Читать книгу Max O'Brien Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Mario Bolduc - Страница 27

Flags and flowers, heavy, downcast faces and dark suits — Juliette didn’t know how long she could keep this up: hand extended to receive condolences from people she didn’t know and whose sincerity she couldn’t gauge. The ritual was just one more “must” for the ants on the diplomatic sandhill, all of them anxious to show the public how big-hearted they were. The funeral home on Laurier was the place for one to “be seen” this week, if one was to convince one’s superiors of one’s superior character and attachment to one’s country’s values.

Other majorettes and cheerleaders inhabited this senseless parade. Béatrice, for one, was reliving the death of Philippe. So was Bernatchez, who held Juliette close the moment he got there with his wife, Geneviève, and they stood on either side to keep her from collapsing or committing some gaffe or other, which would be understandable but better-avoided just the same. More crying? No way! She held herself erect, not shedding a tear, despite her pain.

After her chaperones had left, Juliette couldn’t take it anymore and fled outside. The vibration of her cellphone distracted her from her anguish while she walked around the block.

“We’re on the edge of a hint of a trail,” Max said. “David didn’t go to Kathmandu with Vandana.”

Juliette was lost.

“I haven’t got a theory about that yet, but trust me. What about your end?”

Juliette told him about her visit to Madeleine Morency. Maybe the cops were right after all. This Rodger was none too bright. He was capable of landing in a hospital without getting up to speed, not knowing if this was a good time or not for one of his amateur capers. It was tough to imagine murderers, organized perfectionists without a doubt, recruiting such an underachiever to finish off David when he didn’t have a prayer. There was silence at the other end.

“Max?”

“I’m thinking about this Rodger Morency character.”

“He’s a red herring.”

“Maybe not. Put yourself in their place. They’re led to believe David is at death’s door and will never regain consciousness, but really, in secret, he gets gradually better …”

“Yes,” said Juliette, “but they still wouldn’t have sent that jerk. He’d spill it all, wouldn’t he? He’d tell the cops, ‘Someone paid me to kill David O’Brien.”’

“Not necessarily. The cops figured it the same as you, so they’re expecting an Al-Qaeda hit team, and instead they get Johnny Jellybean. Their mistake was letting their imagination guide the questioning.”

“So Morency’s smarter than he looks.”

“That’s one possibility among many. He realizes pretty quickly that the cops don’t think he’s capable of anything like this, so he plays up the stupidity. He’s made for the part, and he’s got his bumbling record to back him up: ‘So I’m not that dumb, eh? You’ve seen my file.”’

“A barrel of laughs, but why go through all this to get rid of David? What’s the point?”

“Anything else you learned?” asked Max.

“Luc Roberge knows you’re in India and what name you’re using.”

Max was unconcerned. “They can’t find me now. I’m safe.”

“This guy seems like a tough one.”

Tough, maybe. Persistent, for sure. He’d latched on to Max ages ago and had never let go. Pretty ironic just the same, he thought. Except in his early apprentice days, Max had extorted huge sums without any real difficulty, and now came this undertaking, which wouldn’t net him a cent, just the satisfaction of unmasking his nephew’s killers, and he still had an army of cops on his tail, with this bulldog Roberge as determined as ever.

He was finding the life of a fugitive increasingly unbearable. He thought he was free, but it was just one more mirage. His criminal “career” had bought him the freedom of running farther and farther … from himself in some ways.

“Roberge blackmailed Patterson,” came Juliette’s voice from the other side of the world. “He knows things about you.”

Forget about it? Tell her to mind her own business? Max’s hand passed over his face as if to get his thoughts organized. “Patterson was having financial problems, and I had money to launder, so he laundered it for me.”

Max could feel Juliette’s disappointment at the other end. She was expecting something a little spicier, worthier of Roberge’s delirious imagination, something to do with dark, smoky basements. Sorry, lady, economic crimes are hardly ever that sexy.

“But why?”

How could he explain? What should he tell her? Should he open up to her in a way he never had before? Okay, he’d saved Patterson, but only to keep an old promise to Philippe. If Patterson had been ruined, David would have suffered, too.

Juliette understood now why the former diplomat had been so cowed. Luc Roberge could bring him down along with Max.

Despite Max’s help, there was still the same uneasiness between the two men. Patterson continued to keep him at arm’s length from David, just as Béatrice had done. His activities were still illegal, despite the fact that Patterson had benefitted from them in his darker days. Was Patterson afraid Max would use his “slip” to blacken his reputation with David and Béatrice? Or maybe turn him in to the police, something Max would never do. Out of respect for Patterson? No, not that either. Max cared about David and didn’t want to make his world any shakier than it was. David needed someone strong in his corner, like Patterson, instead of a dishrag of a shady uncle.

“Don’t go by appearances,” he told Juliette, “I’m not doing this for you or even for David. I’m doing it for myself, that’s all, to be at peace with myself.”

She said nothing.

“I’m not an honest man, Juliette. Everything Béatrice told you about me is true.”

Juliette replied, “She says you could’ve prevented your brother’s death.”

There was moment’s silence. Juliette felt she shouldn’t have mentioned it, but she wanted to know. That was all. Béatrice hadn’t gone into detail.

“I could’ve done things differently. I could’ve got involved, but Philippe asked me not to. I shouldn’t have listened to him. One of these days, I’ll tell you the whole story.” Then he added, “There’s a plaque in San Salvador on the house that used to be the embassy.”

“Have you been there?”

“Yes. I wanted to see where it happened. I know it’s dumb, but I had to be on the spot where he was killed.”

“What did you feel?”

“Nothing. I was so sure there’d be something of him left there. Call it what you want: a flame, a spirit, a sign of some kind. I stood in the office, right where he probably fell. I didn’t experience a thing, except a great deal of pain, and it wasn’t worth crossing the Americas for that. I went to where Pascale died, too, and it was the same. I didn’t feel anything but sadness and an incredible sense of waste that just needed death to cap it off.”

There was a long silence, and Juliette realized he didn’t want to say any more.

After a while, she said, “Hindus say the universe wasn’t created out of nothing the way Christians think, but from the ruins of older universes.”

Up to this point for Max, Juliette had just been David’s widow, his nephew’s companion. Now he realized she had a life of her own, her own dreams, secrets, sadness, and beliefs. “You’re interested in Hinduism?” he asked her.

“A bit, superficially, anyway.”

“Pascale swore by Shiva, Ganesh, and all those other bozos. The apartment smelled of incense all day long, and I had the feeling we were on one long pilgrimage.”

Shiva in particular was her favourite Hindu god. One day, facing a statue of Shiva Nataraja, with its four arms, Pascale explained that the lower right hand, with the palm showing, indicated, “Fear nothing. I will protect you. Abhayamudra.” Max shrugged. He’d never dreamt he’d need the protection of a watchful eye from a benevolent foreign god. How do you pray to it? he wondered. Oh well, no matter.

“This Pascale,” said Juliette, “was she …”

“A crook like me, the best there was.”

In his most depressed moments after Pascale left, Max felt like just another pigeon on her trophy shelf. Imagining her as treacherous, faithless, and nasty like this was the only way to forget her. Yet even slandering her to himself he couldn’t get her, or the memory of her body against his own, out of his head. Eyes that never look away from one another, hers brighter than ever, that sudden glow I will never forget. Sister Irène’s call from the far corner of the globe had confirmed it for him: this was the only woman he’d ever loved or ever would.