He had been waiting so long for this moment and now that it had come, he didn’t feel any nervousness, any sense of hurry. It seemed to him that his presence in this place was totally normal, planned, thought through.
Resting on his knees was a Colt M1911, the army’s regulation weapon. Good old Jeff Anderson, who might have lost his legs but hadn’t lost his talent for pulling strings, had got him that pistol, without asking any questions. And, perhaps for the first time in his life, he hadn’t asked him for anything in return. He had kept it in his bag, wrapped in a cloth, throughout the journey.
The only light thing he had with him.
The room he was in was a living room with a couch and two armchairs in the middle, arranged in a horseshoe around a TV set against the wall. Clearly a place where one man lived on his own. A few mediocre paintings on the walls, a carpet that didn’t look very clean, dirty plates in the sink. And the smell of cigarettes.
In front of him, on the right, the door to the kitchen. On the left, another door leading to a little lobby and then the door out to the garden. Behind him, hidden by part of the wall, the stairs that led to the upper floor. When he had arrived and realized that the house was empty, he had forced the back door and quickly searched the interior.
As he did so, he had the voice of the drill sergeant at Fort Polk in his ears.
After familiarizing himself with the layout of the rooms, he had chosen to wait in the living room because from there he could keep an eye on both the main door and the back door.
He had sat down on the couch and released the safety catch on his gun. The click sounded as dry as his throat.
And while he was waiting, his thoughts had returned to Ben.
He could still see his expression when he had threatened him. No trace of fear, only disappointment. He had tried in vain to wipe out the effect of those few words by changing the subject, asking what he actually would have liked to ask from the start.
‘How’s Karen?’
‘Fine. She had the kid. She wrote you about it. Why didn’t you get in touch with her?’ Ben had paused, and then lowered his voice. ‘When they told her you were dead, she cried all the tears she had in her.’
There was a hint of reproach in the words and in the tone of voice.
He had got quickly to his feet, pointing at himself with both hands. ‘Do you see me, Ben? You see these scars on my face? They’re all over my body.’
‘She loved you,’ Ben had said, then immediately corrected himself. ‘She loves you.’
He had shaken his head, as if to brush away a troublesome thought. ‘She loves a man who doesn’t exist any more.’
‘I’m sure she-’
He had stopped him with a gesture of his hand. ‘Nothing’s sure in this world. The few things that are, are all bad.’
He had turned to the window, so that Ben couldn’t see his face. But above all so as not to see Ben’s face.
‘Oh yes, I know what’d happen if I went to see her. She’d throw her arms around me. But for how long?’
He turned again towards Ben. If his first instinct had been to hide, now he knew he had to look reality in the face – and make sure reality looked him in the face.
‘Even if all the other problems between us were solved, her father and all the rest, how long would it last? I’ve been asking myself that over and over since the first time they let me look at myself in a mirror and I saw what I’d become.’
Ben had seen tears welling in his eyes. Diamonds of little price, the only ones he could afford on a soldier’s pay. And he realized Little Boss must already have repeated these words in his head hundreds of times.
‘Can you imagine what it would be like for her to wake up in the morning and the first thing she sees is my face? How long would it last, Ben? How long?’
He hadn’t waited for a reply. Not because he didn’t want to know it, but because he already knew it.
They both knew it.
He had changed the subject again. ‘Do you know why I volunteered for Vietnam?’
‘No. I never figured that out.’
He had sat down again on the bed and stroked Waltz. Then he had told him everything that had happened. Ben had listened in silence. As he spoke, Ben had looked him in the face, letting his eyes move over his tortured skin.
When he had finished, Ben had covered his face with his hands, and his voice had filtered through the bars of his fingers. ‘But don’t you think Karen-’
Little Boss had stood up again quickly and approached the chair where his old employer was sitting. As if to emphasize his words.
‘I thought I made myself clear. She doesn’t know I’m alive and she mustn’t know.’
At that point Ben had stood up and in silence had hugged him again, more tightly this time. But Little Boss hadn’t been able to return the embrace, just stood there with his arms down by his sides.
‘There are things that nobody ought to feel in life, son,’ Ben had said, finally letting go of him. ‘I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. For you, for Karen, for the child. But as far as I’m concerned, I never saw you.’
He had left, and Ben had stood by the door, watching him go. He hadn’t asked him where he was going or what he was going to do. But in his eyes there was the bitter conviction that he would know soon enough. And the knowledge that he was his accomplice.
At that moment, there were only two things certain, for both of them.
The first was that Ben wouldn’t betray him.
The second was that they would never see each other again.
He had crossed the town on foot towards his destination: the house at the end of Mechanic Street. He preferred to walk a few miles rather than borrow a car from Ben. He wanted to avoid involving him in this nasty business any more than he had to. And he hadn’t the slightest intention of getting caught trying to steal a car.
As he walked, Chillicothe had unravelled around him, motionless and as unaware of him as it always had been. It was only an ordinary town, where he’d had to make do with a shred of hope when many young men had moved unconcernedly, surrounded by things they could be sure of.
He had walked down many streets, avoiding people, dodging lights, and every step had been a thought and every thought…
The sound of a car coming along the street jolted him out of his momentary distraction. He got up from the couch and went to the window. He moved aside a dusty curtain and looked out. A Plymouth Barracuda had parked, the front of it facing the shutter of the garage. The headlights died on the concrete, and Duane Westlake and Will Farland got out of the car.
They were both in uniform.
The sheriff was a little paunchier than the last time he’d seen him. Too much food and too much beer, maybe. Maybe even more full of shit than before. The deputy was just as thin and lanky and repulsive as he remembered him.
The two men walked to the front door.
He couldn’t believe his luck.
He had assumed he would have to pay two visits tonight. Now chance was offering him,
