I began a slow trot toward the other shed about thirty yards to the left. I’d taken about ten strides when I saw a flashlight appear from the doorway. I stopped as he turned and shined it directly at me. Before he could make me out I aimed and fired one shot. The flashlight fell to the ground, and he cried out. I waited for any movement. None. I cautiously continued forward.
Approaching the injured body, I picked up the flashlight and shined it at his face. It was Cleo. My bullet had entered his stomach and he was coughing up blood, trying to lift his head. As he struggled to breathe, steam rose from the blood oozing out of his gut.
I looked at his right hand and saw that he hadn’t released his pistol. As if summoning up one last bit of strength, he clutched and lifted it, attempting to fire a final shot. Watching him struggle, I unloaded two more slugs into his chest, finishing him.
With the flashlight aiding me, I took the items from his pockets before reloading my magazine. My head was on a swivel, and with no one approaching in either direction, I began dragging his body inside the dark, kerosene-smelling shed.
Moments later when I arrived at the left tower, the thick, heavy, cast-iron door was shut. Rather than pulling it open, I contemplated whether Bingo or Drake might be standing just inside. There was a fifty-fifty chance, but I needed to move fast before one of the two arrived from the opposite tower.
I turned the flashlight off, grabbed the coarse vertical handle, pulled the door open, and stepped inside. Pulling it shut, I stood there in the dark. It was silent. Then, from high above, the faint echoing sound of hard-soled shoes began lightly tapping the iron steps.
Stepping forward, I felt my way onto the winding stairwell, then stopped again and listened, unsure whether he was ascending or descending. It dawned on me that Cleo had likely been the only one carrying a flashlight. Why not pretend to be him?
The footsteps were indeed descending, so I turned the flashlight on and started climbing, stopping after about five steps.
“You get him, nigga?” I asked in my best high-pitched Cleo voice, all the while shining the flashlight upward.
“Is that you, Cleo?” he asked. It was Bingo.
“Don’t be a damn fool,” I replied. “Who the one been carryin’ the light? That keeper up there see you?”
“Nah!” he said.
“I asked you if you got him.”
“He ain’t in here,” he said.
“Then Drake musta shot that fool in the other tower . . . ’cause he wadn’t in nary one of them shacks.”
“Where’s Goat?” he asked, still circling down the narrow stairwell.
“He went on to the other tower. We best join ’em.”
“Get that light out my face,” he said, covering his eyes with one hand and reaching to grab the flashlight with the other.
I fired a shot, spinning him around, forcing him to fall on top of me. He dropped his gun and I dropped the flashlight. Both went clanking down the stairs. With him clutching my coat at the shoulders, the two of us tumbled down the bottom few steps until we came to a stop at the base, but not before I banged my head against the rail. The flashlight lay right next to us, reflecting off the wall enough for him to see my face.
“Son of a bitch!” he groaned, the two of us tangled together.
I rolled away and tried to shoot, but he grabbed my wrist and kept my arm extended. I was disoriented from hitting the rail, and he was able to slam my hand against the bottom step several times until I released the gun. He then kicked it away, sending it flying against the door until it came to rest next to his.
I violently shook my head, trying to fight off the dizziness and get up, but he jumped me and delivered several heavy punches to my face, damn near putting me away. Instead, I kneed him between the legs and he fell away.
Crawling on all fours, I tried to go for my gun, but he took a knife from his coat and stuck it in the back of my right calf—the force so great it stopped my forward motion as he leaped on my back. I lay there face down, stiff as a board, his left arm wrapped around my neck, his right hand reaching for the embedded knife. But I was able to reach back and beat him to it.
As I yanked it from my calf, he clutched my fist and kept it pressed against the ground along my side. I couldn’t move my legs, the weight of his body too much, both of his knees digging into my hips. He began pulling me back by the neck, bowing my spine until it felt as though it might snap.
When he’d bent me as far as I could bend, he tried repositioning himself in order to gain more leverage. Inching his knees farther down my legs, he unknowingly loosened his grip around my neck just enough for me to fling my head back into his nose. As he let go, I rolled over and cracked him in the jaw with my left elbow, thrusting him back against the bottom step. Quickly getting to my feet, I stepped back and he stood.
With the flashlight lying on the floor about halfway between us, we sucked air and waited for the other to make a move. Behind me some ten feet back by the door were our guns. He couldn’t risk trying to get by me, and I certainly didn’t want to turn my back on him. The knife would have to settle things.
As he turned and raced up the stairs, I scooped up the flashlight and followed. Despite the leg gash, I continued climbing, certain that I was simply stronger and physically superior to him.
After winding up about twenty steps, he realized I was gaining and turned to confront me. He swung his right fist, which I ducked, then a left, which I sidestepped—all of my motion causing the flashlight to flicker in every direction. Then, as he revved back to swing another right, I stepped up and drove the knife into his chest, holding it there as he cried out. I could feel the blade cutting through the bone as he desperately gasped and grabbed at the knife with both hands.
“Just call this protocol,” I said, looking him dead in the eye.
While I focused on keeping my footing some three steps below him, his arms fell limp. Slowly he leaned downward and began to softly hug me, struggling to take his last sips of breath, his weight forcing the blade to cut deeper and deeper in until I began easing him down to a seated position on one of the steps in between us. I pulled the knife out and tilted him onto his side so he wouldn’t go tumbling down.
Pointing the flashlight at each of his pockets, I found nothing except a stick of gum, some cigarettes, and a box of matches. The pain in my calf growing more intense, I put the knife down, sat beside him, lifted the bottom of my pants, and shined the light on what was a two-inch long gash. It looked deep and was bleeding considerably.
I set the flashlight down, undid Bingo’s necktie, and wrapped it around my wound several times, pulling it as tightly as possible before tying it off. Taking the knife and flashlight again, I stood and began limping downstairs. But after only a few steps, I heard the door open. Drake had likely arrived.
I climbed back up, put the knife in my coat pocket, and sat beside Bingo’s body. Propping him up, I put my left shoulder under his right armpit and extended my arm around his back, holding the flashlight just above his left shoulder, maneuvering it so it shined only on his face. I then wrapped his right arm around my neck and held his right hand with mine. I was now in a position to lift him to his feet. Meanwhile, it was time to become Cleo again.
“Who that there?” I said, surprising myself with how high I could make my voice.
“That you, Cleo?” he asked.
“Yeah!” I replied. “I got him! He laid out up there at the top!”
“Good!”
“But he cut Bingo up bad. We got to get him to his feet and get him up outta here fast. Need ya to help me here.”
“Comin’!” he said, beginning to move quickly—the ping, ping, ping sound of hard soles to metal reverberating.
I tightened my stomach, widened my stance, and lifted Bingo to his feet, keeping the flashlight pointed at his face, wanting that to be all Drake could see as he approached.
“Hurry!” I begged. “He barely breathin’!”
“Shit, I am! Lotta damn s
teps!”
Huffing and puffing, he was now close enough to see Bingo’s face, only four or five steps below.
“I think he gonna make it,” I said, just as he got close. “Step on up here and grab his other arm.”
He reached up and in one motion I released the dead body and kicked him flush in the chest with enough force to lift him off his feet. He was suspended in midair for a while before crashing down on the stairwell below, surely breaking his back or neck. I turned the flashlight on him and watched as he went flopping downward, his bones banging on each and every step.
I reached into my pocket for the knife and headed after him. But there’d be no use for it. He’d come to rest some twenty steps down—his body twisted up like a pretzel. I kneeled down and began searching him. All of his pockets were empty, save for the one inside his topcoat.
Setting the flashlight next to me, I pulled out a folded-up paper. Holding it close to the light, I recognized it as one of my old railroad maps. I opened it and saw it was the one I’d given to Loretta way back before her trip with Ginger to pick up Momma and Aunt Coretta. Drake had obviously found it under the seat inside the Baby Grand. How foolish of me! In my haste to cover all of my bases, I’d forgotten about the old maps I’d stored there. The memories of that time period came rushing back—how she’d gushed about their trip, and particularly the state of Maine.
I flattened the map out on the step and pointed the flashlight along the route she and Ginger had traveled. She’d circled the town of Portland and had written something quite revealing next to it, words I’m sure Drake was pleased to stumble upon. They read, “The Inn at St. John. The perfect escape for me and my one and only love, Sidney. A magical town where we could reside forever.”
I dropped my head for a moment and closed my eyes, knowing she’d written those words while pregnant with my son. I also realized that this current state of affairs had all come about because she’d simply done exactly what I’d asked her to do upon returning from her trip—placed the map back under the seat. I rubbed my fingers over the words, trying to feel some of her. Her writing was so lovely, so pleasing to the eye. Why I’d ever longed for anything other than to have her by my side seemed greedy now. God had blessed me with the most elusive thing in the universe: love.
I folded the map up, placed it in my pocket, and headed down the remaining stairs. It was time to retrieve my bag from the first shed and retrace my footsteps back to the stolen car. I’d bypass Portland and head straight for Brunswick. Once there, I’d find a doctor to stitch me up before catching a train north as planned. I was finally certain that I’d made it impossible for anyone to trace me. Well . . . at least I forced myself to believe that. My only other option was to go completely mad.
40
PARIS FELT LIKE HOME THE MINUTE I STEPPED OFF OF THE TRAIN from Le Havre. Having left Halifax as planned, after purchasing a new suit, of course, the long ship ride across the Atlantic had given me time to reflect and heal. I knew not what was to come but tried to remain optimistic. Just knowing I was in the same city as Loretta warmed my heart and put my mind at ease.
“Où est-ce que tu veux aller?” asked the short, mustached young driver standing beside his taxi on the busy street outside the Gare Saint-Lazare Station.
“Can you take me to the University of Paris?” I asked.
“Oui! La Sorbonne! Oui!”
He hustled to open the door and I hopped in the backseat. It was around noon and traffic was heavy, but he seemed oblivious to it, gripping the wheel with his dry-looking, olive-skinned hands and steering us right into the thick of it.
“Dépêche-toi!” he yelled at the surrounding vehicles, honking his horn. “Dépêche-toi!”
We quickly came upon a stunning grayish neoclassical stone building with a sign out front that read LYCÉE CONDORCET, a name I recognized. I counted ten arched windows on the bottom floor and wondered which one the great Marcel Proust used to peer out of. The Lycée Condorcet was famous for being the boyhood school of the great French novelist.
Moving on, we made our way down the Rue Tronchet and approached the Place de la Concorde, where I could see the eastern end of the Champs-Élysées, a visual that prompted me to think of people from the past who’d spoken to me about Paris. They’d been right—its beauty was breathtaking.
“I take to see some sights,” the driver said, turning his attention back and forth from the road to me. “De visite touristique! I take to Arc de Triomphe . . . to la Musée du Louvre!”
“No, no,” I replied pointing straight ahead at the fast, oncoming traffic. “Please . . . watch the road.”
“Oui, mon ami Américain! Je suis désolé. Sorry.”
He yanked the wheel to the left, avoiding a head-on collision, and I braced myself, putting both hands on the back of the front seat. God forbid I’d made it this far just to die at the hands of some overzealous taxi driver.
“How much farther?” I asked.
“Excusez-moi?”
“Distance! La distance! What is the distance . . . à l’univer-sité ?
“Nous sommes à proximité. Uh . . . uh . . . we close. Close.”
“Good,” I said, leaning back and taking a deep breath. “Real good.”
* * *
The front desk attendant at the university’s directory office was helping a young lady when I walked through the front door. The two spoke to each other in French with such speed and volume. It was as if they were arguing, only they weren’t, as the two exchanged several smiles throughout. I was quickly learning that the French simply engaged one another with more passion than do we Americans. They finally wrapped up their conversation, and I stepped forward, hoping the attendant would have the answer I was looking for. I was also hoping she spoke English.
“Puis-je vous venir en aide?” she said.
“I only speak English.”
“Ah!” she said, smiling. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I am hoping you can help me locate one of your professors in the art department. Her name is Ginger Bouvier.”
“Let me take a look.”
* * *
About an hour later I stood outside the classroom door listening to Ginger lecture her students about Renoir’s Bal du moulin de la Galette. The excitement with which she spoke about the painter’s life was enough to make the world want to paint. I envied her students.
“Attention!” she said. “Si vous avez quelque peu énigmatique, de terribles cauchemars ou mystérieux, beaux rêves, ne pas avoir peur de s’as-seoir et d’expliquer les détails en utilisant la peinture.”
A collective “ahh” came over the class. I was dying to know what she’d said. Fortunately for me, she began speaking English.
“For you two American painters, in case you are having difficulty translating, I said, ‘Remember . . . whatever enigmatic, horrifying nightmares you may have . . . whatever inscrutable, pleasant dreams . . . don’t be afraid to paint them.’ Never forget this. Now. Je vous donne rendez-vous toute la semaine prochaine!”
She clapped her hands twice, and I could hear the students stand and begin to move about, their footsteps coming my way. The door opened and I stepped aside as they filed out. I waited for the last one to exit before peeking my head in. Ginger was still standing at the lectern, placing papers inside her briefcase.
“Hello,” I said, knocking on the doorframe.
As she turned and saw me, she froze for a moment and stared, obviously surprised to see my face. Then, without a smile, nor a frown, she looked back down and continued gathering her materials. I watched her and thought about the best way to continue, wanting to respect her emotions.
“We live in Montmartre,” she finally said, in a monotone voice. “Loretta is there now. The address is Nineteen Rue Ravignan.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded without looking, but that was enough. She’d given me all the information I needed.
* * *
The fidgety taxi driver was happy I’
d asked him to drive me around for the afternoon. He’d calmed down considerably, perhaps because he’d been able to smoke cigarettes and read a bit of Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables while parked in front of the various university buildings he’d driven me to. From the looks of the battered old book that was resting on the dashboard, he’d likely been trying to finish it for quite a while.
“Nous sommes ici!” he blurted out, as we finished winding up a narrow, treelined hill and pulled in front of a two-story house made entirely of brown cobblestone—a unique design style completely new to my eye. “Nineteen Rue Ravignan!” he continued. “I wait here. Yes?”
“Yes,” I said, grabbing my bag, opening the door, and slowly stepping out, all the while keeping my eyes on the house, trying to imagine my wife coming and going, carrying on without me.
I nervously adjusted my tie and looked down at my pants and shoes. Everything appeared to be in order except for my nerves. Still, I walked up to the door, readied myself to knock, and then held my fist in the air for a moment while I prepared my words. But there were no correct ones. True feelings would have to decide matters.
I knocked softly three times, and my heart sped up. I could feel her on the other side. And then I could hear her footsteps approaching. With the sound of the thick wooden door being unlocked, I took a deep breath and shrugged my shoulders. She pulled the door open and, upon seeing me, flinched as if she’d seen a ghost. But it was I who should have flinched. The visual before me could not have been more shocking. Neither of us said a word as my eyes were fixed on her large, pregnant belly. A minute must have passed before I broke the silence.
“When did . . .”
“That night you awoke from a nightmare soaking wet,” she said.
I thought back and remembered. The very last time we’d made love had been that past summer.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “for not being there for you during this time.”
“It’s all right,” she said, giving me an ever-so-slight smile. “Please . . . come in out of the cold.”
The Strivers' Row Spy Page 35
