Russell collapsed into an armchair that promised comfort. ‘Yes, I would. I just spent a night in jail. A coffee would be great.’
The old man made no comment on this, but appeared to appreciate his honesty. He turned towards the door on the other side of the living room, through which the kitchen could be glimpsed.
‘Maria!’
A dark-haired, olive-skinned woman appeared in the doorway. She was young and quite pretty and Russell understood where the sheriff’s sly comment about his host had come from.
‘Could you make us some coffee, please?’
Without saying a word, the woman went back in the kitchen. The old man sat down in the other armchair, facing Russell. He crossed his legs and looked at him curiously. ‘Who put you inside?’
‘One of the sheriff’s officers, out on Route 104.’
‘Big guy with a pockmarked face, looks like a cowboy who’s lost his cows?’
‘Yes.’
The old man nodded, as if to say: a leopard never changes his spots. ‘Lou Ingraham. He thinks the world ends at the county line. He doesn’t like strangers and never misses an opportunity to harass them. He has quite a collection of scalps.’
At that moment Maria came in carrying a tray with a coffee pot, a jar of milk and two cups. She approached Shepard and placed everything on the little table next to his armchair.
‘Thanks, Maria. You can take the day off. I’ll see to everything here.’
The woman gave a smile that lit up the room. ‘Thanks, Ben.’
Russell realized that his host’s idle chatter had only been a way of gaining time until he was free of this possibly indiscreet presence. This cheered him and at the same time put him on his guard.
‘How do you like your coffee?’
‘Black, no sugar. I’m a cheap date, as you can see.’
As the old man poured the coffee from the thermal pot, Russell decided to take the initiative.
‘Mr Shepard, I’ll say my piece first. If what I say is correct, then if you allow me to, I’ll ask you a few questions. But if it isn’t correct, then I’ll do what you told me to do. I’ll get in my car and go back the way I came.’
‘OK.’
Russell began his presentation of the facts. With a certain apprehension, given that he was not entirely sure things had actually happened that way.
‘Matt Corey worked for you and lived on your premises. He had with him a cat that, by some freak of nature, or something someone had done to it, had only three legs. It was called Waltz.’
From his pocket, he took the photograph of the young man with the cat and placed it in Ben Shepard’s lap. The old man lowered his head slightly and looked at it, but did not pick it up.
‘In 1971, he left for Vietnam. 11th Mechanized Cavalry Regiment, to be precise. At Xuan- Loc he met a young man named Wendell Johnson. The two of them became friends. One day, they took part in an operation that ended up in a massacre, and they were the only survivors of their platoon. They were taken prisoner and were later used by the Vietcong as human shields against an air raid.’
Russell paused, wondering if he might be going too fast. He saw that Ben Shepard was looking at him with interest, perhaps paying more attention to his attitude than his words.
‘In spite of the fact that they were there, the raid went ahead. Wendell Johnson and Matt Corey were hit with napalm. One burned to death, the other was rescued but had severe burns all over his body. After a long period of rehabilitation in a military hospital, he was discharged, but in a damaged state, both physically and mentally.’
Russell paused again, and in the silence he realized they were both holding their breaths.
‘I have reason to believe that, for some reason I can’t explain, the two men’s dogtags got mixed up. Matt Corey was declared dead and everyone thought the survivor was Wendell Johnson. And when he recovered, he accepted this change of identity. There were no photos or prints to contradict him. His face was completely deformed and it’s quite likely he didn’t have any prints left.’
Silence fell in the room. A silence evoking memories and provoking the appearance of ghosts. Ben Shepard allowed a tear held back for years to roll from his eyes and drip onto the photograph.
‘Mr Shepard-’
The old man interrupted him, looking at him with eyes uncorrupted by age or men. ‘Ben.’
In the light of this unexpected bond, Russell asked his next question in a calm voice.
‘Ben, when did you last see Matt Corey?’
The old man took an eternity to answer. ‘In the summer of 1972, just after he left the military hospital.’
After this admission, the old man decided at last to pour himself some coffee. He picked up the cup and took a long sip.
‘He came to see me and told me the same story you just told me. Then he took the cat and left. I never saw him again.’
Russell decided that Ben Shepard wasn’t a good liar, and that what he had just told him, even if not a lie, was only a half-truth. But at the same time he realized that if he got something wrong, the old man would clam up and he wouldn’t get anything more out of him.
‘Did you know Matt had a son?’
‘No.’
The way Ben Shepard lifted the cup to his mouth again immediately after uttering that monosyllable struck Russell as a little too hurried. He realized that he had no alternative but to let the old man know how important any information he had was.
And there was only one way to do that.
‘Ben, I know you’re a man of honour, in the best sense of that word. And I want to give you credit for that. I’m going to tell you something I’d never dream of revealing if you weren’t the man I think you are.’
Ben made a gesture with the cup to thank him and invite him to continue.
‘It’s a hard story to tell, because it’s a hard story to believe.’
He said that for Ben’s sake, but at the same time to confirm to himself the absurdity of the whole story. And the absolute necessity to bring it to an end as soon as possible.
‘Have you been following the news of the attacks in New York?’
Ben nodded. ‘Terrible business.’
Russell took a deep breath before continuing. He couldn’t do it physically, but in his mind he had his fingers crossed. He looked Ben straight in the eyes. ‘Matt Corey moved to New York after the last time you saw him, and spent the rest of his life working in the construction industry.’
Instinctively, the old man was pleased. ‘He was very good. It was the thing he was born for. He understood more at his age than many people who’d studied.’
There was both affection and regret on Ben Shepard’s face. But Russell felt his own face drawn with anxiety. He took care that what he was about to say should seem an expression of compassion and not an insult.
‘Matt was a very sick person, Ben. And after what had happened to him, the solitary life he led all those years made his mental state even worse. During his career, he planted bombs in many of the buildings he worked on. New York is full of them. Six months after he died, they started exploding.’
Abruptly, the old man’s face turned pale.
Russell gave him time to absorb what he had said. Then, with all the conviction he could muster, he said, ‘If we don’t find Matt Corey’s son, those explosions will continue.’
Ben Shepard put the cup down on the little table next to him, then stood up and went to the window. He stood there for a few moments. He might have been listening to the song of the birds or the
