The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2

by Douglas Kennedy

  “While he is on his vacances? Impossible. More to the point, he would tell you the same thing. If the computer is part of an investigation, it stays with us until we have finished the investigation.”

  “But couldn’t I copy something off the hard disk?”

  “That would be tampering with evidence.”

  “It’s just my novel.”

  “Your novel could be part of the evidence.”

  “But how?”

  “As it is not my investigation—”

  “I need a copy of my novel so I can continue writing it.”

  “You didn’t make a backup copy?”

  “I lost it,” I said, not wanting to tell Leclerc about my trashed room, which might lead to more questions and him insisting that I stay around for a few more days in Paris . . . which I simply wasn’t prepared to do.

  “Too bad,” he said. “Surely a proper novelist makes more than one copy of his work in progress.”

  “I’m just a goddamn amateur.”

  “No need to get touchy, monsieur. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you are looking very unwell and smelling rather ripe.”

  “You didn’t exactly provide me with an en suite bathroom.”

  “Be pleased that you were released . . . with your passport. The inspector could still be legally detaining you.”

  “You could watch me make the copy.”

  “It would still be tampering with evidence.”

  “That novel is my life.”

  “Then I can’t understand why you didn’t duplicate ‘your life’ many times over.”

  And he turned and walked back toward his office.

  I sat slumped in a chair, trying to figure out my next move. The cop behind the desk spoke.

  “Monsieur, if you have no further business here, I must ask you to leave.”

  “Ok, Ok,” I said, standing up. “Any chance I could leave my bag here for a couple of hours?”

  The cop looked at me as if I had lost all reason.

  “Monsieur, this is a commissariat de police, not a vestiaire.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said as I wheeled my suitcase toward the door.

  Outside I checked my watch: 1:23 PM. Just under four hours to go before I could cross the threshold again at rue Linné. I needed shelter before then. So I walked down the first side street to my left and saw a cheap hotel—Le Normandie—directly in front of me. It looked shabby from the outside and had a one-star rating pasted onto its doorway. It looked shabby on the inside. The lobby was narrow, with peeling paint, scuffed linoleum, fluorescent lighting. I rang the bell on the desk. No answer. I rang it again. An elderly African man came out, rubbing his eyes.

  “I need a room, please,” I said.

  “Check-in is at three.”

  “Is there any chance . . .?”

  “Three PM, monsieur.”

  “I’m not well. I’m . . .”

  He studied me for a moment, trying to see if I was telling the truth or just trying to get an extra ninety minutes free of charge.

  “How many nights?” he asked.

  “Just one.”

  “With shower?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He turned to the box of keys and pulled out one. It had a wooden tag on it marked 7.

  “Forty-five euros, payable now.”

  I handed him the cash.

  “Second floor, turn right.”

  “Thank you.”

  He just shrugged and disappeared back through the door behind the front desk.

  The room was a dump. I didn’t care. It was shelter. I stripped off my filthy clothes. I dug out the soap and shampoo and stood under the drizzle that passed for a shower. I dried myself off with the tiny towel that had been provided, amazed that it was clean. I set the clock on my radio to wake me up in two hours. I climbed between the sheets. I shut my eyes. I felt as if I were falling. Within seconds the bed was drenched with sweat. My teeth were chattering, and I clutched the pillow as if it were a life preserver. I blacked out. I woke up again to the sound of France Musique playing Berlioz. The Symphonie fantastique. 3:45 PM. Back into the shower. Clean clothes. My body still ached with fatigue, but the fever had broken. I put my jacket back on, tapping the pocket where my money and passport were stored. A voice in my head whispered, Just leave now. You can get the laptop back from the cops some other time. You can walk away from all the questions about Margit and write it off as . . .

  As what? My insanity. A four-month delusion that I sleepwalked through?

  Call it whatever you like. Quit while you’re ahead.

  I will quit—as soon as I’ve confronted her and found out what I need to know.

  And what is that?

  Am I insane?

  No comment.

  Down the crumbling stairs of the hotel, out into the street, a left turn, and an abrupt stop at an Internet café on the boulevard de Sébastopol. I checked my watch again: 4:07 PM. I had to be out the door and on the metro toward the Fifth in under ten minutes. I was going to check the local Ohio papers to find out more about the alleged downfall of my nemesis . . . but first I opened my mailbox. There was only one email waiting for me—from my former colleague Doug Stanley. It explained the entire scandal breaking around Robson; how the dean’s computer crashed last week and a technician was called in to remedy the problem and discovered:

  . . . something like two thousand pornographic images of children on his hard drive. The technician informed the college authorities, the authorities called the cops, the cops called the Feds, and Robson is now being held in a slammer near Cleveland, trying to raise the $1 million bail that has been set. Ever since this went down, he’s been protesting his innocence, saying that somebody “planted” these images on his computer. But the Feds released a statement yesterday, saying their experts had conclusive evidence that he had downloaded all this stuff himself.

  The man is in total shit—of the type that simply won’t wash away. The college has dismissed him, the scandal has been picked up by all the usual tabloid media, and rumor has it that he’s under suicide watch in jail. The prosecutor on the case has announced that he plans to make an example of Robson—“horrible breach of public trust, especially for an educator”—and demand a minimum twenty years . . . as Robson was trading these images with other like-minded perverts. Unlike trading baseball cards, trading in child pornography can be classified as “trafficking in obscene material,” which is a Federal offense. The DA also stated that he had proof that Robson was the ringleader for this ring of kiddy porn collectors, as they also found some credit card account he’d set up for collecting payment for this stuff. It’s unbelievable . . . and further proof that you can never really know the dark side of other people.

  There has been another victim of Robson’s downfall, and that is Susan. In studying every document on the hard drive of Robson’s computer, the Feds found a sequence of emails he sent her several months before he drove you out of your job. The emails were love letters—and, I hate to tell you this (but you need to know), very graphic when it came to intimate stuff between them. This has provoked a subsidiary scandal, which has just broken in the press. And the college has suspended Susan without pay while it conducts an investigation into whether she received tenure because she was Robson’s mistress.

  I called Susan last night. She sounded terrible—appalled about the revelations about Robson and pretty convinced that it was just a matter of time before the college permanently dismissed her. She was also worried about how Megan would take all this, and how she was going to meet the bills, since the scandal was also going to make her unemployable as a professor. I’m going over to see her this afternoon. Without wanting to unsettle you any further, Susan really struck me as shaky—and on the verge of some sort of breakdown. I’ll report back by email later.

  As you can well imagine, the entire college is reeling. In the wake of all these revelations, many faculty members have told me that they now felt guilty about voting for your
dismissal. Because among the “love letters” he sent Susan, they also found ones in which he talked about how he was going to “go public” on your affair with Shelley, and decimate you. I’m afraid that Susan’s email reply was not pretty: “Let him have it,” or words to that effect.

  Sorry to have to lay this all at your feet . . . but I did think you should hear it from a friend rather than read about it or get a call from some hack journalist, wanting to know how you were taking the news.

  Be grateful you’re in Paris, and away from this shabby Peyton Place. I’ll be at home this evening if you want an update.

  Best

  Doug

  I put my head in my hands, and actually felt appalled at what had befallen my ex-wife. Yes, the “Let him have it” comment did rankle. But I still feared for her now.

  I signed off the computer and decided to hop a cab to the rue Linné. The traffic was light. We made it there in less than twenty minutes. I checked my watch: 4:58 PM. I walked up and down outside her doorway for two minutes, then took in a deep steadying breath and punched in the code.

  The door clicked open. I entered the building. I scanned the courtyard. Nothing different. But when I turned toward the concierge’s lodge I saw the man with whom I had scuffled yesterday. He was sitting in his chair and staring out at me. But he also seemed to be looking right through me. So I walked over to his window and tapped three times on it. No response from him. His face was blank—as if he was in some sort of catatonic state. I tapped again on the window. Nothing. I opened the door. I put my hand on his shoulder. His flesh was warm to the touch—but still no recognition that someone was now shaking him, trying to rouse him from his stupor. I shouted, “Can you hear me?” His eyes remained frozen, his body immobile. I felt a chill run through me. I backed away from the lodge, spooked. Get out . . . get out now. But when I tried the main door in the courtyard, it was locked. I must have spent five minutes struggling to open it. You can’t open it, because you can’t leave. I looked for other ways out. There were none. I stared up the staircase leading to Margit’s apartment. You have no choice now. You have to go up there.

  On the way up to her apartment, I tried knocking on every other door en route. Not one answer. Had I ever heard any neighbors before? Had I ever been cognizant of other life in this place? Had I . . .?

  As I approached her floor, her door opened. She stood there in her usual black lace nightgown, a sardonic smile on her lips.

  “What did I tell you about not coming here other than at our agreed-upon time?”

  Her voice was calm, quiet. Her smile grew. I approached her, saying nothing. I grabbed her and kissed her fully on the lips.

  “You taste real,” I said.

  “Do I?” she said, pulling me inside the apartment. She took my hand and stuck it between her legs. “And do I feel real?”

  I pushed a finger inside her. She groaned.

  “It seems so,” I said, putting my free hand through her hair and kissing her neck.

  “But there’s one big difference between us, Harry.”

  “What’s that?”

  With one sudden movement, she pushed me off her. As I stumbled, I saw the flash of a cut-throat razor in her spare hand. It headed toward me, slicing me lightly across the hand.

  “Fuck,” I screamed as blood began to pour from the wound.

  “The difference is . . .”

  She took the razor and slashed her throat. I screamed again . . . but then stood there, dumbfounded, as nothing happened.

  “You get it, Harry?” she asked.

  Now she took the razor and sliced her left wrist, cutting deep into the skin. Again, not a single sign of injury.

  “The difference is: you bleed, and I don’t.”

  NINETEEN

  “SO WHAT DO you want to know?” she asked.

  “Everything,” I said.

  “Everything?” she said after a sharp laugh. “As if that would explain—”

  “Are you dead?”

  “Have another drink, Harry.”

  She pushed a bottle of Scotch toward me.

  “Fuck your Scotch,” I said. “Are you dead?”

  We were sitting on her sofa. It was a few minutes after her razor attack. My hand was now bandaged. She insisted on dressing the wound and wrapping it in gauze moments after cutting her own throat. I was in such shock—both from the pain of the sliced hand and her bloodless suicide—that I allowed her to lead me to the sofa and pour me a steadying whisky (I downed it in one go) and play nurse on the hand she had cut with such swift deftness.

  “How’s the pain?” she asked, pouring me a second whisky and handing me the glass.

  “It hurts,” I said, throwing back the whisky, and not thinking too much about how the alcohol would deaden the effects of the antibiotics I was taking.

  “I don’t think any of the tendons were damaged,” she said, taking my hand and checking its mobility.

  “That’s wonderful news. Are you dead?”

  She refilled my glass. I drank.

  “What did the police tell you?” she asked.

  “That you slashed Dupré to death and left a note: FOR JUDIT AND ZOLTAN. Is that true?”

  “It is.”

  “And then you fled to Hungary and hunted down Bodo and Lovas.”

  “That is correct.”

  “They also showed me Hungarian police reports. They said you mutilated both men before killing them.”

  “That is also correct.”

  “You cut off their fingers and gouged out their eyes?”

  “I didn’t gouge out Lovas’s eyes because I didn’t have enough time. But yes, I did cut off all their fingers and I did blind Bodo before cutting his throat—”

  “You’re insane.”

  “I was insane. Insane with grief. With rage. With an absolute need for revenge. I thought if I killed the men who killed the most important people in my life, somehow the fury that consumed me would cease.”

  “But you just didn’t kill them. You butchered them.”

  “That is also correct. I butchered them in a completely premeditated way . . . and with great malice aforethought. I was determined to make them pay for what they did to me.”

  “But to cut off their fingers?”

  “Dupré didn’t suffer that fate. I stabbed him repeatedly in the stomach and arms and made him look me in the face—so he could hear me tell him how he destroyed my life—before I plunged the knife into his heart and then cut his throat.”

  “And then you left a note and took a shower and left all your clothes behind.”

  “They did get very bloody during the attack. But yes, I had planned it all out. And yes, after administering the coup de grâce I used his bathroom to shower. I left the note. I made myself some coffee, as I had some time to kill before the first train left at five twenty-three . . . funny how I can still remember all such exact details. I reached the Gare du Nord forty minutes later. I collected my bag and bought my ticket and boarded the train. I splurged on a first-class couchette—so I had a compartment to myself. I remember giving the porter my passport and a large tip and telling him I didn’t want to be woken up at the German or Austrian borders. Then I took off my clothes and got into the couchette and slept soundly for the next eight hours, by which time we were somewhere near Stuttgart—”

  “You slept soundly after murdering a man?”

  “I had been up all night. I was tired. And the adrenaline rush . . . well, it did exhaust me.”

  “Did you feel better after killing Dupré?”

  “A crazed numbness best describes it. Ever since I had decided on this course of action, I had been operating like an automaton. You do this, you do that, you go here, you go there. It was all carefully plotted out in my mind. Point by point.”

  “Including your own suicide?”

  “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “So you are dead?”

  “I’ll get to that—but only after I tell you about Bodo and Lo
vas.”

  “I don’t want to hear about how you tortured them.”

  “Yes, you do—and you have no choice but to listen. Otherwise you won’t find out what you want to know.”

  I reached for the Scotch, poured myself two fingers, and threw it back.

  “Tell me then,” I said.

  “Some weeks before I set my plan in motion, I contacted a friend in Budapest—a man who, like my father, was part of the entire samizdat newspaper brigade that operated for a time in the fifties. He was now in his seventies . . . and had done time in prison for his crimes of talking back to the State. He had been ‘rehabilitated’—though he’d also been tortured so badly during his ‘reeducation’ that he could no longer walk. I had made one journey back to Budapest in 1974, right after I had become a French citizen. I had a need to see it again, I suppose, as an adult—and had taken tea with this gentleman at his apartment. We couldn’t talk openly—he was certain the place was bugged—but he did ask me if I’d push him out in his wheelchair in a nearby park. Once we were outside, I asked him if he could find the whereabouts of the men who executed my father in front of me. He said, ‘It’s a small country . . . everybody can be found. But are you sure you want to find them?’

  “I said, ‘Not now. But one day, perhaps . . .’ He told me that when that day arrived, I should inform him by mail that ‘I would like to meet up with our friends,’ and he would take care of the rest.

  “So, six years later, when I decided to régler les comptes, I sent him a letter. He wrote back, saying, ‘Our friends are alive and well and living in Budapest.’ I made my plans, deposited my bag at the Gare de l’Est, and cut Henri Dupré’s throat. When I arrived in Hungary I went directly to this gentleman’s apartment. He was now a very old man, very infirm. But he smiled when he saw me and told me he’d like to head out to the park. Once I had wheeled him outside, he handed me a piece of paper and said, ‘Here are their addresses. Is there anything else you need?’ I told him, ‘A gun.’ He said, ‘No problem.’ When we went back to his apartment, he sent me rummaging around an attic storage room for a shotgun that his father used for hunting back when Charles I was our king. He even provided me with a saw to shorten the barrel. As I left the apartment—with the gun in my bag—he pulled me toward him and whispered in my ear, ‘I hope you kill them slowly.’ Then he sent me on my way.