up and only keeled over with the second shot.
Then William put Mr. Weeks's gun back into his pocket, and left.
POSTSCRIPT
It hadn't come to him all at once, not like a clap of thunder or a burst of lightning-it never does come that way. It had dawned-in the most literal sense of the word; an eerie finger of light here, another there, a methodical pulling back of shadow like a magician teasingly lifting a veil. Then there it was-the light.
It came in dreams-dreams of Jean and Mauthausen, of piles of clothing and ribbons of blood, of a cluttered office in midtown where Jean had pulled out a picture and whispered three names. Michelle, Marie, Alain. Them.
And it came in the slowest part of the afternoon, when with nothing to do but heal, he'd sifted through the phone book just one more time and come across those three names-there in the phone book, as if they were merely a quarter away. Three names without a number-Alain, Marie, Michelle-on the D page, where the homily read Don't judge a book by its cover. A common American phrase-the kind mothers spout to their children and teachers to their pupils-the kind that would have made Jean shake with mirth. Maybe. Or maybe every time he read it but once. The day he 'bequeathed' it to Weeks. That day.
And it came at the very beginning of his miraculous recovery-his miraculous recovery coming right on the heels of his miraculous deed-for wasn't it truly miraculous how a seventy-year-old man or thereabouts, a man retired and used up, was able to track down a mass murderer, a mass murderer who'd eluded the best France had to offer, track him down and with a little help from his friends-finish him off. A mass murderer who was more than a little clever-a psychopath who from the age of nine had always made sure his guilt fell on others. Others like Jean, who'd gone to Mauthausen while he'd gone free. And the rest of the hired help, most of whom had hanged for their part in the murders. Most, but not all. For instance, the abortionist Lazlo, who'd shot himself with dope when he wasn't shooting Petoit's refugees with air bubbles. And, who like Petoit, had never been found. One or two who'd fallen through the cracks. Who'd escaped just as Petoit had, maybe some with Petoit.
And when else did it come-when did the dawn really start breaking and throw its cold light on the scheme of things? How about when he was telling the story-to reporters and to Brickman and to Leonati and to everyone who was interested, telling about the penlight and the muscle relaxant, and Fern's first words to him. My handyman saw you, he'd said. He doesn't miss very much. His handyman.
So now the shadows were truly lifting-like walking backward from an Impressionist painting, where angles turn hard and you get sense from nonsense. The sun was straining now, the glow spreading like yellow stain, and then there it was, the last piece, the piece that by itself would have meant nothing, but with the rest, meant everything. Daybreak.
Because he'd remembered everything Dr. Morten had told him-everything, about the dog, and the girl, and about a valley called Aisne too, where Petoit had blown up his leg on maneuvers. Blown it up badly enough to find himself stuck in a hospital, blown it up badly enough so that when he'd left the army with a discharge for psychosis, he'd also left it with a limp. Not a huge limp, but a limp nonetheless.
And when he'd hid behind the riotous weeds of that local lot, and when finally Dr. Fern and then his handyman had come into view, it had been the handyman who limped, and not Dr. Fern. It had been the handyman.
Don't judge a book by its cover-Jean had said. For Alain, Marie, and Michelle-don't.
So finally, at last, he hadn't.
Back at home, Mrs. Simpson would be waiting for him; Mrs. Simpson, who'd give him tea and cookies and a piece of her gentle mind for being late.
