Brainquake (22 page)

Eddie’s face was big as life.

Paul waited for the sound of the flute. It didn’t come. He waited for the brainquake. It didn’t come.

Not a touch of pink in Eddie. Binoculars moved to other people. All natural colors.

Binocs went back to Eddie sitting there.

“Eddie’s on that boat.”

Michelle put down the newspaper. “Brainquake.”

“No brainquake.”

“Did you hear the flute?”

“No flute.”

“Is he pink or reddish?”

“He’s for real on that boat. Alone. In the last seat.”

Michelle looked at Paul tensely. His cipher face showed no panic. But something in his eyes did. She stood up. Paul stared at her, saw the fear in her face. She grabbed the binoculars, looked through them, saw Eddie in his brown jacket sitting alone on the last seat.

Eddie was looking directly at her as she kept the binoculars on him.

“I don’t see him, Paul.”

She held out the binocs to him. They slipped from her hands, fell. Eddie saw Paul bending down to pick them up. Eddie stretched out on the last three seats and out of sight. Paul looked through the binoculars.

“He’s gone.”

“He was never there.”

“I saw him.”

“So did I. In Normandy.”

Paul’s head began to ache.

She went on. “I saw Eddie in the baby shop, too. I saw Eddie’s face on the Champs-Élysées when I went to get francs. I see Eddie’s face everywhere.”

The ache grew painful. Her words sounded far away.

“Paul.” She gripped his shoulders. “Fear makes me see his face everywhere. Fear made you see his face on that boat. It wasn’t a brainquake, but it wasn’t real either. Fugitives see men pursuing them. It’s normal.”

“Normal,” Paul repeated.

“Yes, Paul. Normal.”

She read his face, watched his eyes as he thought about the word.

“You’ll see Eddie’s face again, Paul. The fear will be with us until he’s dead.”

* * *

That night Lafitte returned with another gift for the baby. A bowl of fish. He placed it on the table near the crib in their room. He pushed a button on the bottom of the bowl. Next to it was a tiny music box. The music began to play
Swan Lake
. He held the baby up close to the bowl.

The baby was infatuated.

Lafitte smiled. “He thinks the fish are making the music.” The baby reached his hand out. Lafitte moved the table closer. The baby felt the bowl, watched the fish dart. Music played.

Michelle stood, hands clenched. “I need to take a walk.”

Paul understood. It was the music. He nodded.

Michelle walked up the cement ramp to the phone booth, called Eddie in his hotel room and gave him the next step.

* * *

Early next morning the sun threw Father Flanagan’s huge shadow across the crowded yard of the orphanage. He was sweating under his holy garb. Sweat not from his clothes or the sun. Sweat from memories. On the outskirts of Paris, he had found the 14th-century monastery that had become an orphanage. Mentioned last night by a young whore in her bed. She had heard it was the biggest one in France. She was right. It covered six acres of ground.

He had never seen so many happy children. He watched them play near the stone fountain. The nuns were there, and the children clearly adored them.

He concentrated on how they treated the kids. The Mother Superior was his guide. His knowledge of the Carthusian Order impressed her.

The Mother Superior had shown him where the babies slept. He observed no scarcity of nuns taking care of the infants. Observed how children in the cloisters and in the yard were handled.

He didn’t find an unhappy child.

He saw the children’s library, and their classrooms that were once the monks’ workshops. All the children were dressed well. He noted how the older ones showed respect for the mausoleum. He watched them play games.

They loved their home. It was not a prison.

Back in Paris he drove his rental car through streets, satisfied about the future of the baby he was going to make an orphan.

Suddenly he pulled up to the curb.
Jesus Christ!

The advancing black flagpole towering over everyone was Zara. From New York, it was, it could be no one else. It was the first time he’d seen her in person, but he knew her instantly, recognized her from countless appearances on television and in newspapers, magazines. Lieutenant Zara, here, no doubt pursuing the same people he was. Or pursuing him.

She strode past him. Every click of her high heels deadly without missing a beat.

He got out, followed the tall dead cop heading across the street toward an eight-story stone building fronted by a high black iron-barred fence. Atop each bar, a huge spike was painted in garish gold. There was no gate. She pushed the buttons on the door code box, went in. He caught the door before it closed. She went into the elevator. He stepped in behind her.

Pushing 6, she nodded at the priest. He nodded back, pushed 8. Door slid shut. As they ascended, he knew where he was. A few years ago he had found a room in one of the same official-looking structures that had been converted into apartments. No hotel. Rooms rented by the month. Cheap. Concierge to clean stairs, rooms and take care of the mail.

Elevator stopped at 6. Door slid open. She took one step out. He rabbit-punched her from behind. She slumped in his arms. Before she could move or catch her breath, he slammed his fist into the side of her face—once, twice, three times. One more. Her leg stopped the door from closing. He stepped back, pulled her in. Door slid shut. He wiped his prints off the elevator button.

The door slid open on the eighth floor. He poked his head out. Corridor empty. Sound of a phone could be heard ringing. He dragged her toward the stairs, opened the door, hauled her up the stairs to the roof door, opened it.

Across the roof. He carried her to the edge. Placing her down, he studied the distance of fence from building, waited until the sidewalk below was clear of pedestrians, picked her up, biceps straining under her weight, teeth gritted, and flung her away from the roof.

As he hurried back to the door, he heard screams from the street. He wiped off prints on both knobs, noiselessly flew down the stairs, wiped off prints from the eighth-floor knobs, continued down the stairs to the basement door, opened it, wiped off prints from knob, exited to the alley behind the building, walked around to the front.

A shocked crowd had already collected.

Zara lay across the spikes.

Father Flanagan noted that one spike had penetrated her neck.

Blood and gold on the spike’s tip sparkled in the sun.

He murdered her sure as hell. The fact clawed inside him. He stared at his lamb chops on the plate. He was at his favorite outdoor table. Fouquet’s luncheon crowd was buzzing. Around him horse talk. Everyone had a favorite.

Father Flanagan didn’t use the word murder lightly. Zara was not on his death list. She was an obstacle. He’d had to act fast. He’d had to make sure the bloodhound wouldn’t find the two fugitives before he did. Had she, Mr. Hampshire would have been furious at him. He knew the importance of nailing that bagman.

All the same, Father Flanagan felt like vomiting on his empty stomach. He should have bypassed Zara. He should have cornered the two fugitives alone.

Never had he hit an obstacle.

It was not a hit but a murder. And in murdering Zara he had become emotional. It degraded him.

He couldn’t think himself out of that emotion.

He had to cut that emotion out of his system or throw in the towel.

He attacked his lamb chops, watched the women at nearby tables. A blonde, a brunette. Forced himself to see them nude. Rarely did he have to force himself. Normally it happened naturally, and it always gave him comfort, seeing the women around him as naked. Often just picturing them naked in his mind was more satisfying than actually seeing them naked in a bedroom. This one, the blonde, in the flower-print dress, with the heavy breasts and prominent chin—what would she look like undressed, her brassiere unhooked, her breasts released to swing freely? And her friend, slightly older, her hair cut short as a man’s, no ass to speak of, barely any bosom, would she look boyish underneath, or did that shapeless dress hide a woman’s shape after all, a quivering wet snatch and gem-hard nipples? His mind traveled over this imagined landscape and his breathing slowed to normal, his feelings of shame forgotten, quelled.

He was roused from his reverie by a taxi, forced to brake not far from his front-row table. The driver honked angrily for the traffic jam up ahead to clear.

Father Flanagan heard the driver telling his passengers the worst drivers in the world were Paris drivers. One of his passengers laughed, a huge gray-haired man in sailor’s cap and jacket.

The woman by the window, holding a baby, was darkerskinned, looked Mediterranean. Black hair. Giant earring. Funky black-and-orange striped blouse. The baby was holding some kind of toy. Next to the woman was a bearded man with his hair in a ponytail. Next to him was the sea captain.

The impatient honking of the taxi driver was joined by a chorus of honks and shouts behind him. The toy fell from the baby’s hands and it began to cry. The beard bent down, picked up the toy, gave it to the baby.

The toy was a monkey with a long tail.

The murder in Central Park crossed Father Flanagan’s mind. He saw the beard looking at the baby, who had now stopped crying. The man’s eyes startled Father Flanagan. They looked familiar. They were strange, lifeless eyes. Looking into them was like looking at gray clouds.

Father Flanagan tried to imagine the face without the beard, the way he’d imagined the women without their clothes on.

What he saw was the picture of Paul Page on the front page of newspapers and on TV.

The beard was the bagman.

The disguise made sense. Paris was exploding with music fans for the festival. Smartest thing the two fugitives could do was blend in with the sea of ex-hippies and young people in funky gear.

The traffic jam broke. The taxi lurched forward. Father Flanagan memorized the license number, threw a handful of francs on the table, dove behind the wheel of his rental, and tailed the bagman, widow and baby.

He would wait until they were alone. He didn’t want to kill the old sea captain as a witness—no collateral damage this time. He kept a couple of cars between them. Traffic was thick. They couldn’t go fast to lose him.

He ruled out crucifixion. He never used a gun on the job. He didn’t trust guns. They often jammed at the wrong moment, like a condom breaking at the wrong moment. He’d have to use the switchblade he detested. It had no class. A knife was so goddam amateurish. Messy. Used only in an emergency.

But that’s what this was.

* * *

In the taxi the baby kept tugging at the monkey’s long tail. Michelle regretted she couldn’t find a moment to phone Eddie. The crowd at the track would have been a perfect place for Eddie to do his act. Perfect and safe.

Staging Eddie’s performance today would have helped the momentum in her plan. But tomorrow night’s event would make up for it.

* * *

Lafitte was worried. “Hank, if you score on that long shot in the third race, are you going to move on?”

“No. We like the barge.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

The track’s parking lot was packed. Father Flanagan joined the line of cars, each hunting for a space. He spotted Paul and Michelle getting out of the cab. Without being obvious, he studied their clothes. Her black-and-orange striped blouse would be as easy to follow as Paul’s faded red shirt hanging over rumpled Levis. Both were wearing beat-up sneakers. Lafitte slipped the rucksack on his back. Paul put the baby in it. The baby was hanging onto the monkey.

“Pardon me, Father.” The cop saluted. “It’s illegal to park here. You’ll find space over there.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

The cop saluted again.

Father Flanagan found a space, locked the car, moved swiftly through the crowd swarming toward the ticket booths. In the distance he spotted the tall sea captain and the baby on his back.

Then he lost sight of them.

He pushed through to the ticket booth. Spotting the priest, people stepped aside to let him pass.

“Thank you,” Father Flanagan said. “I’ve got to find a lost soul…a parishioner of mine…if he loses today, his wife will leave him.”

He bought a ticket, plunged into people. All kinds. Teenagers. Couples. Elderly. Young gamblers. And plenty of people from the music festival. The colors worn by the young music fans made him dizzy. Many were dressed like the fugitives. Some carried babies and guitars on their backs.

The first race was announced. A roar from the crowd blasted Father Flanagan’s ears. He lost his targets. Several times he thought he located them. Located a couple, anyway, but on second glance they were not dressed quite the same as the fugitives. Orange and black, red over blue…

Horses thundered toward the home stretch. The crowd went wild. He spotted the sea captain again.

Then, not far away, Paul and Michelle, backs toward him.

He knifed both of them. They fell. A woman’s scream was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Another woman screamed. She was heard. People pushed the priest aside. He was close enough to make sure they were dead.

But the ponytailed man in jeans and the woman beside him were not the bagman and the widow.

That night in drunken shock Father Flanagan wandered through Place du Tertre in Montmartre. People were blurs. The long flame blown out of the mouth of an entertainer was a blur. Hands seized the priest, pulled him away as he came close to walking into the second blow of flame.

He slumped into a chair outside a café, asked for a whiskey, planted his arms on the table, dropped his head on them. The glass of whiskey was placed in front of the sleeping priest. The sleep was short-lived. Sleep couldn’t alibi that he had fucked up. The first time in his life he had hit the wrong targets.

Christ!