Another man stepped forward and frisked both of them, and then he turned and nodded.
The man who held Verlaine’s gun stepped forward and opened the front door of the house. He indicated with a swift nod of his head that they should go inside.
Rock and a hard place, Hartmann thought, and walked into the house behind Verlaine.
They waited for minutes that appeared to stretch into hours. Somewhere the sound of a grandfather clock, its ticking like the beating of some heart, echoed through the seeming emptiness of the house. It was all dark wood and thick rugs, and even Hartmann’s breathing seemed to come back at him in triplicate.
Eventually, even as Hartmann believed he couldn’t take a second more of the tension, there was the sound of footsteps. Coincidentally, the sky above them seemed to swell and rumble. Thunder was starting up somewhere, perhaps a mile, perhaps two, from where they stood. Soon the rain would come, the lightning illuminating the surrounding countryside in bright flashes of monochrome, the trees set in stark white silhouette like skeletons against the blackness of the horizon.
A Creole appeared, middle-aged, his hair graying at the temples, and stood for a moment at the end of the hall that ran from the main entranceway.
Hartmann remembered Perez speaking of an old man called Innocent, a man that must have been dead a considerable number of years by now. Perhaps this was his son. Perhaps employment in this particular line was inherited.
‘Come,’ the Creole said, and though his voice was barely a whisper it carried through the building and reached Hartmann as if the man had been standing right beside him.
The entire ambience of the place was enough to make his skin crawl.
They followed the man and were shown into a room that Hartmann guessed must have been at the front of the building. It was from here that came the only light in the house, and that light stood in the corner and barely illuminated the place enough for them to see Feraud.
But he was there, no doubt of it. Hartmann sensed the man.
His eyes adjusted to the gloom, and then he caught the shape of a ghost rising from behind a high-backed chair. It was cigarette smoke, a plume of cigarette smoke that arabesqued in curlicues towards the ceiling.
The Creole nodded towards the chair, and then turned and left the room.
‘Gentlemen,’ Feraud said, and his voice was like something dead and buried and now crawling its way up through damp gravel.
Verlaine went first, walking slowly towards the window, Hartmann a step or two behind him. When they reached the end of the room Hartmann could see that two chairs had been set against the wall, evidently for their audience with Feraud. The man was like Lucifer’s Pope.
Verlaine sat down first, Hartmann followed suit, and when he looked up he was shocked by the appearance of the old man before him. Feraud’s skin was almost translucent, paper-thin and yellowed. His hair, what little there was, was thin and frail, like strands of damp cotton adhering to his skull. The wrinkles on his face gave the impression of a man burned and healed, the lines deep and irregular and almost painful to see.
‘I asked you not to come back,’ Feraud said, and as he spoke smoke issued from his nose and his mouth.
Verlaine nodded. He glanced at Hartmann but Hartmann was transfixed by Feraud.
‘You did this thing for me?’ Feraud asked.
‘I did,’ Verlaine said. ‘The case will never reach the Circuit.’
Feraud nodded. ‘An eye for an eye.’
‘This is Ray Hartmann,’ Verlaine started.
Feraud raised his hand and smiled. ‘I know who it is, Mr Verlaine. I know exactly who Ray Hartmann is.’
Feraud turned his eyes towards Hartmann, eyes like small dark stones set into his face. ‘You have come home, I understand,’ Feraud said, which was the second time someone had made that comment. The first time it had been Perez, right there on the telephone while Hartmann was in the FBI Field Office.
‘It doesn’t leave you, does it, Mr Hartmann?’
Hartmann raised his eyebrows.
‘New Orleans . . . the sounds and the smells, the colors, the people, the language. It is a place all its own, eh?’
Hartmann nodded. The man was voicing thoughts he had possessed only a little while before. He felt as if Feraud could see right through him, that the man had an ability to wear his skin, to see what he was thinking, to know what he was feeling right in that very moment. Antoine Feraud and Ernesto Perez were perhaps more like brothers than he and Danny had ever been.
‘So you have come with your ironic name to find out what I know,’ Feraud said.
Hartmann frowned and shook his head.
‘Hartmann,’ Feraud said. ‘Hart-man . . . your name. You have come down here to find our heart man.’ Feraud laughed at his own play on words. Ray Hartmann felt ready to puke.
‘And what makes you think I know any more than what I have already told Mr Verlaine?’
Hartmann took his heart in his hands. ‘Because we have spoken with Mr Perez . . . Ernesto Perez. You remember him, Mr Feraud?’
Feraud smiled. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. I am a very old man. I have met a very great many people throughout my life and I cannot be expected to recall every single one.’
‘But this one I think you do remember, Mr Feraud . . . because he came down here many years ago and did some things for you and Charles Ducane that it would be difficult to forget.’
Feraud nodded. He seemed to be acknowledging the fact that what Hartmann was saying was true.
‘And what is it that you think I can tell you?’ Feraud asked.
‘Why he’s come back,’ Hartmann said. ‘Why he’s done this . . . kidnapped Charles Ducane’s daughter, what he has done with her.’
Feraud shook his head. ‘What he has done with her I do not know. Why he has done this? That is an altogether simpler question.’
‘And the answer?’ Hartmann asked.
‘The answer you will have to get from Mr Perez.’
‘Mr Perez is taking a great deal of time arriving at that answer, Mr Feraud, and I am not sure we have that much time.’
Feraud smiled. ‘I am sure that if Mr Perez is anything close to the man you think he is he knows exactly what he is doing and how it will transpire. Perhaps Mr Perez has already killed the girl . . . perhaps he has already sunk her body into the everglades and he is just biding his time, seeing how long he can keep you people interested before he tells you what he’s done. I understand that he has killed someone else already, a man found in the trunk of a car some days ago.’
Hartmann nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right . . . well, as far as we can gather Perez was the one who killed this man.’
‘Don’t underestimate him, Mr Hartmann. That is all I am able and willing to tell you. You have a dangerous man here in New Orleans, and I am sure that if his reputation is anything to go by he is capable of an awful lot more than just the killing of one man.’
‘And you are not willing to help us?’ Hartmann asked.
Feraud waved Hartmann’s question aside as if it was of no significance at all. ‘And for what reason? What reason on God’s green earth could I have for wanting to help you and your Federal people?’
‘Because he might have come down here to seek an audience with you also?’ Hartmann asked.
Feraud laughed. ‘This man of yours, he would not get within a hundred yards of me.’
‘Anyone can be killed, Mr Feraud . . . anyone at all, even the president of the United States can be killed if the killer is willing to stake everything on such a venture.’
‘I am sure, Mr Hartmann, that if your Mr Perez had it in his mind to kill me he would have made his attempt before turning himself over to you. I understand that you have him safe and secure in the city, that he is guarded at all times by a significant number of federal agents. First of all he would have to find his way out of there, and then he would have to come through my people to reach me. The likelihood of Mr Perez accomplishing such a thing is a mat
ter for dreams, not for reality.’
‘So you are not willing to divulge any further information, Mr Feraud?’
‘Divulge any further information, Mr Hartmann? You speak as if you believe I know more than I am telling you.’
‘I am convinced of it.’
‘Be convinced,’ Feraud said. ‘Be as convinced as you like. They are your thoughts and you are more than welcome to them . . . now, if you don’t mind, I am very tired. I am an old man, I know nothing more of this man Perez, and even if I did I can imagine that you would be the very last people on the earth I would want to share such information with.’
‘And what about Ducane himself?’ Hartmann asked.
Feraud turned and looked at him. He blinked slowly, like a lizard, and he pinned Hartmann to the spot with an unerring gaze. ‘What about Charles Ducane?’
‘Your involvement with him,’ Hartmann said matter-of-factly. ‘The fact that you and he have known each other for a great many years, that you have transacted certain business arrangements . . . that certain favors have been granted.’
‘You assume a great deal, Mr Hartmann,’ Feraud said.
‘I assume nothing, Mr Feraud. I merely make reference to certain things that have been forthcoming in my conversations with Mr Perez.’
‘And you believe everything he is telling you?’
Hartmann nodded. ‘I believe something unless it is challenged or proven wrong.’
‘That is a very trusting attitude, Mr Hartmann . . . and an attitude that will accomplish little but your own downfall if you apply it to Ernesto Perez.’
‘And Charles Ducane?’
Feraud shook his head. ‘I have nothing further to say.’
‘You think I should apply my trusting attitude to him, Mr Feraud? You know him, have known him for all these years . . . you’re probably more qualified to make a judgement on Charles Ducane’s trustworthiness and honesty than anyone else, right?’
Feraud smiled and nodded his head. He raised his right hand and pressed his index finger against his lips.
‘We made a deal,’ Verlaine said suddenly. ‘We made a deal that I would take care of this thing you asked of me, something that jeopardizes my job, and you would speak with us.’
Feraud lowered his finger from his lips. His smile rapidly vanished. ‘What are we doing right now, Mr Verlaine? We are speaking, are we not? I said I would speak with you, and as always I have kept my word to the letter. Now again, if you don’t mind, I would like to rest.’
Thunder rolled outwards above the house. Somewhere to Hartmann’s right he heard the sound of footsteps, and when he turned he saw the Creole standing there waiting for them to leave.
‘I will not forget that you have failed to keep your word, Mr Feraud,’ Verlaine said.
Feraud looked at Verlaine, his eyes cold and hard and unforgiving. ‘Be careful, Mr Verlaine . . . be careful or I might choose not to forget you.’
Hartmann felt the skin crawl up his back and tighten at the base of his neck. His hands were sweating, his whole body was sweating, and he wanted nothing more than to leave the house, to make it safely to the car, to drive back to the city and never once look over his shoulder.
They walked back the way they had come, the Creole ahead of them, and once they were again on the veranda Verlaine’s gun was returned.
Neither of them said a word as they walked to the car, and only when they had finally reached the sliproad that ran to the freeway did Verlaine say something.
‘Never again,’ he said, and his voice was almost a whisper.
Hartmann opened the passenger door and climbed inside.
Verlaine started the engine and pulled away.
‘Guy scares the living fucking Jesus outta me,’ Verlaine said. His voice was hoarse. It cracked mid-sentence and Hartmann noticed how tightly he was holding the steering wheel. His knuckles were white and stretched.
‘Not a man I would like to upset,’ Hartmann said.
‘That’s the problem,’ Verlaine replied. ‘I think I just did.’
‘He won’t do anything,’ Hartmann said. ‘A warning is not the same as a threat.’
‘I hope to fuck not,’ Verlaine replied, and then they gained the freeway, and the lights of New Orleans were ahead of them.
They did not speak again until Verlaine pulled to a stop two blocks from Hartmann’s hotel. He did not wish to have any of the federal agents see that they had been together.
‘You need any other favors,’ Verlaine said, ‘you can forget about them before you even think it.’
Hartmann smiled. ‘Thank you for your help,’ he said. He reached over and gripped Verlaine’s hand where it rested on the steering wheel. ‘Go home,’ he said. ‘Have a couple of shots of sourmash and hit the sack. Forget about this . . . it isn’t your problem, okay?’
Verlaine nodded. ‘Thank fucking God.’
Hartmann climbed out of the car and watched as Verlaine drove away. He turned right and started walking, and within a minute or so had reached the Marriott. He glanced at his watch. It was a little before nine, and already he felt as if he hadn’t slept for three weeks.
In his room he undressed and showered. He called room service and ordered coffee. He turned on the radio and listened to nothing in particular, and then he lay on his bed and wished this had never begun.
And then the storm began – suddenly, violently – and the sound of rain rushing down from the sky and hammering against the roof of the hotel was almost deafening. Hartmann turned over and buried his head beneath the pillow. Still the noise was there, ceaseless and unrelenting. The whiplash snap of lightning, and back of that the rolling mountain of thunder that escalated until it seemed the whole sky was charged with its force and momentum.
The sound was perhaps some help, for within it Hartmann found it difficult to think. He recalled these same storms from his early childhood, both he and Danny as tiny children crouched beneath the covers while their father told them that somewhere God was angry, but not with them, and so there was no need to be afraid, and from the landing the sound of their mother’s voice telling them that big boys weren’t afraid of storms. Hartmann closed his eyes, closed everything down, and somehow managed a brief respite from what was happening to his life.
Within twenty minutes he was asleep – quietly, gratefully asleep – and he did not wake until the telephone rang with his alarm call on Tuesday morning.
It was 2 September, and he had only four days until his life reached yet another watershed.
He rose without delay, he showered and dressed, but his mind was elsewhere, unable to find any real point of anchorage, and only when Sheldon Ross came to get him did he realize he was on his way back to the Field Office.
Another day, another handful of hours seated in the cramped and airless room.
Another dark catastrophe of visions courtesy of Ernesto Cabrera Perez.
When he arrived he was acutely aware of how empty the place was in comparison to the previous days. Schaeffer was present, as was Woodroffe, but apart from them he saw only two or three additional agents.
On each wall of the main outer office Schaeffer had positioned a large monochrome photograph of Catherine Ducane. Hartmann paused and looked at the face staring back at him. The picture showed Catherine at perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. She was a pretty girl, but innocent and vulnerable.
‘Looks like my brother’s daughter,’ Woodroffe said, and Hartmann started nervously. He had been miles away, thinking that when Jess was such an age she would look perhaps very similar. Maybe that was Schaeffer’s intention: to give them all something, to keep it there in their minds at all times. They were looking for someone, a real person, not only a real person but a frightened and confused teenage girl who had no idea why she’d been taken.
Hartmann said nothing. He turned and made his way through to where Schaeffer was waiting. In the man’s eyes he could see the question that didn’t need to be verbalized.
Schaeffer sh
ook his head. ‘Nothing yet,’ he said. ‘I got sixty men putting hundreds of miles on their wheels and between them they have come back with nothing.’
Hartmann merely nodded and took a seat at the table beyond the small office where he would sit with Perez.
Perez was controlling them all, like some sort of chess grand master. Everything they were doing had been predicted by him, every eventuality had been taken into consideration, and – in all honesty – Hartmann believed that whatever they did, whatever effective action Schaeffer might instigate, they would be seated there for as long as it took for Perez to finish what he had to say.
And then the man came, and Hartmann turned and saw him walking down the length of the open plan office, an agent on each side of him. He was going nowhere – they all knew that, and he was going nowhere merely because he intended it to be that way.
Hartmann rose to his feet. He nodded at Perez as Perez walked past him. Perez smiled, entered the narrow room at the end and Hartmann walked in behind him.
Once seated, Perez steepled his fingers together and closed his eyes. He seemed to inhale deeply, exhale once more, as if performing some kind of ritual.
‘Mr Perez?’ Hartmann asked.
Perez opened his eyes. Hartmann imagined he heard a dry clicking sound, like a lizard sunbathing on a rock.
‘Mr Hartmann,’ Perez whispered.
Hartmann felt his skin crawl. There was something tremendously unnerving about the mere presence of the man.
‘I have been thinking,’ Perez said. ‘Considering the possibility that we may run out of time.’
Hartmann frowned.
‘It seems that the more I tell you of my life the more there is to tell. I was thinking only last night of another aspect of how these things have come about, and though I had never intended to tell you of them I feel they are integral to obtaining a full understanding of the situation within which we find ourselves.’
‘I’m listening,’ Hartmann said, ‘but I must urge you to tell me whatever you wish as quickly as possible. It would seem to be a pointless exercise if the girl dies.’
Perez laughed. ‘Not at all, Mr Hartmann. She is alive as long as I tell you she is alive. She could be dead even now. The beauty of this situation is that I am the only person who knows where she is . . . even Catherine Ducane herself has no idea where she is imprisoned. Until I tell you where to find her you will have to hear me out.’
R. J. Ellory Page 27