by James, Mark
“I understand,” she said again.
The assassin said nothing.
The two house phones rang at once in his hand. They seemed enormously loud to her, peeling like bells.
“Hello, chère,” she said as the assassin held the phone. “Yes, well, that’s alright.”
The Spaniard looked over, following each of their words with the other phone.
“Later is fine. I’ll put your dinner away. It’ll be in the refrigerator when you get home.”
The Spaniard pushed the muzzle into her temple at the mention of ‘dinner,’ then harder at ‘refrigerator.’
Elise desperately wanted to get off before Henri told her where he was going, when he would be home.
“Hold on for a moment,” Garneau said as he took a right, heading southeast.
“Elise, I have some friends with me and they need our help. Unfortunately, it looks like I won’t be back until tomorrow morning. I’m going to the summer home. I promise, I’ll turn right back around. Not back until around eight, I’d guess. Maybe we could have some breakfast?”
She cringed at the time and location. The assassin squinted, slicing in a knife’s motion at his neck for her to cut the call short.
“Alright,” she said, deflated. “I’ll see you then.”
“Elise, are you alright?”
They’d set up a special code word to alert each other, for when something was wrong – an out-of-context mention of Millie’s dinner time. She resisted the words.
“I’m fine,” she said, recovering her buoyancy. “Hurry home. Breakfast sounds great.”
“See you then, je t’aime.”
“Je t’aime…” she said in return as the Spaniard pulled the phone away.
He eased the gun from her temple, leaving an indentation. He replaced the tape on her mouth and put an additional strip over her eyes.
Downstairs, she could hear the music start again. It was something familiar; some kind of up-tempo jazz, the music that Henri would always play when they were packing for a weekend, when they made their breakfasts together.
And then it stopped.
†
Lani looked back through the rear window of the Renault, watching Paris fall away as the sun sank beneath the steeple of the Eiffel Tower. The clouds were smeared purple, like a painting she once saw, when you wondered how an artist could have possibly imagined it. It was a sky that many couples in this same moment were looking up to, wondering how their Paris trip could have turned out so perfect.
Some might have felt that their time in Paris had been muted, cut short. For Lani, it would always be enough – their night under the lights of the Champs-Elysees, their exquisite dinner at Les Deux Magots, the champagne, the jazz music and the silky waters of the Seine, the wonder of it all. Some memories were drawn out over years, others distilled to their essence. Each could taste sweet.
She turned as the Eiffel Tower shrank to a prick on the horizon and suddenly dropped behind a building as they turned. Even though a noose was closing behind them, she still felt an odd sense of fortune – knowing that she had someone special beside her, remembering Jack laying next to her last night, knowing that they both had a new friend who was helping them, that Garneau was that one more person in the world who knew that the ‘blood eyes’ were real.
“You could call your wife,” Jack said, remembering that Garneau had said earlier that he wanted to call Elise as soon as they cleared the metropolitan edges.
“Yes, thank you,” Garneau said, retrieving his cell phone from the center console.
“Elise?”
Jack and Lani turned to each other while Garneau talked to his wife, trying to allow him some privacy. Jack realized that they’d barely discussed the night before, their night out in Paris seemingly lost in the rush of throwing their bags together and meeting Garneau at the restaurant and now this rush from the city.
“How’re you doing?” Jack asked, “From the champagne, I mean?”
“Sorry, I guess I crashed on you,” she smiled. “It was all wonderful, though. I’ll never forget it.”
“Same here. We packed a lot in for one night. Maybe…”
“Elise, are you alright?”
As Garneau paused, Jack and Lani looked to each other and then to Garneau.
“See you then,” Garneau finally said, “Je t’aime.”
He paused a last time, smiling at Elise’s goodbye and closed the phone.
He turned, “She’s fine. I forgot to ask her about the sweep, though. You know, if it’s made its way into the neighborhood. She would’ve said something, I would think. In any event, she’s a resilient sort. I think she even likes the weekends she gets to herself now and then, when I have a conference out of town.”
Jack could see that Garneau was a man who felt that whatever happened to his wife also happened to him, their lives so intertwined. Garneau smiled over, “She doesn’t think I know such things.”
They passed through the villages of Yevre-Le-Chatel and Vezelay, the night becoming deeper, the lights in the countryside dim.
“As I said, it’s only a small cottage. Elise and I bought it after our children went off to university. We do a lot of road rallies in the southeast and it cuts down on the B&Bs. Elise has subjected it to her usual treatment and it’s actually quite charming. And the Opel is perfect for you two– just banged up enough that it’ll fit right in with the other villager’s cars. You’ll have no problems.”
After another hour, they turned from a ridge onto a country road and followed it to the end. Through a break in the trees, Lani could see the lights of the local village below.
“Here we are,” Garneau said as they pulled around into a stone driveway fronting a small country cottage, its white stucco and brightly colored shutters shining in the car lights. Lani noticed the flowerbeds that Elise had tended the weekend before.
They exited and moved to the rear to retrieve their luggage.
“So,” Garneau said, looking down at the bags, “you always carry these with you? A bit like boat anchors, no?”
Jack smiled, “That’s our life these days.”
It’d only been a few days, a whisper of time anywhere else, but to Lani, all of it – the D.C. hotel room, the Maryland cottage, even the Scottish manor – now seemed so long ago. These bags – hauled from here to there and back again – had almost become a part of them. They didn’t question it anymore. They simply packed the suitcases and hauled them along, as if a last tether to some type of normalcy, to a clean set of clothes.
“Now remember,” Garneau said, “the trip should only take four hours or so, assuming that you stay to the map. Drive straight through. Your contact won’t be at the meet point when you arrive, but by the next evening, yes.”
He looked at Lani. “If anyone needs to freshen up, this would be a good time. Again, no stops.”
Garneau opened the front door. Even in the dark, Lani could see its charm: Delft china in an antique cabinet, a credenza with an empty pitcher waiting for freshly cut flowers.
“Over there,” Garneau motioned. “I know, I’m worrying too much, but perhaps we should keep the lights down low as possible. You can turn the bathroom lights on – no windows in there.”
After they finished, Jack and Lani walked outside and across the driveway towards the Opel. Garneau was waiting and had loaded their suitcases into the trunk.
He handed Jack the keys and extended his hand, “Good luck, Jack. Get the accounts and get back home. Elise and I will be praying for you both.”
“Thank you, Henri – for everything. When we get clear, I’ll let you know. Remember, on that info I gave you – all barrels at once. Give ‘em bloody hell.”
“Guaranteed,” Garneau said, smiling back. “And now, young lady. Come here.”
Lani and Garneau hugged, knowing that they’d each made a good friend. “Thank you,” she whispered, “so much.”
As she walked to the passenger door, she turned. “And you remember, H
enri – you still owe us that tour of Paris. And after, we’ll all sit and toast this at Les Deux Magots. A promise?”
Garneau smiled, “Promise.”
As Jack started the car, Garneau leaned over, “Follow me down to the main road, with the small bakery on the corner. I’ll turn right, for you, the left.”
Jack nodded, “Thanks again, Henri.”
At the bottom at the main road, Garneau turned back towards Paris, looking in his rearview mirror as the Opel turned and disappeared out of sight.
By the time Garneau reached the village of Yevre-Le-Chatel, he was already planning on how to use the information that Jack had given him: on the Surveillance-Net and the orbs, on the GMA and the ID typing of the world’s population. They’d been told that the orbs were only more traffic cameras, but they were so much more. In the past, he’d always laughed at the women’s groups on the television shouting about alleged surveillance menaces, or the blogger arrested trying to take down one of the orbs, shouting something unintelligible.
It was all so incomprehensible. Then again, wasn’t that the same reaction that people had had throughout all of history – before every new Hitler, before every new Stalin, before every dark shadow descended upon them? We, the people, didn’t want to know about such things, it got in the way of our good times; we didn’t want to believe that it was something we’d all become. Or rather, that we’d allowed ourselves to be. It was only within such vacuums that such shadows thrived. He was certain, this was not mere melodrama – it was history, evolution. Garneau chided himself for not seeing it all sooner. At his age, and in this place he’d settled into, had he missed what was right in front of him? Had he let himself miss it?
He would correct that omission, forcing those behind the orbs into the light. The shadows in them would not survive. He believed – needed to believe – that people still wanted to be something more.
At the village of Vezelay, he made the same turn back as another car nearly sideswiped him, its lights startling in the empty streets.
Inside the swerving car, the Spaniard quickly looked up from the radio, catching the wheel and cursing the driver on the turn.
The assassin was too focused on his music, too focused on the targets ahead, too unfocused to see the Renault slowly disappear behind him and into the night.
33
They drove straight through and arrived at dawn, a pale sun burning off the fog still left in the valleys.
“I’ll have to admit it,” Lani said, laughing, “I’m more than a bit bleary. Slurring yet?”
“Hey, who said it back there, better grab some sleep? I think we’re almost there. That map, where did it go?”
She laughed, “What are you talking about, someone had to make sure you stayed awake. By the way, how many hours is it, that you’ve been awake, I mean? Let’s count: we stayed out in Paris and you told me you didn’t get to sleep right away – so, maybe three or four hours there, at most. Then, the next morning, we went to meet Henri at the restaurant. Then the Opel and now here. What’s that, five hours in the last thirty-six? And before that, how many on the train? Maybe two or three?”
“I’m fine,” Jack said. “Besides, we’ll have plenty of time once we’re there. What’s that?”
She was looking out the window at the passing trees, the light through the branches. Lani was beginning to see such sights as sublime – the stars out last night, the sun lying in front of them, the greenness all around. And more: the string of empty roads, the layering of light as the fog relented, the cattle staring back as they slowed. It all moved past like slow eddies. Had time stopped, or, were they so removed from the matrix of their lives that it only felt that way?
“Did you see that?” she said, turning as they passed another break in the trees. “It’s hard to believe, it’s so beautiful. What did Henri say about our contact, that he’d be back tomorrow? You know, I keep forgetting his name…”
She laughed, “Yep, a quick nap would help – maybe for a hundred years!”
Jack looked down at the scribbled note on the console as the car descended the ridge. “It’s Engel. Johannes Engel. For some reason, I can’t seem to remember it either. Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure, anything.”
“Alright…I keep having this feeling.”
“What feeling?”
“Well, consider our ongoing situation: here we are, wanted outlaws on the run, always in the need of a next escape. And then – and here’s the strange part – someone is always popping up. First, Henri helps us out, out of nowhere, and now this Engel.”
“Providence?” she smiled. “It only looks like a coincidence from one place, then higher up it looks like it was always meant to be?”
“Maybe, hard to say...”
She smiled, “So, you’re wondering if all this was all supposed to happen?”
“I don’t know, it’s just…hey, look at that,” he said, pointing to a hawk sitting high in a tree.
“Look how big it is,” she said, staring up as the car passed under. “Gorgeous. By the way, how do you do that? That’s the third hawk this morning.”
“Remember what I told you about the trials? It’s like that – you wait and there it is.”
“Like you begin to see the evidence, what, faster?”
“No, it’s different than that. How do I put it…well, it’s like I said, when you start, you learn where the furniture is. Then you put down the note pad and let the trial happen, mindful that you are waiting for something. Yet, at the same time, not trying to wait for anything…it’s hard to explain. Anyway, in that mindset, you tend to see more coming towards you. I don’t know whether it’s because you’re simply calmer and can see it easier, or because you’re actually in a different place where you actually see more.”
He looked over at her staring at him. She loved hearing him talk like this. It took her to another place, away from everything. She wasn’t sure she understood any of it, but it really didn’t matter, she simply liked hearing it. It gave her a confidence that they were heading to a place where they were supposed to be.
“Sorry” he laughed, “rambling again. What do they call it, sleep deprived cognitive dissonance? Or maybe, too much philosophy in college, whatever. You’re right, though, a long crash is definitely in our future.”
She smiled, resting her head and looking over. “Actually, I like when you talk like that. It makes me think of different things, like there’s still some mystery in the world. You said, a coincidence not a coincidence, but couldn’t it also be called…”
“Here we are,” Jack said, pointing to the gravel road veering off and down into a valley. “What do those directions say?”
She unfolded the map, hastily drawn by Henri on the trunk of the Opel. “He only wrote, Rue de Faisan-Rouge. It says a left, though.”
“Let’s take a chance.” Jack turned the wheel sharply as they drove down the gravel road. About a mile down they could see the outlines of a large farmhouse, barely visible in the still hanging fog and isolated at the bottom of the valley.
“There’s the sign,” Lani said as they passed a weatherworn street sign lying in the grass. “It was faded, but it definitely said, Faisan-Rouge.”
The road slowly descended past grass fields and a ribbon of lake, the water nearly black in the fog. Nearer the house, the gravel transitioned into worn stones, polished long ago.
Looking up the front steps, Lani saw a white-painted swing to the right of the door. She wondered how many couples had sat there in past summers listening to the evening sounds, calling in time to the creaking of the swing. Watching old movies, it was something a Hawaiian girl could always wonder about. She traced the browned vines on the balustrades down to the gardens of dried wildflowers ringing the veranda-like porch, itself wrapping the house. The flowers had gone back into the ground for the coming winter and only a single bud remained, bright yellow against the vines.
It suddenly came to her: All of this – this perf
ect house, these perfect gardens – it had been tended by someone who loved this place, who had created it for themselves from a dream, perhaps a book read as a child.
“It’s so charming,” she said, stepping from the car and unable to take her eyes away. “Who do you think this man is? Did Henri say anything more, other than he was an old friend? That’s all I overheard.”
Jack took a deep breath, stretching from the long ride. “Not much more. You’re right, though. It’s a 1930’s French post card.”
“Serene,” she said, pulling a dried flower closer. “Umm, you can still smell them.”
He walked to the back of the Opel and pulled out the luggage. “I’m taking these on in. It’s the key under the third rock, right? What did Henri say, the one that doesn’t belong?”
He looked over to the side of the stairs. Along the edge was a rock that was maroon-flecked and grey, feldspar. “Got it.”
He retrieved the key, shook off the dirt and headed up the short stairs. Lani turned to see him fiddling with the lock, intent on not putting the suitcases down.
She skipped up the stairs and it echoed out into the valley. She turned at the top, “Did you hear that? I don’t think there’s anyone else out here.”
The latch finally turned and Jack began wrestling with the oak door, heavy on old hinges. Lani came up behind and took one of the bags.
“Wow,” she said as they stood in the foyer that looked into the living room and then into the kitchen beyond. “It’s the same as the outside. Like you said, a post card.”
Jack put the suitcases down. “Give me a quick second. I need to look around.”
He went into the kitchen and she could hear him open a back door. Still in her coat, she sat down on the ottoman that fronted the old leather chair. The fireplace looked like Carrera marble and she could smell a hint of burned logs. Through the front bay window, a shot of sun broke through the fog and hit the lake.
