Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion

by Joseph Flynn

  “Not my girlfriend,” he said, “my wife.”

  “Congratulations,” McGill said.

  “Bonne chance,” Pruet added.

  Winfield House, London

  6

  SAC Celsus Crogher knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into the office the president was using at Winfield House. When he’d been summoned, he thought it had something to do with Holly G’s meeting with the queen that afternoon. Some item of royal protocol had probably clashed with Secret Service procedure, calling for a compromise on his part. Crogher hated security compromises. But the longer the president kept him waiting, standing mutely before her desk as she finished writing a note on presidential stationery, the more he thought he’d been summoned to answer for a personal fuckup. Normally, he’d have tried to sneak a peek at the contents of the presidential message, but just then he had the feeling he’d better keep his eyes front.

  At two minutes and forty-two seconds, by his internal count, the president looked up. “Please take a seat, Celsus.”

  He did as instructed, maintaining an erect posture.

  “I’d tell you to relax, if I didn’t know that would make you uncomfortable.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the SAC said.

  “So I’ll get right to the point. Did you enjoy your trip to Paris?”

  A normal person might have blushed. The SAC himself had even shown a hint of color recently. But this time Crogher only grew more pallid.

  There should have been no way Holly G could know about that … unless McGill had ratted him out. It would be just like—

  “No one betrayed you, Celsus,” the president told him, as if she were reading his mind. “Not any of your people. Not Jim, either, if I’m correct in assuming that’s who you went to see.”

  As the president hadn’t addressed a direct question to him, Crogher remained silent, still trying to work out who—

  “Galia,” the president said, doing her clairvoyant thing again. “Among everything else the chief of staff does for me, she counts noses. She takes inventory of everyone who’s in his place and everyone who isn’t. When someone as prominent as the SAC of the White House Security Detail vanishes for the better part of the day, she brings it to my attention. I made a phone call and learned where you went. Would you care to explain your absence in detail, Celsus?”

  Crogher went as white as a week-old corpse. What the hell was he supposed to say? He was worried that the president of the United States was philandering with the president of France and her husband ought to know about it? If only so McGill could give the frog the boot and the SAC could reestablish his normal security routine for POTUS.

  He couldn’t bring himself to say that, but he had to say something.

  Crogher went with a partial truth. “I felt compelled to tell Mr. McGill that as risky as his insistence on a minimal security presence is at home, it is far more hazardous abroad.”

  The president straightened in her seat, and Crogher saw her wince as the pressure increased on her bruised bottom.

  “Do you have any credible information of a specific threat against my husband?”

  Now, they were back on familiar ground. Crogher felt a swell of anger. He answered bluntly, “Ma’am, Mr. McGill’s rejection of a sufficient Secret Service detail constitutes a daily threat to his well being. By extension, any misfortune that might befall him could distract you from the optimum execution of your office, and that would be a disservice to the nation.”

  The president’s eyes narrowed and her face hardened.

  “SAC Crogher, I assure you that I will never fail either my husband or my country. If the day should ever come that I cannot be true to both my wedding vows and my oath of office, I will invoke Section Three of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment. Vice President Wyman will act in my stead and, I’m sure, perform with distinction.”

  Crogher thought to himself, Christ Almighty, that’s why this woman was president. He was the guy who carried an Uzi, but she made him feel as if she could jump across that desk and rip his heart out. Which, in the very next minute, she did.

  “You have my apology, Celsus.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “When you wanted to leave the White House, I should have accommodated you.”

  Crogher did something he couldn’t remember ever doing before, he let his body go limp.

  “When you leave this office,” the president continued, “please write your letter of resignation, send it to the director, and have him forward a copy to me. By presidential order, you will receive a year’s severance pay in recognition of meritorious service. I’m sorry things didn’t work out, but the world has changed, and you seem wedded to the past. Jim McGill is only the first man to be married to a president. Some of his successors may well be malleable fellows, but others are bound to be … henchmen. The people doing your job — and mine — will have to learn to deal with that.”

  The SAC sat motionless until the president told him, “You may go now, Mr. Crogher.

  En route to Hôpital Saint-Antoine, Paris

  7

  Pruet rode in the Peugeot with McGill and Gabbi to visit Arno Durand at the hospital. In the magistrate’s Citroën, following behind, Odo transported a laboriously revived, and handcuffed Diana Martel. The stripper was happy to be freed from the bastards who had kidnapped her — she couldn’t remember who her captors were; they’d drugged her and the whole experience was a blur — but she was not pleased to be informed that she was being held as an accessory to the death of Thierry Duchamp.

  She remembered Thierry quite clearly, but refused to say a word about him or anything else. Except to mutter cochon — pig — in Odo’s direction at regular intervals. Every time she did, Odo would glare at her. He gladly would have beaten the putain for her insolence, had he not been working for Yves Pruet.

  In the Peugeot, McGill asked Pruet if the magistrate would mind if he made a call home from the car. McGill didn’t think a conversation with his youngest child would require privacy. Caitie was an early riser and if he had the time difference right, she should just be getting out of bed, taking that day’s step in her plan for world conquest.

  The magistrate said, “By all means.”

  As McGill hit speed dial and waited for the call to be routed, Gabbi paid attention to her driving. Pruet, sitting in back, courteously gazed out the window.

  Reaching his ex-wife’s home in Evanston, Illinois, McGill said, “Hello, may I please speak with Miss Caitlin Rose McGill, heiress to the cinematic tradition of Shirley Temple.”

  After a laugh, his ex-wife, Carolyn, said, “You’re dating yourself, bud. Not one kid in a hundred would recognize Shirley Temple’s name, including our little Miley Cyrus.”

  “Shirley has become Miley?” McGill asked. “Let me make note of that.”

  “How’s London?” Carolyn asked.

  As far as the general public knew, McGill was keeping Patti company in the UK.

  “Very English,” he said, “you hardly need any subtitles at all.”

  He’d tell Carolyn the truth afterward, when spilling the beans wouldn’t matter.

  “Is that Dad?” a voice piped up. Caitie.

  “We have a princess here, too,” his ex told him. “She’d like to speak with you.”

  “You and Lars are well?” McGill asked.

  “Healthy and happy, thank you.”

  “And how come I haven’t heard from Kenny lately?” McGill wanted to know.

  “That would be the doing of Miss Liesl Eberhardt.”

  “Kenny has a girlfriend?” McGill asked in wonder.

  “Come on, Mom,” Caitie intruded. “Nobody cares about that mushy stuff.”

  McGill said, “God help us all when she gets a crush on somebody.”

  Carolyn laughed again, but said, “I better surrender the phone before she stares a hole in me.”

  A half-second later, McGill’s youngest child said, “Dad, did you read the script? Can I do the movie, pleeeeeeease? Annie said
they won’t wait much longer.”

  McGill knew when a batter was expecting a fastball, it was time to throw her a curve. Likewise, when a child expected to be treated like a child, it was time to ask her to imagine herself as an adult.

  “Caitie, I’m wondering something, as I haven’t read the script yet.”

  “You haven’t? Oh, Dad!” Caitie stopped in mid-whine. She was sharp, realized they hadn’t gotten to the important part yet. “What are you wondering?”

  “I’m wondering when you go off to college, will you think it’s cool to have your friends see you in this movie or will you be embarrassed if they see it? And a little farther into the future, how would you feel about having your kids see it?”

  “Kids? Dad, I’m eleven years old.”

  “Now, but not forever. I guess what I’m thinking is, do you really like this script or is it the idea of being in a movie you like?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then: “You asked me three things.”

  McGill thought, as he had many times before, Caitie should be a lawyer.

  “Pick one,” he said.

  “I … think it’s the idea.” She continued in a defeated voice. “By the time I get to college, this story probably will seem lame. But does that mean I shouldn’t do anything now because it’ll be dorky later?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I’m a little reassured you might consider this movie lame. It makes me more inclined to let you do it.”

  “Great. Caitie McGill, lame-o actress.”

  McGill had to stop himself from laughing out loud.

  “Sweetie’s going to read the script,” he said. “She might think the part is a classic, will hold up for a hundred years.”

  “But if she’s right, Annie said there isn’t much time.”

  “Honey, let me have your agent’s phone number. I’ll call her.”

  “You will?”

  “We’ll work something out. If these movie people have a real interest in you, this won’t be your only opportunity. But I wouldn’t worry too much. You’re going to make your mark in this world, one way or another.”

  “I know, Dad. I’m still going to be president. But I thought I should get my start in the movies, like Patti.”

  Thank God she didn’t want to start in modeling, like Patti, McGill thought. But, who knew, that might come, too.

  “Trust me, things will work out. I heard about Kenny, but how’s Abby doing? Is she around?”

  “No, she’s at Jane Haley’s house. They’re looking at college websites. Since they finished last year at Saint Viv’s tied for number one in their class, they’re thinking of going to the same school, like a team. One won’t go unless the other’s accepted, too.”

  “That’s interesting,” McGill said.

  Made it tougher for a school to unduly favor Abby.

  He wondered if such a notion would fly with an admissions officer.

  “Oh, and Sweetie got Abby not to change her last name.”

  McGill smiled. “That’s good. What about you? If you get into the movies, are you going to change your name?”

  “Heck no,” Caitie said. “If they want me, they can take me the way I am.”

  Eleven years old, and Caitie wasn’t going to let anyone push her around.

  McGill couldn’t have been happier. He told Caitie he loved her.

  She gave him her agent’s phone number.

  A moment after the call ended, Pruet addressed McGill. “If I am not being impolite, m’sieur, may I ask a question or two about your family?”

  McGill took a look over his shoulder at Pruet. “Go ahead. I’ll let you know if your questions are out of bounds.”

  “You spoke with your daughter and her mother, your ex-wife?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You maintain a civil relationship with your former wife?”

  “We were childhood friends. Now, we’re adult friends. The marriage and the kids happened in between. I love my children more than life, but the farther away I get from my marriage with Carolyn, the more I ask myself how it ever happened. We should have stayed just friends.”

  The magistrate nodded and said, “Quite a candid answer, m’sieur.”

  Gabbi gave McGill a look. She had thought so, too.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to watch that. Next thing you know, I’ll be on Oprah.”

  Gabbi laughed, but Pruet missed the meaning of the reference.

  “La première présentatrice de télévision des États-Unis,” Gabbi said.

  McGill didn’t catch that mouthful, but he figured it took a lot to explain Oprah.

  With that cleared up, Pruet moved on.

  “Your relationship with your children…”

  The magistrate let the question hang, perhaps thinking it too personal.

  But McGill said, “What about it?”

  “Does your concern for them ever weigh on you as you go about your work?”

  McGill looked at the magistrate again. He knew Gabbi, too, was paying as much attention as she could without running into the back of a tour bus.

  “You mean will I worry about my kids when we go after The Undertaker? Not in the heat of the moment. There’s no time then. But before … thinking of my children, my wife, and even my ex-wife makes me one very careful fellow. I do my best to plan ahead.”

  “Je suis heureux de l’entendre,” Pruet said.

  McGill looked at Gabbi for help.

  She told him, “Magistrate Pruet is glad to hear that.”

  Annandale, VA

  8

  Enid Crowther, the housekeeper at the rectory of St. Magnus’s parish, knew Father Nguyen’s schedule to a fare-thee-well. After saying 6:30 a.m. Mass, he took refuge in his office for thirty minutes of prayer and personal reflection. Only then did he think of corporal sustenance and take a breakfast of fruit, cereal, and a cup of lightly honeyed tea. When he hadn’t emerged at the usual time, Enid gave him an additional five minutes. When he still remained inside his office, she gave him five more minutes.

  At that point, Enid began to worry. She pressed her ear lightly against the door. Not a sound to be heard. Father Nguyen was a relatively young man, she knew. But of late she’d also seen an unusual degree of concern written into his normally serene face. Maybe Father had a medical condition he was reluctant to share with anyone.

  Enid would never forgive herself if Father was lying on the floor in need of aid, unable to call out for help, and she left him there to expire.

  She knocked gently on the door, and got no response.

  She knocked harder and—

  “If that’s you, Enid, please come in.”

  Father’s voice sounded absolutely normal. Her heart slowed. She sighed quietly in relief and opened the door. Father was seated behind his desk, apparently not praying at all. He had a pen in his hand and a sheet of paper in front of him.

  Francis Nguyen was writing his letter of resignation from pastoral duties, but not the priesthood. He put the sheet of paper in a desk drawer before his housekeeper could read his words.

  “How may I help you, Enid?” Father Nguyen asked.

  “I’m facing a bit of a puzzle, Father.”

  “A question of faith?”

  “No, Father, a question of laundry.”

  The priest regarded his housekeeper with a look of incomprehension.

  Then he smiled. “Well, I’m not sure I can help, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “Father, have you taken up drawing?”

  He was back to being puzzled.

  “No.”

  “Then I’m at a loss,” Enid said.

  “As am I. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  “Yes, Father. I was doing your laundry. Followed my laundry routine exactly as I always do. Used the same detergent and, of course, I used the washer and drier here at the rectory.”

  Father Nguyen nodded, but he didn’t see where Enid’s story was leading.

  She showed him, taking a dust cloth fr
om her pocket.

  “Father, this looks to me like the cloth you always use to tidy up the altar. It was among your clothes in the laundry basket. I noticed nothing unusual about it when I put it in the washer, but look at it now.”

  She unfolded the cloth and there was the likeness of a man’s face. It was masterfully done, a composition of line and shading. The work was of such sensitivity that Father Nguyen half-expected the man’s likeness to start speaking to him.

  “Father, I rewashed this cloth three times, with bleach,” Enid said, “and this drawing won’t come out. In fact, I’d swear each washing only made it more … beautiful. I thought maybe you had done it and I’d better stop trying to get it out.”

  Father Nguyen extended his hand and Enid gave him the cloth.

  As soon as he had it in hand, it did speak to him. At least insofar as keying his memory. The young woman named Kay, new to his church, soon to be married, despairing that her father, dead many years, would be unable to see her wedding. She’d been crying and he’d offered her the dust cloth to dry her tears.

  She had asked him if he had a miracle up his sleeve.

  She had needed a sign that her father would see her wedding.

  Looking at the image Mrs. Crowther said was indelible, Francis Nguyen could see the resemblance between the man’s likeness and the young woman, Kay. Doing his best to control himself, he thanked Mrs. Crowther for bringing the cloth to his attention. But by the time the housekeeper left his office, he was trembling.

  How, he wondered, could something be both a miracle and a mistake?

  He was certainly unworthy of receiving such a clear example of God’s grace.

  If only his well-being were involved, he would have burned the cloth.

  But if the image were indeed a likeness of Kay’s father … he would have to show it to her.

  Hôpital Saint-Antoine, Paris

  9

  Walking into Arno Durand’s hospital room a second time, seeing him with all four limbs in casts, his head bandaged, and a white cotton shirt covering his torso, McGill thought he resembled the “soldier in white” from Catch-22. Only Durand’s face wasn’t covered, except in bruises, which had ripened colorfully overnight. So much the better, as far as McGill was concerned. Also, unlike Joseph Heller’s character, Durand was not mute.