by León Melín
Lucas huddled himself down next to St John. The Saint was sacrificed so a woman could marry another man. Saint-Jean was sacrificed so a woman could marry another man. Salomé had enticed Herod with her feminine wiles to get him to offer her anything. Nicole had enticed Lucas with her feminine wiles to get him to commit murder. Herod had ordered his executioner to cut off the head of John. Lucas had arrived too late to prevent the baseball bat-wielding cowboy from destroying the head of St. John. Saint-Jean. If Lucas had arrived earlier, he would have killed Saint-Jean. Or would he ? Could he be guilty of a crime he didn’t commit ? Had he committed himself to committing the crime ? Was it a lesser crime if he didn’t actually kill the man ? If St. John was dead, was Herod less or more guilty than the executioner ? Was Herod’s wife, or even her daughter, just a happy excuse for a misogynistic religion to dump the blame ? Were the women to blame as much as the man who stood to gain the most from the murder, Herod ? He, Lucas, would gain money, a castle, a beautiful woman. St. John had criticised the marriage of Herod, but Lucas’ marriage to Nicole would be acceptable to the Catholic Church. Oh, they would have to wait a year, six months at least, but the Church would buy that; a divorce, on the other hand, would be a black mark for her. A Catholic couldn’t get married without an annulment and that meant the Pope himself. Maybe the Church, and the Pope, was responsible for the murder: without them there would be no need to kill.
Who was most to blame ? Who was most to blame was who had most to gain. Lucas. Herod. He could picture the Baptist’s head smashed by the baseball bat on a golden plate, his features merged with memories of Jesus Christ and the statues in the cathedral. It was starting to get cold and Lucas was still wide awake. Jesus Christ was all about forgiveness. Could John the Baptist forgive Herod, or Salomé ? Could M. Saint-Jean forgive Nicole, or Lucas ? That would be nice.
- - -
The second day, Lucas set forth from his lair, with as much success as the first. That afternoon, he thought he was getting closer. “Lucas” said the big sign, but it was just a factory. Next door was a little bar, and in he went. It was populated with workers – factory workers, field workers. He looked at his hands – office workers’. He was embarrassed.
“I’m looking for work. In the melon fields,” he claimed, but his hands denied this, spoke more eloquently of years of gentle toil, spared the heat, the cold, the earth, the rub rub rub of mother nature, the eternal grind that generations cannot remove from the skin.
“You’ve come at a good time.”
“They’re always looking for good help,” echoing Nueva’s optimistic optimism.
“Someone told me to come here, told me I’d find work. Tough chap, with a hat, like a cowboy. I met him up north, picking apples – he said he worked down here this time of year. Maybe you know him.” He had tried the lines a dozen times already. The coffee had wound him up, and he had to try beer and wine instead, but the stares, all the news on the radio, the newspapers – how could anyone not recognise him ? conspired to make him sweat.
“He used to play rugby, played a bit myself.”
“Oh, so you play in Paris ?” his accent a dead giveaway. And it was true, he had played, once or twice. These boys from the south felt more affinity for a rugby player from the north than for any other northerner. Lucas scanned the photos on the bar.
“How’s your team playing ?”
“This year not so good,” the inevitable lament of most sports fans worldwide.
“So, you don’t know anyone here who wears a cowboy hat ?”
“Well, there’s old Jo, who works at the school, down by the sports centre. He always wears a hat. But I don’t think he picks melons. Maybe now the school holidays are starting.
“Which school ? Primary ?”
“Yes.” The men were too old to have children there themselves.
“Who’s Jo ?”
“He’s the janitor. See him around. Fixes things. Been there a few years.”
“How old ?”
“Oh, a bit older than you.”
“Strong guy, big hands ?”
“Well, reasonable.”
Lucas unhurriedly finished his drink, paid and left, passing through town to check the map before heading out. If the cowboy worked at a school, it would explain him being at Le Mans at the weekend, and getting ready now to go to Rennes during the summer holidays.
The school was like so many modern buildings, playground, 12’ fencing. He asked a teacher, who was clearing the playground of children.
“Excuse me, have you seen the janitor this afternoon ?” in his best police voice.
“I think he is still out to lunch. He will be coming back any minute to close the gates.”
Lucas crossed the road to a bar and ordered a beer. He waited. The Figaro was heavy. He decided to leave the main and business sections, just keep the third section with the ads.
“Another beer ?”
The hot sun had made him thirsty. He had been walking all morning; drinking coffee and beer. He must have finished the first beer without thinking, without realising it. He accepted another, looking out over the school. It was ideal cover for a brutal murderer. Who would guess that here, connected only by a Sunday newspaper, miles away from any suspicious police officers, lay one of the most successful serial killers of France ? He could have worked ten, twenty years. Earning
200 000 francs per hit, he could have become a rich man, only working for rich clients. The advert shone brightly. “35, Rennes”. Was it already too late ? No, the rucksack cowboy was here in Bazas.
“Another beer ?”
Where was he ? Why hadn’t he returned ? He should have come back to close the gate. Lucas could see it was still open. He finished the beer, paid and went back to school. It was quiet, the hum of learning faintly audible from the classrooms. He found the secretaries’ office and enquired for the janitor.
“Oh, are you the gentleman who called earlier ?”
“Yes, I was told he was only out to lunch.”
“Well, he came back and we told him someone was looking for him. A policeman.”
“And ?”
“And he left. He said he had some urgent things to attend to. I think he was going away for the weekend, to Brittany.”
Brittany ?! Rennes was in Brittany !
“Where does he live ?”
“Oh, here in Bazas.”
“No, what is his address ?”
“Oh, I’m not sure I can give you that information.” Lucas could read the janitor’s name written on a piece of paper on the secretary’s desk, upside down though it was.
Listening behind him to the door swing shut, Lucas glanced up the corridor to his right – no-one - and no-one crunching the gravel on the way in. He desperately needed the toilet. In front of him were the children’s toilets. Boys and girls.
Deftly, he palmed the boys’ toilet door open, passed through it and swung it silently to behind him, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking slightly on the polished tiles. He turned, and stumbled, mentally, as he saw the urinals, made for dwarves. The basins were even smaller and lower than the urinals, a little metal soap bar projecting out above them. He glanced inside one of the cubicles, at the flower-pot inside. Lucas tried squatting to the appropriate height; there was no way he would be able to get up again, even if he didn’t have an accident on the way down. All the cubicles were similarly equipped.
What if the bell sounded ? A break, three hundred children desperate for relief ? He had to hurry. He unzipped and half-squatted over one of the urinals, legs as far apart as he could manage. The urinal reached only his knees, his aim had better be good – it wasn’t. Quick, hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. He had been in the school half an hour, and there hadn’t been a break. What would the children say if they found him there ? At least this wasn’t the girls’ toilets. Why had he had that last beer ? Couldn’t he stop now ? Leave a little for later ? No, it was impossible, he could always do that if the bell rang. At last.
Now, a quick wash. His arms not long enough to reach even the taps, Lucas crouched right down and smashed his head on the soap bar’s metal tip. The children found him there on the floor minutes later, red and brown stains and all.
- - -
The headmistress apologised for having taken his gun, “but the children were frightened.” She wouldn’t give it back, and had called the police. She wasn’t strong enough to hold him.
At the post office, the Minitel system told him the address of the rucksack cowboy and the map took him there but he found the house shut up and empty. It would have taken him an hour to break in and he would have had to wait for night. His bird had flown the coop. All he could do was follow him to Rennes, and hope to get there fast. Lucas collected his sleeping bag from his garden stash and set off, looking for transport.
- - -
Lucas had lost trace of the rucksack cowboy. Now that he was alerted, he would be difficult to find, except maybe for the Police. Alone, Lucas could do nothing. Except Rennes. The cowboy would go to Rennes, to his job. Lucas had to find a way to follow him. The only chance he had was a girl he had been chatting to in a bar. She had a car, and no job. A 106. Could he get her to take him north ? To get him to Rennes before the cowboy did his deed ? To prevent a death ? It was worth a try.
Chapter 16 – Death
The zip was about a metre wide, bulging, each metal dash as big as gold bars against the black trouser serge inches away from the girl’s nose. His black leather belt and holster, and the black metal gun imagined couldn’t draw Lucas’ eyes away from the gold-stepped mountain pointing at him.
“Where are you going ?” The crotch was replaced by sunglasses in the window, the low car forcing the policeman to crouch to the floor. What did it matter where they were going ? The bright red blood clot on his forehead throbbed with the attention it was getting from the official.
“Rennes,” said the girl, in her heavy Southern accent. “To see our Mother. She’s very ill”. Lucas thought she was overdoing it.
- - -
He had met her in one of the many bars he had visited, and had followed up with her over a few days, as he had nowhere else to go but the toilets of the town hall and the gardens of the cathedral. Like most people who hung around in bars, she had a desperate need of alcohol, nicotine and company, and Lucas was happy to provide the last, although the first two were somewhat difficult with his limited cash.
After leaving the post office, she had been his first thought.
“What happened ? You look terrible.”
“Yes, my mother is very ill, and I need to get to Rennes quickly.”
“No, but your face, the blood !”
“Oh, that ? Oh, it’s nothing, I hit my head.” He went to the toilet, saw the mess and tried to clean it off as best he could. The swelling above his eye would take some time to clear. He did look terrible. He soaked some toilet paper in cold water and pressed it to the wound. He went back to the girl.
Fortunately, the bar-tender had plenty of experience of cuts and bruises and kept some alcohol, gauze and tape for such occurrences. Lucas was soon bandaged up looking like a war hero.
“What was that about your mother ? I’m sorry, but the shock of all that blood.”
“Yes, I hadn’t realised it was still bleeding. It doesn’t hurt, really, it’s just swollen. It must have cut some big vein. Yes, my mother is very ill, and I need to get to see her, quickly. I was wondering if maybe you could help – you said you had a car.”
“Yes, of course. What has she got ?”
“What ?”
“Your mother.”
“What about her ?”
“What is she ill with ?”
“Oh, it’s, oh, nothing serious, well, it is, of course, that’s why; I mean, it’s not contagious. It’s cancer.”
“What of ?”
“Oh, you know, eh, lungs.”
“Oh, that’s terrible. So sudden ?”
“Yes, well, no, not surprising. She smoked. Sorry, I didn’t want to put you off.” She didn’t extinguish the cigarette, but she didn’t pull on it either.
“Could I borrow your car ?”
“I could drive you.”
“Even better. I wouldn’t be keeping you from anything ?”
She looked around her. “From this ? When would you like to leave ?”
“Now.” He proudly showed her his belongings.
“Oh, let me get some stuff and the car. I’ll be back in 15 minutes.”
He paid up. He was running short of cash again. Immediately after the murder he had risked both cheque and cards, but now only a week later he daren’t use either as they carried the most famous name in France.
- - -
The roadblock was just outside Bazas on the long straight road from Spain to Bordeaux. Lucas had no gun, now. There was only the one police car, one policeman.
“What happened to him ?” He asked the girl.
“Oh, he’s just got a big boil and it burst,” laughing. At him ?
“Well, be careful. Don’t pick up any hitchhikers. There’s a gunman on the loose.”
“Oh, OK, we won’t. Thank you, Officer.”
He stood up, his zip straightening, and saluted.
They obviously hadn’t had time to send out details and perhaps they hadn’t linked Lucas to the school. The bruising and the plaster had disguised his mugshot look enough to fool the young copper. Why didn’t he, Lucas, look like a gunman ? Why didn’t he look dangerous enough ? Hard enough ? a killer ? Did he look too soft ? Too nice ?
- - -
She looked at him. “Who were they looking for ?”
“You heard, a gunman.”
“Was it you ?”
“I’m not a gunman. Anyway, I didn’t look like him or he would have arrested us.”
“Us ? Why us ? What have I done ?” She was close to tears.
“Look, I’m not a gunman, OK ? I was in Bazas, looking for a friend. I fell over and bumped my head on a tap. Now, I’m going to see my mother who is ill. That’s all.”
She didn’t look convinced.
The girl drove steadily, safely; Lucas had confidence in her driving, her little white car slipping effortlessly through the traffic around Bordeaux as she dwelt on the situation.
“What’s your name ?”
“Luc. . . Look, I don’t know your name and you don’t know mine. Why do you need to know ? They’re just labels. It doesn’t change who I am, who you are. I’m not someone because of my name.” So, why couldn’t he just lie ? Why couldn’t he tell her something ? He couldn’t deny who he was, for he was Lucas. It was more than just a name; it was all he had, it defined who he was, and where he was going.
He could embroider a story to make it more interesting, to make it more likely that he could get a lift. It would have been too complicated for the girl to explain to her that he was trying to save someone’s life. It wasn’t exactly his mother he was rushing to see, but it was someone’s mother, and she was in danger. So, he had added a bit of colour. He hadn’t even lied about where he was going. He had a problem with lies, searching for the truth.
She just sulked.
They stopped for petrol. Fortunately for Lucas, the shop didn’t sell newspapers, but he suspected that the girl was looking out for one, drifting slowly back from the toilets checking the bins. If she suspected he was a murderer, or armed, at least, she would be miserable but acquiescent. If, however, she knew for sure, she would drive to the nearest police station.
At Niort, he told her to stay on the motorway to Paris.
“I told, you. I knew you weren’t going to Rennes.”
“I am – but there is a better train from Tours. I’ll drop you off there and you can get home easily.”
“Easily ? What about my car ? It’s all I’ve got.”
“I’ll look after it for you, don’t you worry.”
“Don’t worry ? How will I get it back ?”
“I’ll come back as soon as I�
��ve seen my mother.”
“Your mother ! Men !”
He dropped her at Tours and carried on up to Le Mans.
It had been a nerve-wracking drive – Lucas did not generally like being a passenger, and the girl was a good driver, but Lucas felt his vulnerability. His driver did not help his relaxation in other ways. Nueva had been an interesting and new experience, and the view from up in the cab and sense of power, plus her personality, had given the trip to Bazas a positive lustre totally lacking on the drive back with the nervous and unstable girl. Although they had avoided any contact with the police since the first roadblock, Lucas knew it was only a matter of days, if not hours, before she was back in Bazas and blabbing in her beer to the nearest copper’s nark.
Lucas had dropped her off at Tours without checking to see if there were any overnight trains going to Bordeaux. There was a good chance that there wouldn’t be any more and he didn’t want to get stuck with her for another night. He certainly didn’t want her to know he was heading for Le Mans.
It was near enough 11 o’clock when they said goodbye, so he would get to the château at midnight. Hopefully, the police would not be watching, but even if the front gate was locked, he could enter through the tunnel.
He could stay the night at Nicole’s château and hit Rennes in the early morning.
Chapter 17 – Choice
