Flight

She hesitated, then said, “He never got along well with my father. He left home when he was eighteen and went to college in the U.S. He was born here, you know. A U.S. citizen. Whenever he was angry at Philippe, my father used to call him ‘L’Americain.’”

“Yvette and Bernard were born in Quebec,” Marie said proudly.

“Bernard?” Frank asked.

“My younger brother,” Yvette replied. Turning to Marie, she said something in rapid French, speaking angrily and in a low voice.

Marie blushed. “Excuse me,” she said, and stood up.

“Marie! Pardon…” Yvette called to her, but the other woman walked away.

Frank glanced at Guy, who gave a small shrug.

“I didn’t know you had another brother,” Frank said to Yvette. “If you’ll let me know how to reach him—”

“Bernard died a long time ago,” she said softly. “A hunting accident.”

Frank waited, and silently willed Guy to do the same.

“Philippe came home from college for Christmas that year,” she said, reminiscing. “And Bernard — Bernard had missed him and never let him have a moment’s peace. Bernard and I were both excited — we had not seen Philippe for two years. When Bernard begged to be allowed to join Philippe and a few of his friends on a hunting trip, my father said no, but Philippe took him along anyway.” She shook her head. “It was nothing new for Philippe to defy my father. And Bernard had gone hunting with Philippe many times before. But this time — the others said that one of the laces of Bernard’s boot became loose. That is how I lost my younger brother, you see? Because of a bootlace. Bernard leaned his rifle against a fallen log, then placed his boot on the log to retie the lace. Only — the log moved a little. The gun fell and went off, and he was killed. Philippe did everything he could to save him, but there was not the slightest chance he could have done so.”

“How old was Bernard?” Guy asked.

“Sixteen.”

“The same age as Seth Randolph,” Frank said.

She looked sharply at him. “So… you see it, too — penance, non? A way to redeem himself.” But in the next moment she smiled cynically. “If the police are right, what a Judas my brother must have been!”

6

Monday, July 10, 12:30 P.M.

Aboard the Cygnet II

Las Piernas Marina South

Whitey Dane sensed the presence of his chief assistant and lowered the newspaper. The other man had not cleared his throat or cast the slightest shadow over the page Dane had been reading. After twelve years in his service, Myles would never have been guilty of such a disturbance of his boss’s peace. At twenty-eight years of age, Myles’s manners were far more refined than those of the teenager who had indentured himself to Dane those dozen years ago.

“Everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Dane?” he asked.

“Yes, Myles, thank you. You may take the rest away.”

Built like a linebacker, Myles nevertheless moved gracefully and silently as he removed the fine bone-china plate and crystal wineglass. The tall, dark-haired man was dressed entirely in white. All the assistants who cared for Mr. Dane when he was on his yacht wore white. Their sailing clothes were spotless.

Myles nodded at another assistant — a younger man, but also of hefty build. The young man quickly and thoroughly rid the linen tablecloth of any crumbs. Myles glanced around the cabin to make sure his master — for he thought of Mr. Dane as his master — did not want for anything that might be necessary for his comfort, then left.

When he was sixteen, Myles had eluded Mr. Dane’s security guards and approached a surprised and not especially pleased Mr. Dane. Although Dane, not quite as slow as his guards, was training a gun on him by then, Myles asked for his help. Mr. Dane listened and soon relieved Myles of a major burden — his drunken, abusive father — and made it possible for Myles’s mother and two younger brothers to leave the rathole they were living in. Myles moved into Dane’s mansion.

Dane had simply used Myles as muscle at first, which Myles was pleased to provide. But one evening, after he had given a year of loyal service to his eccentric employer, Dane had called the brawny street kid into his library, where he sat before a warm fire, reading a book that Myles would later realize contained a play by George Bernard Shaw. Mr. Dane had looked up from his book and stared at Myles. An elderly member of the staff had once told Myles that Mr. Dane could see more with one eye than anyone else could see with two. Myles hadn’t understood that when the old man said it, but he did when Dane studied him that evening. Mr. Dane said that he had decided to play Pygmalion. At that point, Myles had had no idea what Mr. Dane meant. That was before he acquired what Mr. Dane referred to as “polish.” Myles had also acquired a measure of pride in himself, and a devotion to Dane no dog could have matched.

That afternoon Myles did not betray his concern over Mr. Dane’s lack of appetite, although he knew Mr. Dane’s chef would be nearly inconsolable. Myles’s years in service to Mr. Dane had taught him to read the most subtle indicators of his master’s moods, and Mr. Dane’s almost untouched luncheon was a sign far from subtle. He knew the reason for Mr. Dane’s pensiveness, of course.

Myles handed the plate and glass to an underling. He took time to wash his hands, carefully drying them and checking his manicure before returning to his master’s side.

Mr. Dane had not returned to reading his paper. He was standing now, looking toward the open sea. Without averting his gaze, he made a little sign to Myles, who in turn signaled the others to leave. This was speedily accomplished, but it was some time before Mr. Dane spoke to him.

“Myles — you have had an opportunity to read the Express today?”

“Yes, sir.”