The boy bit his lower lip and nodded.
‘Well look what grandpappy always carries around with him.’
The old man lifted up the left front side of his white suit coat, revealing a chrome-plated .357 revolver sitting snug in an antique leather holster.
‘What’s this now, Sam?’ he asked, tapping the firearm with his forefinger.
‘A gun.’
‘Is it like your little .22 rifle?’
‘No sir.’
‘How’s it different, then?’
‘It’s … silver?’
The old man tousled the boy’s blonde locks.
‘Yessirree. This revolver right here will stop any ol’ werewolf dead in his tracks! So you see, my boy, you don’t have to be scared of anyone … or anything … out here. I’d die before letting anyone harm a single hair on this sweet lil’ head of yours. Why, I’d kill every living thing on this earth if it meant saving you from harm. That’s how important your life is to me. Do you understand?’
The boy nodded, sniffling. He was about to wipe away the mucus hanging from his left nostril with the back of his hand, but his grandfather held up a single, stern finger, which he wagged in the boy’s face.
‘Now now, young Mr Deveraux, what have we taught you about manners? Is that how a boy of good Southern breeding cleans his nose?’
The boy shook his head, biting his lower lip as he did, and reached into the side pocket of his dungarees, retrieving a handkerchief with slow reluctance.
‘That’s it,’ the old man said, his light grey eyes beaming with pride. ‘That’s how a young boy becomes a young gentleman. Come now then, let’s enjoy the rest of this evening stroll. Don’t think any more of those silly werewolf stories, and for heaven’s sake, don’t go rifling through your sister’s movie collection for scary things to watch!’
He took the boy’s hand in his, giving it a stiff and reassuring squeeze, relaxing his grip as the boy threaded his tiny fingers through his own sausage-thick digits. The pair of them continued walking hand in hand for a few more minutes, wallowing in the warm silence of the materialising evening. The consecrated quietude of the moment, however, was interrupted by the buzzing of the man’s phone. Annoyed by this unwanted intrusion, he grumbled under his breath and fumbled in his trouser pockets to retrieve the demanding device.
‘Nathan Deveraux,’ he muttered, his tone curt and impatient. He had not checked the number in his haste to answer the call.
‘I’ve acquired the painting, sir,’ a calm male voice on the other end of the line announced, flavoured with a cultured and slightly effete Londoner’s accent.
Mr Deveraux’s expression changed instantly. He slipped his hand out of his grandson’s and curled his fingers into a fist, the contracting force of his muscles and tendons squeezing triumph through every vein and corpuscle.
‘Yes,’ he growled through teeth that were forcefully gritted with vengeful excitement. ‘Yes goddamn it, yes.’
‘How should I proceed, sir?’
‘Nobody knows about this except you and me, correct?’
‘Correct sir.’
‘You make fu—’ He paused before cursing so vehemently in front of his grandson and resumed conversing with a milder rephrasing of his sentiment. ‘You make sure that it stays that way, got it? Nobody can know. Not a single soul.’
‘You’ve been very clear on that point from the beginning, sir. I understand completely.’
‘Take hi-res shots of it right now and send them to me. I need to see it. After that, torch it.’
‘Torch it sir? I’m not sure I understand your meaning.’
‘Burn the damn painting! Don’t leave a single trace of its existence. Take it out to a field somewhere, douse it in gasoline and burn the damn thing to ashes. Am I making myself clear? And after you’ve sent the files to me, wipe them from your camera and your hard drive. Make sure you use our most secure server too. And you, you damn well forget you’ve ever seen this image. You burn it right outta your mind too.’
‘Sir, I, er, it’s a Peter Paul Rubens masterpiece that’s been missing for centuries. You’ve had me working on this case for three years now, and now that all this sleuthing work has finally paid off and I’ve found it … are you really sure you want me to … destroy it?’
‘Yes, damn it!’ he hissed, acidic venom adding barbs to his words. ‘Once you’ve sent me the hi-res picture, destroy. The. Painting! Do not let one single shred of canvas remain. Do you hear me, goddamn it?! Burn it to ashes. And now that I know you’re feeling sentimental about it, I want you to video the process of burning it, and send that to me so that I know you haven’t tried to fu—, er, to screw me over! I want proof that you’ve destroyed it, solid incontrovertible proof y’hear! I’ll expect the hi-res file now, and the video of the burning in no less than an hour. Got it?’
‘I, but sir, it’s a, it’s a priceless—’
‘I said, “got it”? So help me God, you’d better answer “yes sir” in the next two seconds, or I’ll have your ugly head in a garbage bag and the rest of you as pig feed, and you know that ain’t no idle threat.’
‘Er, yes sir. Consider it done, sir.’
‘Good. Now quit yackin’ on this line and get on with it.’
He hung up the call and slid his phone back into his trouser pocket. Glancing down, he saw his grandson staring up at him with wide, confused eyes, liquid in the late afternoon light with the too-white sheen of anxiousness, so he squatted down – wincing as pain shot through his injured leg – and ruffled the boy’s hair.
‘Don’t worry none about what grandpa was just saying, see? I know I sounded angry, but I’m not angry about you, not at all. That was just grandpa’s business, grandpa’s work, y’hear? And sometimes the people that work for grandpa don’t do things exactly the
