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She sits before me in silence. I cannot blame her. My own mind is heavy with sorrow. It is a long time since I said such terrible things to anyone; to hear myself admit to what I am - to what I was - is a dagger to my own heart.
"I am very sorry, Miss Thomas. But you must know. I do not ask your forgiveness."
She is staring at some point in the air beyond my shoulder; she does not wish to look me in the face, I think. I pour more whiskey for us both; she does not object. I offer her a cigarette; she takes it and I light it for her. Then I take one for myself. We sit in silence for several minutes, smoking, drinking the whiskey, and I am glad of my training.
I wait for her to speak but she does not. I must break the silence myself. "Your search of my file showed you very little because I meant it to show very little."
She stubs out the cigarette and glares at me. "And do you still hunt, Doctor? Do you still kill for nothing or are you reformed and only kill for a reason?" She rests her elbow on the desk and puts her forehead in her hand to hide her face from me. Or so that she will not have to look at mine, I suspect.
"It was a long time ago, Miss Thomas. And not long enough. And now there is a man who demands that I do as he wishes."
She closes her eyes for a few moments as if to think, then she straightens herself in her chair. Her expression is one of sadness and deep concern, though I suspect it is not for myself. "Or he will destroy you." It is said quietly.
I finish the cigarette and stub it out. What do I say? Perhaps she will think it no more than I deserve. The past is done and there is nothing I can say that will change that. Do I underestimate her, perhaps? Her file told me of her own encounters with vicious Immortals; her own reports of the affair with Morgan Walker were there, together with corroborating reports from supervisory personnel and a copy of the reprimand entered against Joseph for sending her into the field too early. It was most enlightening. It told of a frightened woman who showed courage but was nevertheless very lucky to have survived. And that at the intervention of one Benjamin Adams - Methos himself. It seems we both owe him our lives. And our loyalties.
"He will most certainly destroy me. And those I love." Perhaps she understands what drives some Watchers to take matters into their own hands, although it does not excuse what I did.
She looks into her glass most thoughtfully; she is pulling herself together. Good girl; Joseph is right to be proud of his child. "Is this man an Immortal?" There is a touch of bitterness to her voice. I am right; she knows what they can be.
"Are you certain that you wish me to answer that question?"
"You mean, am I willing to help you?" She sighs and drinks a little whiskey. She has made her decision. "Yes, Doctor. I am." She looks up at me. The determination in her jaw is impressive and I am not at all surprised that Adam… admires her, non? "Are you surprised?"
I smile. "No, Miss Thomas, I am not. But once I tell you, there will be no going back. You will put yourself in danger; be certain of this. And I put my life in your hands by telling you these things."
"I know, and I don't thank you for putting me in that position. But I apologize for my outburst. And if I am to be a Watcher, I had better get used to danger. God knows, there's been enough of it so far. Do you ever get used to it?"
I shake my head. "No. I have treated Watchers who became 'used to it' but it was almost an addiction. It is a bad thing. It is possible to lose one's perspective - even to lose one's humanity, you see. And that must never be. Fear is a warning, very natural; fear keeps you alert, keeps you alive. If you lose your fear of danger, then it will be time to be done with it before it kills you. Do you understand?"
She smiles, but her face is sad. "I'm not doing this for you, Doctor; I don't know you well enough to risk my life for you. This is for Ben."
I shrug. "And it is for him that I ask it. Not for myself. If it comes to light - what I was…"
"…it would destroy him. Is that what you meant by 'those I love'?"
I drain my glass before replying. Perhaps I have given the wrong impression. "There are others I love, Miss Thomas, but I care for Adam, what becomes of him. Not just because he is Methos but because he is a good friend. He saved my life. In more ways than one. It is a debt I repay gladly."
She looks at me; her words forgive me but her eyes say something else. "And it eases your conscience? Are you doing this out of some driving need for redemption?"
I do not answer. I reach for the Scotch and pour myself another shot. I must keep a clear head, but also, my nerves are still very bad. The whiskey eases them - to a point. I offer to pour her some more but she shakes her head. It is wise of her.
She rests her head on her hand again. The emotional struggle is very plain; she is appalled, and yet she understands. It is her own acceptance that disturbs her, not what I did. "I'm sorry, Doctor," she says. "That was un-called for."
I drink a little; it is beginning to calm me and I shall need to be calm. "It is a shock, non? I do not say these things easily, Miss Thomas. I have told no-one besides Sean, Darius and my Confessor; two are dead, of course, and my priest is also an enclosed monk who will never speak of it to anyone. Along with the friendship of Adam Pierson, they kept me from killing myself. And yes, it eases my conscience."
She sits up again and sighs deeply. I am moved by the strain in her pretty face. "And you would not have told me unless Ben were involved. How is he involved? Is he in danger?" Ah, the lady is most certainly in love. I must tread carefully.
I shrug. "Adam is always in danger. I do not need to tell you this. It is how he lives. For the moment, the man involved does not know that he is Methos. If that should changeƒ yes, most certainly."
"Then this man is a Hunter."
I nod. "His name is Eddie Brill. Perhaps you know who he is."
"Hasn't he disappeared? I heard a rumour… something about an amnesty for informants. I did wonder… Oh, my God! Did he inform on you?"
I shake my head. It was the obvious assumption and I still must fear that others will take it into their heads to do so. But not Eddie. "No. He needs me."
"And he has something on you himself."
"So he says. I do not believe it."
"And this is the man who took the photographs?"
"No. Eddieƒ Eddie tried to kill me. Twice. Eddie enjoyed what he did, believed himself to be doing a service to humanity. It is what they all believed."
"Killing Morgan Walker was a service to humanity. I can see the appeal."
"Précisément. And they forgive no-one. Darius died because they would not believe that a man can change, even an Immortal who has much time to change, to learn to be a better human being… It began because non-interference is absurd. For the quiet ones, perhaps it does not matter so much, but for those who are vicious, those who kill without mercy, without compassion for mortal humanity, no, it is impossible. 'Watch, record but never interfere'… It is a nice thought, but how does a Watcher feel when his charge commits crimes which would put him behind bars for a lifetime if he were mortal and yet he goes free to do it again? It is intolerable. However, to take the law into one's own hands is equally intolerable; those who do this become no better than those they kill. I know."
"But you can't bring the law into it where an Immortal is involved. It would blow everything wide open."
"I do not pretend to have the answers; I am not Solomon. But neither am I a barbarian. The Watchers put their heads into the sand, I think. They do not see because they do not wish to see. Vigilantism always begins as an attempt to protect the innocent where the law has failed. But this is always misguided. It protects no-one and, eventually, there are no longer any lines. What began as a way of eliminating the worst of them ended as a Crusade against them all, an unholy cause."
She is quiet. Does she think of Methos, the Horseman? She sees Benjamin Adams, healer, rescuer of maidens in distress… Friend and potential lover. She knows they are one and the same. And yet she knows, too, that still he would be condemned, not for what he is but for what he was. As will I be condemned for past sins. We change, if we survive. Should this not wipe away the stain? The guilt lives within ourselves, within our hearts and minds. My soul answers to God but my body answers to man. In the eyes of the law and in the hearts of men, I will always be guilty, as will he. As was Darius. And so we keep our secrets and there is no kindness for us anywhere.
For a moment, I think she is going to ask me for another cigarette, but she resists the temptation. "Then those who merely enjoyed killing took over. I don't get the impression that you ever got that far, Doctor."
I shake my head. No, I never got that far, perhaps by the grace of God. Yet far enough. "Possibly that is why Sean never turned me over to the Council himself. I cannot say."
"He must have seen some good in you; I hear he was a very perceptive man. You mentioned Darius. Tell me, were you involved in that?"
"No, no. Of this, I assure you, I am guiltless."
"You said he was your Confessor?"
"And I believe that he was killed because he knew about the Watchers - and the Hunters. He knew because I told him. Perhaps they would have left him alone otherwise and he would still be alive."
"And you have this on your conscience as well? Why didn't you warn him?"
"Oh, I tried, Mademoiselle. I tried. And, obviously, I failedƒ"
And I almost died with him.
"Telephone for you, René. Sorry to bother you."
I looked up from my notes in surprise. Sean did not make a habit of disturbing me in my consulting room. There was a good reason I had no telephone in there. "Merci. Who is it, please?"
"Adam Pierson. He sounds a little ruffled. I think you should take it." The worry on his face was plain and it occurred to me that Adam was in difficulty. I was flattered that he would ask for me at such a time.
"Of course."
I hurried to the telephone in Sean's office. I was surprised that Adam would have Sean's private number but then, Adam was always surprising me with his genius for knowing the impossible. When I picked up the receiver, Sean left me to myself and closed the door. No doubt he also thought that Adam was asking for counselling.
"Adam? You are all right?"
His voice was quite cheerful. "Yeah, I'm fine, Ren*. I thought we could have a beer."
"You call me at work to suggest that I take the afternoon off for a beer with you? I am flattered but I am very busy."
"Yeah, sorry about that. But I think you should come. I already told Sean. He's giving you the afternoon off."
What was he not telling me? Surely he did not think that Sean's line was tapped. Perhaps he was not free to speak. "Very well. It will take me a little while to drive into Paris. Where do you want to meet?"
"That little restaurant you like on the rue de l'Échelle, just up from the Louvre."
"Adam, that is all the way downtown!" I sigh into the telephone; there is very little point in protesting. "Eh bien. I will be there."
And Sean had indeed given me the afternoon off. He took over my patients himself. I have always wondered what Adam told him. I telephoned Nikki and told her that I had to go to Paris and would be home late, if at all. Perhaps I would need to stay overnight. Then I drove to the outskirts of Paris, left my car in a garage and took the Métro to Palais Royale. It took less than three minutes to reach the little restaurant. He was waiting for me at a sidewalk table, drinking coffee, which surprised me. I had to admit I was grateful to get away for an afternoon but I had spent the entire trip here worrying about what could have gone wrong and here he was, looking fit and happy as if he had not a care in the world. Of course, he often looked that way; it was usually a mask.
I took the seat beside him. "Are you all right?"
He shrugged. "I told you. I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about."
"Me?"
The waiter was at my elbow before I could say more. "Bonjour. Qu'est-ce que je vous sers, Monsieur?"
"Ah&A133; un café noir avec du lait et un cognac, s'il vous plaît."
When the waiter left, Adam smirked. "You do like milk in your coffee, don't you? You're in a rut, René."
"It is a comfortable one."
"How is Mathilde?"
"She is very well. Growing quickly, as babies will, and not keeping me up in the middle of the night any more, I am pleased to say. But you did not bring me to downtown Paris in the middle of the day to ask about my daughter."
"No, I didn't. You're in trouble, René."
A cold shudder ran down my spine. The waiter arrived with my coffee and cognac, which relieved me of having to reply. I thanked him, my voice barely above a whisper. Adam looked at me, not unkindly. Bon. If he had found out, he would not have bothered with this little get-together; yet I thought he would not have reported me, either. Ah, I cannot know what he would have done. And I still believed him to be mortal, after all.
He sensed my discomfort, I think. "Can you think of a reason why James Horton would be checking up on you?"
"Ô mon Dieu! I will have nothing to do with that son of a bitch!"
"Yeah, I did wonder. Actually, I'm a little suspicious. He and I… well, let's just say we have had our differences of opinion about you." He chuckled to himself. It would be ten years before I understood the meaning of what he had just told me. "And put a smile on. They're watching us. We're just here for a coffee, two old friends getting together, all right?"
My head was spinning. Watching us? How long had this been going on? Why now? Why had Horton spoken to Adam about me? "When did this happen?"
"Couple of days ago. I did a little digging on my own but I kept hitting a brick wall. Something's up and you just might be in the middle of it."
"But I have had nothing to do with the man for years. C'est absurde!"
"That's rather what I thought. But he did try to kill you after all. And you never told me what it was you had on him. Personally, I think he's a Hunter. And if you have proof, your days just might be numbered, my friend."
I was speechless. It had been - what?- five years since Rødrig, four since Horton had shown me the tape and nothing had come of it. All had been quiet; I had kept what I knew to myself and I was still alive. I had been complacent, wrapped up in the birth of my child, in being a father for the first time. And now?
"René? You all right?" I nod but I can say nothing. "I think you should drink that coffee and we can go somewhere less conspicuous, have something to eat, be old friends out of sight. You need to talk to me about what you know because something is going down."
"Very well."
I poured the cognac into the coffee and drank it. Adam paid the bill while I went down the back stairs to the bathroom. I relieved myself, washed my hands and splashed some water on my face. Mon dieu. What was happening? Could they not leave me alone? I had said nothing; I did not dare, and now others depended on me. I no longer wished my own destruction. I was no longer a danger to them. Perhaps Adam was right and something was about to happen - something which concerned me? I preferred not to contemplate what it might be.
I jumped when I heard the door open behind me but it was Adam. He relieved himself and washed his hands while I waited, hardly able to think. I had gone soft; I had been away from that existence a long time and was no longer alert. Perhaps it would be my undoing.
"There's a back way out of here." he said. "I slipped the waiter twenty francs to let us into the alley, no questions. Fatherhood seems to have ruined your nerves."
"I will be all right. It is a shock, you know?"
"Yeah. I know." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, Daddy. Let's get you out of here."
Upstairs, the waiter showed us to the back door and into the alley.
"I know a little place on the Rive Gauche," he said when we were outside. "Ten minutes down some back alleys. It's owned by a friend of mine. We can talk there."
I lit a cigarette as we walked. Adam's face was grim, his cheerful smile gone with the spring wind. We kept away from le Quai des Tuileries, going east, parallel to the Seine. I had not walked there in some while, although I used to stroll there on the esplanade with Madeleine, Mathilde's mother, in happier times. And we were very close to Darius' church. I had not seen him since Mathilde's christening, over a month before.
We did not speak. He seemed to be using the spire of Notre Dame as a landmark as we dodged down one alley, then another. At another time, I would have thought it paranoid behaviour, but now…? Now it was perhaps my own life at stake. And his also? I thought about what he had said about believing Horton to be a Hunter. When he said it, it was almost with a snarl. At the time, of course, I thought it only the utter disgust of the academic for the vulgar and the barbaric, the reaction of someone who spent his solitary days searching for truth. He had said that he and Horton had had a 'difference of opinion' concerning myself. Had he put himself in danger from the Hunters on my account? If true, it had been very rash. And I did not think of Adam Pierson as a man prone to rashness. Whatever his reasons, it was quite obvious to me that I should say nothing of my own involvement. Now, of course, I know it would have been a disaster for both of us.
Very soon, we emerged from a back alley into a street I knew. It was only one street over from Darius' church, on the west side of the little park, very narrow, very old. As we went into the open, we were both very cautious, looking about for signs of anyone who might be watching for us. I was alert again, as if the habit had only been waiting for me to notice it and put it on again. There appeared to be no-one. Close by, Adam led me into a little restaurant. Inside, he nodded at the man behind the bar, who nodded back, and took me to a door near the kitchen. When we went through it, we were greeted in a most friendly fashion by a small, older man with kind eyes that observed me most thoroughly. It occurs to me only now to wonder if this man, whose name I never knew, was an Immortal. In any case, I never saw him again after that day. Now that I begin to think of these things, I wonder how many more besides Darius died that night. Certainly, Adam and I were meant to be among them.
Adam spoke quietly and briefly to the man in some language I did not understand. The man smiled at me most graciously and showed us up some stairs to the floor above, where, presumably, he lived. We were ushered into a very comfortable parlour, small but exquisitely furnished in fine antiques. A little dog was asleep on a cushion on a red velvet sofa.
"Veuillez vous asseoir, Monsieur," the man said to me. "Mon foyer est le vôtre. Je rentrerai dans quelques instants." ["Please be seated, Sir. My home is yours. I shall return in a few moments."] And he was gone.
I took off my coat and sat down in a plush Victorian armchair. There was an ash tray to one side with some cigarette butts in it. No doubt the gentleman would not mind if I indulged my habit. While I lit one gratefully, Adam disappeared into another room, possibly a little kitchen, and returned with two mugs of dark beer. He handed one to me and sat in a second armchair opposite me. His face was very dark.
"We can talk safely here. There's some food coming. I hope you weren't planning on being back in Reims tonight."
"No. I told Nikki I might have to stay in Paris. Adam, what is going on?"
He drank deeply of the beer and sighed heavily, wearily. "I don't know. But something is."
I drank some of my beer. It was strong and very good; in other circumstances, I would have enjoyed it. "What did Horton say when he came to see you?"
"Some nonsense about incomplete reports when he was your supervisor. Wanted to know if you'd ever talked to me about your Watcher days, before med school."
"But he was not my supervisor then. I don't understand."
He shrugged and drank some more of the beer. "I know. I did some checking."
"On me? But why?"
He laughed. "Don't get your knickers in a knot, René. I looked you up when I first met you. You were a real hell-raiser back in the seventies, three personal reprimands from Lebeau himself while still at the Academy. And I can tell a faked report when I read one. You were a very naughty boy."
It was my turn to laugh. "M. Lebeau was very kind. He told me that he understood how it was for fatherless boys, but if I did not mend my ways, he could not save me from myself. I was only twenty years old and something of a thorn in his side." And perhaps Lebeau had seen others like me, wild, insubordinate, angry. I no longer remember what he said but I had the impression, standing there in front of his desk, sweating while he recited my numerous infractions, that perhaps he was speaking to his younger self. It was not so much in his words as in his eyes; the sadness there cut me to the bone. "He told me that I was like a stone, hard and unworkable, but that if he polished me enough, I might show some brilliance. He said he had considered confining me at the Academy but told me that the black mark on my record would be punishment enough. Unless I did it again, of course. And then he would lock me up until I saw the error of my ways. I could hardly keep a straight face. And eventually, he recommended me for medical school." I shrugged. "One cannot know what is in the minds of old men."
Adam gave me a strange look, then drank more of his beer. The door opened and the same gentleman came in, holding a large tray. He said nothing but placed it on his dining room table. The plates and cutlery were already laid out. Then he bowed without saying anything and left us to ourselves.
The food was wonderfully prepared - entrecôtes, vol-au-vents aux crevettes, really quite wonderful - and although it was still early, we ate hungrily. It was just as well, as it turned out. My next meal was much farther away than I could ever have guessed.
Afterward, there was some superb coffee and Rémy Martin. I could not help wondering who our gracious but absent host was. Adam did not seem inclined to tell me, however, and I did not ask.
Adam contemplated his cognac while I smoked and waited for him to lead the conversation. It was he who wished to speak to me, après tout. For my part, I worried about what I could say to him that would not arouse his suspicion.
"Why do you think he came to see me, René?" he asked. His eyes were narrowed and the tone sent a chill down my spine.
"Obviously, it was not to correct old reports," I said. "Perhaps you were meant to do precisely what you have done - warn me. Perhaps it is to flush us both out." And why had I said that? "Perhaps you should have left it alone."
He drank some of the cognac, his face now thoughtful. "Yeah, that's what's worrying me. I very nearly did leave it alone but I remembered something I'd read somewhere about military strategy, about flushing your enemies into the open before a battle. If you're the enemy, you can stay quiet and pretend nothing's happening, right up until they take your position while you're busy pretending, or you can show your head and get it shot off."
I watched him swirl the brandy in the glass, his lips pursed, eyes fixed on the liquid as if it were a crystal ball that was showing him the battle field, the generals discussing strategy, the enemy in their strongholds. Now I know that he was probably remembering. "And the only thing that is certain is that there will be a battle, non?"
He smiled. "Always, my friend. Always. And I have to ask myself why you and me?"
"You said that you believe Horton to be a Hunter." I hesitated and he looked at me. I need not tell him of my own involvement, but… "I can tell you that he is indeed a Hunter. He is the power behind them, the one who gives them their assignments. This I know. And for knowing this, yes, he has wished me dead for a long time." My grip tightened on my brandy glass, my palm sweating a little, but I kept my gaze steady.
He did not respond immediately. Perhaps he had been testing me. Then he nodded a little and drank some more of the brandy. "I won't ask you how you know," he said. "But I will ask who else you've told."
And it struck me. "Ô mon dieu! I have told Sean and Darius - and they are both Immortals. What have I done?"
"And we are about to get our heads shot off," he said calmly. "I wish you'd told me before."
"It would have put you in danger, Adam. I could not have done that. I am sorry. I do not see how it involves you even now. You have nothing to do with Horton or the Hunters; why would he see you as a danger?"
He snorted; his face was cold steel. "Like you, I know too much. Let's just leave it at that, René. Maybe one day I'll tell you. For now…" He shrugged and drained the brandy. He held the glass in his hand for a moment as if his mind were somewhere else. Then he put the glass on the table firmly and looked at me. "I shouldn't have brought you into Paris. Now we're all in the same place - you, me, Darius… two others that I know of, possibly more. Horton is smarter than I gave him credit for."
I was horrified. "Surely he is not planning to kill us all? It would be madness!"
"It would send one hell of a message, not only Immortals on his hit list but sympathizers, any Mortal they think is a danger to them. A little Reign of Terror. I'd heard a rumour that something big was coming; I just didn't know who."
I shook my head, not wanting to believe. Surely this was paranoia and Adam was more prone to psychotic breakdown than I had thought. "Horton has only been back in Paris for a few months; he has not had time to arrange such a thing."
He sighed. "For a smart bastard, you sometimes amaze me with how naïve you can be, René. Think about it: he got sent to some backwater hell hole right after you tried to kill him. Be sure he blames you for that. Hell, he probably blames you for surviving his attempt to kill you that night." He winked and clicked his tongue. "He's just an all-round bastard of a guy. Now he's back - as Darius' Watcher. He hates Darius with a passion because Darius has a past - he doesn't even bother keeping it secret - yet he pulled strings to get Ian Bancroft assigned elsewhere and get himself put on Darius. That was that idiot Shapiro's doing. Give me another Lebeau any day. I think Horton was a very busy boy when he was off in limbo, kept in touch with his loyal cronies, promised them glory on his return. Stop me if I'm not making any sense."
I rested my head on my hand. I had been a blind fool, too besotted with my new life to watch my own back. "You are sure?"
"I wasn't. Now it's blindingly obvious. And don't worry about putting me in danger in the future; it's more dangerous not knowing."
I sat back and looked at him. This was not the Adam Pierson I knew. This was something more, much more. I had seen this man before; this was the man whose face I had seen when I told him that Horton had put a gun to my head, the man who had rescued me from the alley. Adam Pierson was afraid of his own shadow and hid in dusty libraries; this man could lead armies. "Then we must act."
He smiled; it was a grim smile, a pressing of the lips, a jutting of the chin. "No&$133; not a good idea. I want you to go home and stay there. Don't go to work tomorrow; in fact, don't go anywhere until you hear from me."
"What about you? You may be a target as much as I."
"Believe it. It was me Horton contacted and now I'm out in the open, where he wants me. And I have no intention of getting my head shot off." His face softened; he was telling me not to worry, but how could I not? "I'll stay well out of their way. And, René, don't expect them to respect Holy Ground."
"And did you?" Miss Thomas asks. "Go home, I mean?"
"Not exactly." And I am out of cigarettes. "Miss Thomas, may I take you to dinner?"
It takes a moment for her to answer; she is still unsure of me, sans doute. "Very well, Doctor. I should eat something; perhaps it will keep me from worrying for an hour or two."
"Bon. And your father has a safe here, non?"
"Yes, of course. I have the combination."
"Then we should put these photographs in there, I think."
She nods. Such sadness. "Of course. Give them to me."
I take the photographs and tapes out of my knapsack and give them to her. While she takes them to the safe, I put my jacket on. My nerves are a little better; perhaps telling secrets was good for them, who knows? When she returns, she has her coat. I help her with it.
"There's a nice little place just down the street," she says.
"Then I shall let you guide me, Mademoiselle. I should warn you, however; it is possible that we will be observed."
"What?"
"I am being followed. I saw no-one in the Métro, but that means nothing. I am quite sure they have been observing Le Blues. It is nothing to be concerned about, merely M. Gabrieli keeping an eye on us all, I believe." I smile and we walk to the front door.
"Do you suppose he suspects?"
I shrug. "I have no idea what he thinks. But I do not wish to give him food for thought, vous comprenez?"
I pick up my knapsack and we leave. Outside, I look for anything suspicious but there appears to be nothing. However, I have been wrong before. It has stopped raining. I stop at a little shop for cigarettes. The bistro is just a few doors down and I am not at all surprised when the waiter greets her by name. No doubt her father eats here often. We settle ourselves comfortably and look at the menu.
"I must admit I'm quite hungry," she says. "Thank you for bringing me, Doctor. Being there all day worrying, watching Stephen get drunk was probably not a good idea. I just can't help wondering where they've got to."
"Adam may not have a Watcher but I do believe that M. Gabrieli has someone observing his comings and goings. He knows they are in Scotland; if anything has gone wrong, I believe you would have been informed."
She sighs. "In other circumstances, that would distress me but I find I'm grateful for his concern. Should I be?"
"I do not think M. Gabrieli wishes you or your father harm. I ask myself why he would pump me for information on Adam, knowing that I can say nothing without breaking confidentiality and that is a serious matter. Perhaps I am wrong, but I think he knows that Adam is immortal, yet he has no proof and cannot assign a Watcher without that. He may even suspect that Adam is Methos, which would explain why he is so concerned for this one particular Immortal." I pause while I light a cigarette.
"Would you mind if I had another one of those?"
I give her one and light it for her. The waiter comes and takes our order. I have decided on the spécialité de la maison, a baked cod dish; Miss Thomas asks for a salad with smoked duck, which would have been my other choice. When the waiter leaves, she takes a deep drag on the cigarette and regards me with a look of curiosity. "What makes you think that?"
"It is only a theory. I wanted an explanation for his curiosity about Adam, to begin with. Now that I know he has taken all our files - mine, yours, your father's - I see a connection. All of us - and Stephen, but I have his file myself - are in a position to watch Adam most closely, more closely even than a Watcher. I hear his intimate thoughts," I shrug, "those he will tell me, of course. And Joseph is his closest friend. All of us are deeply involved in Adam's continued well-being, do you see? I now believe that Gabrieli suspects that Adam is Methos and that he wishes Methos to survive, to continue. He cannot have him Watched; therefore, we are his Watchers, whether we know it or not, a sort of Methos Project Field Team, if you like. And we are very good at what we do."
"And so we must also survive. Including you, Doctor. I think you should go to him, lay it out, ask for his protection. He will grant you amnesty, I'm sure."
"And that would send a message to others, who would most certainly wish to keep me quiet. I have stayed alive because I have kept my mouth shut." I shake my head. "No, Miss Thomas. I doubt that he would be able to save me from a tribunal. And he would be damning himself. We both have enemies, he and I; Shapiro is waiting in the wings to make a come-back, for one. Did you know that?"
She frowns deeply. "No, I didn't. And how do you know this? Or perhaps I shouldn't ask. No doubt it's privileged information."
"And that is one of the reasons that those who are afraid of me would wish me silenced. I know a great deal - not perhaps so much as they think, but enough to make them sleep badly at night."
"It wouldn't have to be official. You could arrange to meet him somewhere, as we are doing now."
"He and I never meet casually. It would arouse suspicion in the wrong places."
The waiter brings our food and we suspend the conversation until we are finished. I am too distracted to enjoy it as I normally would. She also has other things on her mind, I see. And I cannot blame her at all. It has hardly been a good day. When we are done, the waiter returns. We both decline dessert but accept the suggestion of cognac with our coffee. When it is brought, I light another cigarette; she declines my offer. I stretch out my legs comfortably and wait for her to say something.
She stares into her coffee, tracing the rim of the cup with a slender finger. Perhaps she is wishing that it was Adam sitting at this table with her. "Did you never consider turning yourself in and taking them all down, Doctor? Ending it all right there?"
I shrug. "Mais, certainement. When one has a conscience, one always thinks these things."
"And why didn't you do it? You could have saved Darius' life. And others. Why not make the ultimate sacrifice? You must have thought you deserved your punishment."
It is a bitter statement, lacking in compassion, and one which I shall not grace with a reply. She is upset, worried.
She rests her forehead on her hand, still staring into her coffee. "Oh, Lord. Don't answer that. I can't possibly imagine how you felt."
I smile and drink some cognac. "Do you forgive me for still being alive while others are not? Are we not all alive while others are not? I forgave myself a long time ago, Mademoiselle." And I wonder if that is the truth.
"Did you at least try to save Darius?"
I left Adam immediately, intent, at first, on doing what he asked. But suppose they knew where I lived and came for me there? I could not tolerate such a thought; I would do nothing to put Mathilde and Nikki in danger. I thought of going to Sean but I doubted they would respect Holy Ground. Adam was right in this. I would use the apartment on the rue Montéra; there was no-one there at the moment and I had a key. I ducked down the Métro station at Châtelet and was in Porte de Vincennes in fifteen minutes.
I did not need the apartment very much in those days; indeed, I rarely came into Paris if I could avoid it and since Mathilde's christening a month before, I had not been there at all. Only one other psychiatrist on Sean's staff used the apartment; we each had clothing there, in case of emergencies. And this was an emergency.
The first thing was to telephone Sean and tell him what we suspected. After that, it was up to him. For all Sean Burns was the calmest man I had ever known, he was no fool. He thanked me and told me to be careful. He promised to call Nikki and tell her that I had an emergency case in Paris and would be delayed, possibly for several days. When I hung up the telephone, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my hands. I could no longer see the blood on them but it was there. And yet I wanted to live.
I took out the valise with my few clothes in it and changed into the dark pull, the one I always wore on an assignment. I should have burned it for its memories, but for now, I needed it this once, at least. I still carried a gun at my back in those days; I was not so much a fool yet as to believe I was completely safe and yet this was still a shock, the reality that I had come to believe was only remote. It was like a knife in my gut, sharp and burning.
For the first time, my thoughts were to save the lives of Immortals. Sean would do the right thing, I knew; Darius was another problem. I would go myself and convince him to leave. Or I would stay there to protect him when they came; perhaps if I were to lose my life that night, it would be the price I paid as ransom for another.
I heard footsteps on the stairs outside the door. There were others in the apartment house but this was a slow creaking on the stairs, not the swift passage of someone anxious to be home. A prickling sensation crept over my brain and my hand went to my gun. The footsteps, heavy and muffled, stopped at the door. They must have followed me. Or perhaps they had been waiting - it did not matter. My heart raced. I went toward the bathroom, just as the door broke open. I ran to the window and was already on the roof when I heard Eddie Brill's voice behind me, "Your time's come, you son of a bitch!"
I scrambled across the roof tiles and slipped, falling to my hands and knees just as the first bullet whistled past my ear. A loose tile slid off the roof and smashed in the courtyard below. I turned and got off a shot while getting back to my feet. Another bullet just grazed my side, burning like hell. I reached the roof pitch and fired again as I tumbled over the other side. But my foot caught on something and I fell hard, sliding over the edge and onto the ground some ten feet below.
The breath was knocked out of me and the pain was terrible. I had surely broken some ribs but my legs were good. I tried to stand and the pain shot through my back and chest like a hot iron. I shrieked with the shock of it but kept going. Behind me, I heard Eddie's voice screaming that I had shot someone. That was one kill that would not haunt my dreams. I heard him behind me, scrambling over the roof tiles, and another bullet just missed my head. I was lucky that it was dark already or his aim would most assuredly have been better and I would have been lying on my face in the gutter.
I could not run; certainly I could not outrun Eddie. I heard him drop to the ground not ten metres behind me and another shot went wide of me. I was behind the shops now and there was a trash bin looming to one side. I swung myself into it and lay still, my gun ready. It stank to high heaven but it might keep me alive. I heard Eddie running up the alley right past me. Surely he would think to look here.
O my God, I am most heartily sorry for having offended Thee…
I heard his footsteps slow and stop. He had seen me fall, heard me cry out. He must have known I was hurt and could not go far.
Pater noster qui es in caelis…
The pain was bearable if I lay still. It was painful even to breathe but I made myself breathe deeply, trying to calm myself so that I could think. I heard Eddie's boots on the stones; he was coming back.
Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum…
"Hey, you bastard!" Eddie was yelling. "I'll get you, you son of a bitch!"
His footsteps stopped beside the bin. I heard him laugh. "Found you, asshole." He kicked the side of the bin and I held the gun ready. At least he would die with me.
Oh, my darling child… I am so sorry…
"A dumpster! Very fitting. Now you can die like the piece of garbage you are, my friend." And I heard him begin to climb.
I have never in my life been so grateful for the sound of police sirens. The neighbours must have heard the shots and called them.
"Fuck it!" Silence. He was listening. Then he kicked the side of the bin one more time. "Don't think you're safe, asshole. I can wait."
And I heard him running away. And yet I could not let the police find me. There would be so many questions; I might even spend the night in a cell and I had no wish to do that. I could hear it… "Why do you have a gun? Who were you firing at? Why was he pursuing you? We have a file on you…" No, I must stay where I was.
I heard them come into the alley, shouting and running. I could see the beams of flashlights in the air. The stench was making me nauseous but better that than a cell.
I waited, trying not to throw up, trying to ignore the pain. Tais-toi, René, I told myself. Calme-toi. Hold on. They will give up and go away.
And they did, although it seemed like a very long time. I still stayed where I was. Perhaps Eddie had been frightened off - or perhaps he was only waiting for the police to leave, as was I. But I felt myself going into shock. I would need to be somewhere warm and quiet. And I would need to have my ribs taped. There was only one place I could think of - Adam's apartment. Who else could I go to? My car was on the other side of Paris and I dared not go back to the apartment I had just fled. It would be suicide. If I had indeed shot someone… Ô mon Dieu! There would be a body I could not explain. I would be spending more than one night in that cell. The police would still be there, would still be looking for me, looking for whoever had been in that apartment, had fallen off a roof and run down an alley…
I must have lain there for over two hours. More than once I heard voices passing me. Eventually, the voices did not come back and I steeled myself to move. The pain was worse than before and I very nearly cried out again. I must be quiet; my life might still depend on it. I managed to climb out of the bin; the effort cost me great pain and I nearly fainted. And I stank to high heaven. But I had my wallet in my pocket, at least, with enough money for a taxi. I could not get to Adam's apartment any other way. Certainly, I could not walk that far. I walked to the end of the alley and out onto the street. I could not stand straight and every step burned through me. But if I wanted to live, if I wanted to see my daughter again…
A taxi stopped for me and when I got into the back seat, the driver demanded to know if I had money to pay him. He must have thought me a drunk. It occurred to me that that was a good cover and I played the part. "I have money!" I told him, in as surly a voice as I could manage. I fished my wallet out of my pocket and showed him.
"All right. Where to? Merde! You stink!"
I gave him a street name close by Adam's apartment. There was a bar there; let him think that was where I was going. It took forever to get there, it seemed. Every little bump in the street tore at my rib cage. The driver observed me in the mirror.
"Hey, buddy. You okay? Do you want to go to the hospital?"
"No," I snarled. "I just need a drink."
I heard him sigh. "Don't throw up on the seat. That's all I ask.'
When we arrived, I gave him a couple of bank notes and told him to keep the change. Before I got out, he put a hand on my arm.
"You need help, mon ami."
"What?"
"You are no drunk, Monsieur. Your beard is neatly trimmed, I do not smell alcohol on you - and drunks never give tips. You understand me? And you are in a lot of pain. I have been watching you. Let me take you to a hospital."
I shook my head. "You never saw me."
And I got out. I was near passing out and shivering. It was shock. Perhaps I had punctured a lung. I must get warm soon. And I would need help.
And perhaps they were watching the apartment. If they were, I could do nothing. I could only hope. I made it to the apartment building and up the stairs, although God alone knows how. At his door, I hesitated. But if they were inside, there was little I could do. I was dead in any case if I could not get help. I put my ear to the door but all I could hear were cats. I tried the handle and it was open. I pushed the door open and went inside, grateful to be safe.
I went straight to the bathroom, stripped off my filthy clothing and got into the shower. I stowed the gun in the laundry basket. After a few minutes under the hot water, I already felt a little better but it was deceiving. I was still shaking and it was not from the cold. I felt my pulse; it was rapid and weak. The skin on my hand was slightly blue. I got out of the shower, dried myself quickly and wrapped myself in Adam's bathrobe. I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I would need something hot and sweet. I made tea and put a lot of sugar into it. Then I fetched a blanket from the cupboard - in some ways, Adam was a creature of habit and kept things in logical places - and lay down on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around me. I had retrieved the gun from the laundry basket and shoved it under a cushion. The cats were curious but only watched me. I was shivering badly and I could feel myself drifting into sleep - a sleep from which I might never awaken. I was now feverish and my skin was damp and my breathing rapid. The pain around my ribs had not eased. It crossed my mind that I should call for help but I could not think what to do. I wanted only to sleep. And for the pain to go away.
I heard someone on the stairs but, if it was an enemy, I could do nothing. I prayed it was Adam, come back safe. He would know what to do.
Footsteps came to the door. After a moment's hesitation, it opened. I had left my glasses in the bathroom and could not see who it was.
"Oh, good Lord!"
I could not place the voice. I heard the door close and a shape came straight toward me. A hand reached out and touched my forehead.
"Dr. Galbon, isn't it?" the voice asked. "You're René Galbon, if I'm not mistaken. What happened?"
"Who is it? I cannot see."
"Oh, I'm sorry. We haven't actually met. Don Salzer. What's happened?"
"They are going to kill Darius." It was only a whisper.
He did not reply. After a few moments, he sat down on the sofa beside me and touched my shoulder. "Darius is dead, son."
It was a terrible blow, one from which I have perhaps never recovered. I turned my face away; I had failed.
"Looks like they came after you too. I don't know what you did to get on the wrong side of them, but you're lucky. Others weren't."
I turned my face back. I had to know. "Adam?"
The reply was immediate. "He's safe. But you need help. I'm going to call someone and ask for advice. Can't take you to hospital; too dangerous. Can you give me a quick diagnosis so I can tell them?"
"I fell off a roof and perhaps I have punctured a lung. I am in shock."
"Right. I'll make a call."
Perhaps because help had arrived and I could rest, perhaps because the shock of Darius' death was at last more than I could handle, I passed out. When I came to, it was morning. I was lying in Adam's bed, my feet raised, swathed in blankets. I was very weak. There was an IV needle in my hand and someone stood next to me.
"Welcome back to the land of the living," a familiar voice said. He put my glasses on for me. It was Pierre Lamartine, a colleague at the hospital, a colleague who knew about Immortals. His hair was a mess and he needed a shave; he had been there all night. "We almost lost you. I'm quite sure you don't have a punctured lung but you have three or perhaps four broken ribs and there is a great deal of bruising, perhaps some internal bleeding. But you have responded well. You are a lucky man; if the shock had gone any deeper, I would have called an ambulance and damn the consequences. I have taped your ribs and given you saline and glucose, some broad spectrum antibiotics. A lot of rest and you'll be back tormenting patients. I will leave some pain killers. You are to stay here and not move for at least three days. Do I make myself understood? M. Salzer has volunteered to stay with you. I have given him instructions on what to feed you, plenty of fluids - and no smoking." He laughed. "I know you. My back will be turned and you will light up. I can do nothing about that, but do try not to smoke. And don't talk too much. Watch television, play with yourself - just don't get up except to go to the bathroom. Better yet, use a bottle. And if it could be managed, I would have catheterized you." Pierre liked to make jokes; some of them were even amusing. "And I shall return in a few hours to see if you're still breathing."
He removed the IV needle and taped up my hand without saying anything. When he was done, he patted my shoulder and smiled. I had no idea what M. Salzer had told them but Pierre knew that Darius was my Confessor. He was kind enough not to say anything.
"Oh. And Sean is safe."
"M. Salzer was very good to me. He stayed with me until I could manage for myself."
"You mentioned a child, Doctor. I didn't know you had been married. Was that something else you erased from your file?"
I stub out my cigarette and rub my forehead with my fingers. "I was never married, Miss Thomas. Nikki is my housekeeper."
"You don't need to sound so defensive about it. A lot of people have children without being married these days. You do have a child?"
I smile at the thought. I had not intended to tell her; it slipped out naturally while I was talking. But then, the lady is also a 'love child'; she will understand. "Yes. Mathilde. She is ten."
She smiles, almost sadly. "You love her very much. And now I know who you meant by 'those I love'. Tell me - do you have a mistress?"
The question shocks me but I suppose it is a logical one. "That is a private matter, Mademoiselle. To ask this does not become you."
She shrugs. "It's a logical question, Doctor. A man with your taste for women is hardly likely to be celibate."
"Martine is my lover - and my friend. 'Mistress' sounds like a business arrangement. And I do not see how this concerns you."
"I'm trying to understand you."
I smile and finish the cognac. "I am not difficult to understand."
"You are a murderer and a liar." I look straight at her; these are the words Eddie used. "You killed people by cutting their heads off in a rage. How could you do such a horrible thing? I will never understand and I will never accept it; I don't care how repentant you are. I can forgive Adam; it's how he has to live. But you? And yet you are a loving father. It's a combination I find difficult to comprehend." And she sees it in her own father; Joseph and I are perhaps not so different.
"I know better than anyone what I did - I do not defend myself. Yet how is it your place to forgive me or not? It is arrogance itself, Mademoiselle."
She is defiant but does not pursue it. "What happened to Ben?" she asks. Her voice is slightly tremulous. I had thought her nervousness under control but I see that I was mistaken. Whenever the subject returns to Adam, she becomes frightened. She should have more faith in him; he has, after all, survived for five millennia. Still, love makes us foolish.
I signal to the waiter for more coffee; when he comes, I ask him for the bill. "Somehow they poisoned him with PCP, 'Angel Dust', and he was in the emergency room, heavily restrained and raving…"
"Oh, my God!"
I ignore the outburst. "I supposed at the time that they decided that killing him without obvious cause would have resulted in an investigation and the connection to Horton would have been easy to uncover." I shrug. "It was too dangerous for them to kill him."
"And do you still believe this?"
I sigh and drink some coffee. "Up until last Friday, yes, but now… no, I do not. I believe that Horton was convinced that Adam was an Immortal. Adam also believes this. But I also believe that he suspected that Adam was Methos. I know now that he once laid a trap for Methos and that it was sprung by Adam. It was dismissed as clumsiness on the part of an over-zealous Methos historian who had heard that a new chronicle had come to light; but I think that Horton began at that time to believe that Adam was Methos. And when he went to Adam about me, he knew. It was to flush out Methos himself, to make him reveal himself - and butcher him along with Darius. That would have sent the greatest message of all: even Methos himself was not safe from the Hunters. And I have no idea how he was poisoned. Perhaps one day he will tell me."
She sighs heavily and furrows her forehead. "I can't think of Ben as someone's trophy."
"No. It is unpleasant. But it is the truth. Unless you see this, you can never understand what drives him. And there will always be someone who sees it this way." She picks up her coffee cup and stares into it for a moment before draining it. I think she wants to ask me something but is afraid. "Miss Thomas?"
She puts the cup down and looks at me. "Doctor… is Ben insane?"
"No, Adam is most definitely not insane. Those suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder have delusional episodes, psychotic breaks, yes - American psychiatrists call them 'flashbacks' - and these can be quite severe; it depends on the degree of trauma. But these people are not insane. When he is delusional, Adam is not aware of his surroundings, he is dissociated from reality - and that is the definition of insanity, c'est vrai - but when he does not have these episodes, when he is no longer delusional, he knows that he was hallucinating. That is all the difference in the world. Do you see? An insane person does not know that he is insane. Vous comprenez?"
She closes her eyes and sighs. It is relief. "Yes, I see. Thank you."
"May I ask what happened today?"
She smiles with her mouth, no more. "Oh, yes. Stephen. It would seem that dear Stephen was rather put out yesterday when Adam never showed his face. He thought he deserved at least a note telling him where they'd gone. And he wasn't exactly thrilled about facing you - no more than I was. He sulked all evening and this morning he stormed into the bar, expecting to find him with my father. You should have seen his face when he realized nobody was there. He'd been left high and dry and he was ready to spit nails. It was really rather funny, I suppose. He can be such a prig!"
"I did get this impression also."
"Anyway," she adds, "I told him I was expecting a call from my father. At first, I thought I should tell him where they were but he would only have run off after them. So I fed him some beer. And some more beer." She snorts in disgust. "He gets into an awful mood when he's drunk. Frankly, I was quite relieved when you showed up."
"I shall call him in the morning and tell him all is well. I agree, he should not be told until we know."
"My father will not exactly appreciate it when he hears I got Stephen drunk."
"I am not about to tell him," I say, smiling.
"When he gets homeƒ Oh, God. I nearly forgot. It's Thanksgiving this week and I'm sure my father invited Azar Davani. Do you know her?"
I shrug. "Adam's academic advisor? I know of her."
She looks at me. "They're dating, you know."
"Your father and Dr. Davani? This upsets you?"
She rests her forehead on her hand again. I believe it means she is looking into herself, being honest. "You know, it does. I think I'm a little jealous, if that makes any sense."
I smile at her. "It makes a great deal of sense. Your relationship with your father is a new one; the two of you are making up for lost time. It is not surprising that you would resent sharing him with a stranger just yet. Perhaps you should tell him how you feel. Communication always saves a great deal of bad feeling later. And children always have difficulty thinking of their parents making love."
She smiles. "Now you're sounding like a psychiatrist. But I will keep it in mind. Perhaps we should go back and you can tell me the rest of it."
I pay the bill with my credit card and we walk back to Le Blues in silence. When we are back in the office, I tell her about Eddie, about what he wants from me, where he is, and about Harold Croft, that I suspect he has the tape. I cannot bring myself to tell her what is on the tape, only that it is damning indeed. She senses my shame, I think, and does not press it.
"And what can we do?" she asks.
I shake my head. I am very weary - weary in my soul. Perhaps it is what is happening and perhaps it is the memories all this has brought bubbling through the mud. I take off my glasses and rub my face and eyes. I need to sleep. "'Sais pas. C'est tard… Oh, forgive me, Mademoiselle - when I am tired, my English… it disappears. It is late and I can no longer think today. Perhaps tomorrow something will occur to me."
"I can do some digging on Croft, see what the story is on Eddie…" She stops to hold a hand over her mouth while she yawns. The food has made her sleepy; we will both think much better in the morning. "I'm sorry. I seem to have had enough for one day myself. I think I'm just going to curl up on the sofa and worry about it in the morning."
I nod and stand. I put my glasses back on and retrieve my jacket and my knapsack. "I will tell the hospital that I will not be in to work this week. I cannot consider a normal life again until this is over - and until Adam is safely back."
"I'll let you know when I hear something if you will leave me your number."
"Of course." She hands me a notepad and a pencil. "I give you my cell phone as well. And I shall try to remember to turn it on."
I write the numbers and hand her the notepad. She stands. "May I drive you home?"
"I think not, Mademoiselle. If they are watching, it is best I leave alone, non?"
She smiles a cold smile. "Of course."
"We will speak tomorrow, yes?"
She nods. Her face is a mask; there is no kindness there. "I'll give it some thought. I am not your friend, Doctor. It would be foolish of you to think that but, whatever else you might be, you are no fool. I don't know how much of what you told me tonight is true. This is for Ben. And your daughter. If it were not for them, I would consider turning you over to the Council myself and damn the consequences. And if I find you have been lying to me, I might still do that. Knowing all this and doing nothing would endanger me and my father and I cannot allow that without good cause."
It is honest; I expected no more. "This is enough."
Before I leave, I turn back to her. "Miss Thomas - when your father calls, tell him that I was in a great rage and that I have offered to string him up by his thumbs. All right?"
Outside, I light a cigarette and walk back to the Métro. I do not bother to look for a tail; if he is there, whoever he is, well, then, he is there and there is nothing I can do.
Ah, que je suis fatigué - I am very tired. Perhaps tonight I will sleep. And I did not speak to Mathilde on the telephone. On Sunday evenings, I always call. Just to talk. I will call before she goes to school in the morning. It is my birthday next Saturday. If this is over - and if I am still alive and at liberty - I will go home.
On the Métro, it is quite quiet. There is a pain in my side and I wince at it. It is arthritis in the old breaks in the ribs. They often hurt me but I usually ignore it. This night… this night, I notice such things. And it seems that I cannot stop thinking.
Yes, M. Salzer was very good to me. He knew who I was, of course, better than anyone, most likely. I was in his new database. He must have puzzled over the lack of information in my records; no doubt he suspected something, although very likely it was not that I was a Hunter. Perhaps he thought I was covering up a clandestine affair with someone higher up the ladder than I. I had a certain reputation, after all. I smile at the idea. Yes, that is most likely what he thought. Perhaps he joked about it with Adam, who would have been only too happy to confirm the rumours about my nocturnal habits. Ah, but those were the days.
I was very grateful to see M. Salzer; quite possibly it saved my life. But he avoided my questions that first morning when I asked why he had come. "To feed Adam's cats," he told me.
Of course. Adam's cats. They needed to be fedƒ
I was barely conscious for all I was awake. I thought it likely that Pierre had given me something to keep me calm, as well as the painkillers. I had, after all, been stalked and nearly murdered. And it certainly felt like a sedative. "Where is he?"
He pulled a chair to the bed and sat down, resting his forearms on his thighs. "He's in the emergency room at Hôpital Saint-Louis, diagnosed with PCP poisoning. He reacted very badly to the drug and it is quite serious."
I was not sure what he was telling me. Adam had been drugged? But neither was I in any fit condition to think and my thoughts drifted. Within a few minutes, I was asleep again.
I slept for the best part of three days. Pierre deliberately kept me sedated; not only did it keep me quiet, it kept me from doing anything rash. I was, after all, in hiding. He came every day to check on me. I barely remember his visits. We had been in medical school together and he knew that I could be very rash when angry; and I would most certainly be angry when I had time to think of what had happened - and when the grief from Darius' death came home to me. Pierre knew what he was doing.
And I could not think of leaving the apartment. Eddie would most certainly be watching for me, waiting to finish what he started.
When I was in my right mind again, M. Salzer told me that Adam had been admitted to the psychiatric ward. He himself had not realized what such a drug could do to the nervous system; he was very worried. And now I am most reluctant to prescribe medication for Adam's current condition. Yet moderate doses of some of the milder anti-psychotics might just help. It is a dilemma.
And it is good to have an ally, even one who quite possibly now hates me, although she is very upset and will likely regret her words in the morning. I have no idea what we can do. But I am sure that two can do it better than one. And what of Eddie? How long can I leave that sleeping dog lie in that abbey before I act one way or another? He will not be patient for very long.
When I get back to the apartment, I let Mazout in and pour a vodka and orange juice. I collapse onto the sofa, roll a cigarette and smoke while Mazout lies purring on my lap. Perhaps tomorrow I will think of something.
Monday, November 25
I have slept. Not well, but I have slept. I have just telephoned to Reims and spoken to Mathilde. She has a birthday present for me and is most anxious that I be home for that. You are not the only one, ma grande. Nikki sounded well; she asked me if I planned to have friends to dinner on Saturday. I told her that I preferred to have a quiet evening but that I could not promise even that I would be in Reims this weekend.
I find that I am not hungry and skip breakfast. I make coffee and take it to the sofa. I roll a cigarette and try to make some kind of a plan. As I smoke quietly and drink the coffee, I realize that I have no idea how to proceed. I call Miss Thomas; she has heard nothing but will ask those she trusts at Headquarters to find out whatever there is to know about Eddie and Harold Croft. But these things take time and I am notoriously impatient. I call Stephen. He is unwell. I do not feel sympathetic; he deserves his hangover. Last, I call the clinic and tell them that I am ill and cannot work this week. I am rarely ill and almost never take a day off; arrangements will be made for my patients and I am surprised by the relief I feel.
I think that perhaps I should go to Headquarters myself; but this is not a good idea. My appearance there would be most unusual and I have no legitimate reason to be looking for information on Headquarters staff who are not my patients. And it is on record that I was there yesterday. On the other hand…
I have almost convinced myself that the risk is worth taking when the telephone rings. It is David Gabrieli and my stomach tightens. Would I present myself in his office in one hour?
My palms are damp and my heart is racing. Not to mention the headache that has just erupted behind my eyes. Perhaps he only wishes to speak to me about Adam, tell me where he is. I have a right to know, after all; it is logical that he would inform me. But why at his office? I feel nauseous. I go to the bathroom and shave carefully; my beard does not need a trim. I have a shower and dress myself correctly. I put Mazout out on the roof and leave.
When I get into my car, I try not to let my nerves get the better of me. I have brought the gun and place it in the glove compartment again and lock it. I take a few moments to calm myself and light a cigarette. I have even remembered to bring my cell phone and turn it on. When I drive onto the street, I look for the black Honda and the blue Citroën but they are not there. Which means nothing. They could merely be using a different car; it is what I would do.
On the way, it takes all my training to keep myself calm, to keep my thoughts from being out of control. I cannot overlook the possibility that I have been denounced. I know nothing yet, I tell myself; do not anticipate what he will tell you. Speculation will only lead to uncontrolled thoughts, to paranoia. You run the risk of condemning yourself out of your own mouth, René. Tais-toi. Listen to music, think of Martine, watch in the rear view mirror. Distract yourself. I put a CD into the player, some Bach cantatas, and concentrate on watching the traffic, looking for any car which might be with me longer than is sensible. I think of Martine on Saturday night, how she looked, how she felt in my arms, her soft skin against mine - and I smoke steadily.
When I get to Headquarters, I am still in control. It is essential. I park and get out. At the door, the security guard asks me for my identification and tells me to sign the log. I am rarely here during the week and he does not know me. He asks me my business and I tell him that I have an appointment with the Regional Director. He nods politely and allows me to pass.
Gabrieli's office is at the rear of the building, away from the noise. His secretary recognizes me and smiles warmly.
"We don't see you very often any more, Doctor," she says. "The Director is expecting you, if you'd like to wait in there. He won't be long." And she indicates a small anteroom.
"Merci, Madame."
My nerves are suddenly on fire. I have never been very good with authority and avoid such situations even at the best of times. I take off my coat and sit in the straightback chair in the anteroom, then light a cigarette. The secretary calls to me that there is no smoking and I pinch it between my fingers. Merde! When her telephone rings, I jump despite myself. She answers it and tells me to go in.
When I enter, Gabrieli is writing something. He looks up only briefly to acknowledge my presence and continues to write. The room is very modest, not the one Shapiro or Anders chose. Their tastes tended toward the grand style.
"Be seated, please, Doctor Galbon. I'll be with you in a moment."
I take the chair in front of the small but tasteful Georgian desk. I recognize it; it is the same one used by M. Lebeau, brought here from the Academy. I remember standing in front of it all those years ago while he read out the long list of my youthful sins. It suits Gabrieli's modest sensibilities.
He finishes writing and sets the paper aside. When he looks up at me, there is no particular emotion, only a polite smile.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice. I called the clinic, assuming you were there, and was told that you were ill and would be at the apartment. Nothing serious, I hope."
"In fact, Monsieur, I am quite well, merely very tired. I have been very anxious about Adam Pierson. His condition is serious and I do not know where he is."
He folds his hands and leans back in his chair. "He is quite safe. He is in Scotland - with my permission. Your concern is admirable but everything is under control. I'm sure you can both use the rest."
"Perhaps, Monsieur, you are not aware of the severity of M. Pierson's condition. I would be much happier if he were under professional supervision, bien sûr. But he will not consent to entering the clinic; therefore, that professional must be myself and I must consider the possibility of having him committed. This much I can tell you. With all due respect, you do not have the expertise to judge such things."
"Then perhaps in future, Doctor, you will tell me more so that I can judge for myself."
I smile to myself. Touché. It would seem that I have been put in my place. "And if it is not to discuss my patient, may I ask why I am here?"
"I should like you to accompany me for an early lunch."
I am amused - and a little worried. "I take it I am not free to decline the offer."
He smiles pleasantly. "I enjoy your company, Doctor."
He stands and gestures toward the door.
In the anteroom, I retrieve my coat; he has taken his from the coat tree in his office and leads the way. The secretary smiles at me as I pass.
On the way out, I sign the log. Gabrieli walks to his private parking space and gets into the grey Peugeot parked there and I follow. It is not the black Mercedes he could drive if he wished; that is owned by the Company, a perk that goes with the rank of Regional Director. Instead, it is a very ordinary car, out of keeping with his own tastes. Perhaps M. Gabrieli also fears being followed, non? I go to the passenger side and get in.
He says nothing to me but starts the engine and drives out of the parking lot. He does not speak until we are on the road.
"Smoke if you wish, Doctor. You seem a little nervous today."
I ignore the remark but take the cigarette out of my pocket and light it. He leans forward and pulls open the ashtray for me. I must maintain control without appearing to be insubordinate, always a difficult game with someone as intelligent as David Gabrieli. But then, he will allow me to retain control; confident men have no difficulty respecting the dignity of others, even those they dislike. It is a fine quality in a leader. If I must have a superior, I could do very much worse. Shapiro, for example. The man is an idiot without any understanding of those around him. If he had not bungled the Galati affair, he might still be in power. Horton's legacy of destruction lived after him. Lives after him still, perhaps I should say.
"You're very quiet, Doctor, but I remember your telling me that it came with the job. Are you still satisfied with your job?"
I take a drag on the cigarette, looking straight ahead. "It's what I do."
"And you do it admirably. How is your daughter?" I nearly choke on the smoke and I cough. "You shouldn't hide her away in Reims. She's very pretty."
A cold shock goes down my spine but I must maintain control. Control will see me through, I tell myself. It is all I have. Of course, a very large cognac would be very nice. "She lives a quiet life, Monsieur. I wish to keep it that way."
He does not take his eyes from the road; he is allowing me room to compose myself. If I have been denounced, it will take all my wits to stay alive, God help me. I concentrate on keeping my breathing slow; it is a battle I am losing.
And now I notice where we are going - this is where I came yesterday after I left Headquarters. He is telling me that he knows where I was. And does he also know what I did in Croft's office? Or is he fishing? Calme-toi, René. Do not jump to conclusions or you are a dead man. I finish the cigarette and watch the traffic for a tail; it is already becoming a habit.
When he parks the car almost precisely where I parked yesterday, my breathing is deep and rapid; I am sure he is looking for such signs and he cannot help but notice. Tant pis. I cannot control everything. I say nothing; my silence tells him all he wishes to know. It is hardly a surprise that he knows I was here; I was followed, after all, although it does confirm that Blue Citroën and Black Honda were Gabrieli's men. That much is a relief. What concerns me is that Gabrieli wishes me to know.
I get out of the car and close the door. He gestures to his right - the direction of the bistro. I walk deliberately, with a steady pace, to the bistro and go in without hesitating. He is behind me. He knows now that I need no more proof; he has made his point.
I lead the way to a discreet corner away from anyone - and from any windows - take my coat off and sit down. He sits opposite me.
"How was the spaghetti bolognese?" he asks.
I smile a little. Even this small detail he knows. "It was excellent. I highly recommend it."
"Lunch is on the Company, Doctor. Have whatever you wish. Cognac?"
It is tempting but I need to keep a very clear head. "Thank you, no. Coffee."
When the waiter comes, Gabrieli asks for two coffees - in excellent French - and tells him we will order a little later.
He rests one elbow on the arm of the chair and fingers his chin. "You present me with a considerable problem, Dr. Galbon." He regards me intently and I meet his gaze. For the first time, I notice that he appears weary, a little older than last week; no doubt he thinks the same of me. He sighs and drops his hand onto the table. "A very considerable problem. You committed some very serious crimes, Doctor. Under normal circumstances, I would be only too pleased to have you arrested and executed. I would not lose any sleep over pulling the trigger myself."
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