’ll go home. I’ll cook,’ she said.

Notre Dame’s gargoyles looked down at the crowd in Parvis Notre Dame, the public square at the entrance to the cathedral, with their frozen, timeless glares.

The rose peddlers were out in force. Dewey had seen them in Rome, Florence, Barcelona – toting long-stems in cellophane. Fleece vests and khakis, swarthy, jet-black hair and clipped staches – they meandered through the crowd, their come-on a meld of meek and obstinate. They reminded him of worker ants back on the farm – one-minded, determined, their only goal the betterment of the colony. They were creeps but he admired them. If the Afghanis had had some of that, every Taliban prick would’ve had a 5.56mm in their skull years ago – and a lot of his buddies would still be yanking his chain instead of doing eternity rent-free in coffins. The rest of the guys? Most of them home now, living on food stamps and Mike’s Hard Lemonade, waiting for some bow-tie a-hole at the Veterans Admin to read the disability request they sent in a year ago. And whaddaya know? Here’s Jefferson High’s No-Can-Dewey already with fifty thou in cash that Unc Sam couldn’t touch. Go figure.

Matheson seemed intrigued with the square. He’d been strolling for twenty minutes, sitting on the stone edgings of the small gardens, turning this way and that for a sense of positioning. Dewey agreed with him. It would be a good choice for the meet – busy but spacious, flat and without any verticals to block sight-lines, so Matheson would have a three-sixty to see someone approaching, and options for escape to busy streets if he got suspicious . . . or it turned bad.

The guy had cojones, knowing he might be walking into a fuck-you – and then it kind of snuck up on Dewey . . . one of those thoughts that make you put other things aside for a moment so you have the headroom to step back and take a longer look at it. In a way, Matheson was a sort of soldier, too – in his own volunteer army, fighting for what he believed in . . . something bigger than him, and ready to take a bullet for it. A lot of people back home thought the guy was a traitor, an enemy of the good ol’ American way – and many of them had ‘Support Our Troops’ ribbons on their bumpers but never gave one second’s thought to the bullshit a warrior had to slog through once he got back . . .

They weren’t wondering how long it took to get a job, or a prescription, or treatment, or a new leg – and weren’t keeping count of how many jarheads ran out of faith and sanity and time and bought a ticket out of this life on the Beretta Express because it seemed to make more sense than anything else. Dewey felt he was cool-ass steady enough to take Matheson down without a blink when it was time – but the dude was okay. He had the right stuff.

Matheson pecked at his cell. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m heading back. I’m going to set the meet at the square at Notre Dame, for ten. It’ll be busy by then. Where are you?’

Harry’s answer came through the line. ‘At a café on Rue St Jacques. I’m gonna have dinner . . . with an old friend. Is that cool?’

‘Sure. See you at the hotel later tonight.’

He pocketed his phone and took a final look around. This was the place. He’d e-mail the mystery man when he got back: The man would buy a rose and sit on the northeast corner of the garden closest to the cathedral, with the flower on his lap, petals facing the doors. Harry would mingle with the tourists. At any given moment there would be dozens of people taking video and photos – so if it
was
a setup, that would discourage action out in the open.

He felt the blues coming round – his own, minor moon in its slow, solitary orbit, circling into view once or twice a day. The nearness of people often brought it on. The sweet, human medley of faces and voices. Intertwining hands and arms round waists, lips close to another’s ear murmuring secrets, a child saddled up on a father’s shoulders. A thousand simple intimacies. At these times, he did a quick self-examination – checking for hints of bitterness or self-pity, but there were none. He knew his choices had made him who he was – you didn’t meet many others in the shadows, searching for things that others had hidden there. And if you spent most of your life there, then the ties to those you loved frayed . . . and snapped. It was his doing. So be it.

He headed for the Pont au Double, to cross over the Seine to the left bank.

Dewey watched Matheson start through the crowd. He came out from behind the statue of Charlemagne to continue the tail – and a rose peddler stepped in front of him and held out his wares.

‘Une fleur, monsieur? Une rose? Deux euros. Pour une femme . . . ?’

Dewey gave the man a slow smile, then dug two coins from a pocket. ‘Sure.’

‘Merci, monsieur.’

Dewey took a flower. ‘You guys’re all totally fucked – y’know that, right?’

The peddler cocked his head. ‘No English, monsieur.’

‘Your life, man. You’ll always be second-class this way. Stoke up your pride, dude. Be smart. Go back home.’

He started away. As he passed a young woman in a tight jacket that announced the curves beneath it, he stopped. She was taking a picture of the cathedral.

‘Hey babe . . .’

She lowered her camera. ‘Oui?’

He held out the rose. ‘Here.’

She hesitated, and then took the offering with a grin. ‘Merci.’

Dewey tipped an imaginary hat. ‘Now you’ll never forget me,’ he said, and walked off.

‘
You are the sunshine of my life . . .
’

He had the song on ‘repeat’ – and it had been his accompaniment for the long hours – a slow, acoustic version he’d found on iTunes by a woman, a Norwegian named Vedvik, that came close to the feel of the voice that he’d heard half a dozen times now. He was using the song as a musical magnet – to try and pull something out of his depths.

The first time he’d felt the presence it had been the late arrival of an echo, a sense of something in the air brushing his skin. Softer than a breath, like the scent of a woman’s perfume reaching you three strides after she’s passed by. Now it had become a visitor, with a reason to come calling.

Geiger worked the chamois over the gleaming mahogany in a circular motion, expanding the circumference with every cycle. He’d gone round the clock to finish the piece. Everything needed to be finished, to be done – because he was going to leave. To his mind, Deep Red had already moved into his home. So he was going, and there would be nothing left undone, nothing that could ever come to mind – next week, next year – that would feel incomplete. There would be a hard line of demarcation drawn between now and what would come next, between an end and a beginning.

It was clear now, though he’d not seen it taking shape. It had come to him fully formed. He would make his father’s choice – the very same one. He would live with the wood, carve a life out of the forest, high and silent, somewhere only the clouds touched. There would be no words, no signals or messages or pulsing images.
This is my gift to you. You are no one
. And there would be no one else. He would be alone, with her voice.