by León Melín
Never go back. Never return to a woman. Fuck her and leave. And leave quickly.
But the tears always come. There’s always time to listen to the quiet blubbing, all night long. The hook is in, then. Those hours of mutual tenderness, sympathy, schadenfreude, are barbed. From then on, it is always more painful to separate. And yet it must be done. The promise, of what ? Of what only love can bring, of what life is all about, of what life is, of life itself, the greatest present of all, made with your own hands, a little you. “Surely you’ll come back to see him, to help me, protect me, make sure everything’s fine.” And then you’ll never leave, part of you will always be there, the barb physically inside her, not just her stain on your arm; a stainless steel shard growing, in her; but you can feel it, the gut tautening between you, every move to free yourself bedding it deeper, part of her, part of you.
Never go back. Fuck her and leave. But then, there’s that special one, that’s not in the books, not in the kama sutra, the one that’s just you two, and when you’re there it’s the greatest thing you’ve ever experienced, and maybe, just maybe it will be the same again, she’ll taste the same, as fresh and new and wild and excited and she’ll do you, and she’ll mean it, she’ll want you more than anyone ever did.
And so he’d go back, because she wanted him to, wanted him more than anyone, more than anyone wanted him to do anything. Whatever else he could do, no-one would want it more. She wanted him to return more than anyone else wanted him to do anything else. As Lucas left Nicole’s room, he knew he would go back, would always return.
- - -
He walked out through the tunnel and down the lane, back to where he had parked the car. It was still dark, and he had a few hours’ drive to Rennes, still planned to be there early enough to find someone at home. He fiddled with the key which had to be turned in the lock, no remote control, and suddenly found himself pushed to the ground, strong arms wrapped around his neck, a knee in the back, stuck in the gutter between the car and the pavement. “Silence or I slit your throat”. Lucas’ arms were trapped beneath him trying to loosen the grip around his throat and could barely breathe let alone shout for help; it seemed easier to lie still – it didn’t look like he was going to kill him now, here in the middle of town, in the middle of the day, well, early morning.
Sitting on Lucas with both knees over his shoulders and his hands beneath him, the cowboy could easily control him, and started to bandage him with tape, starting with the feet. He put more tape around Lucas’ mouth and then taped torso, arms, hands and all together. Still no-one came. Lucas was bundled into the back of the car and covered with a blanket from the boot and off they drove.
Lucas could follow the driving for only a few minutes, and then had no idea where they were. The cowboy drove slowly, carefully, as though he were unused to the mode of transport, and didn’t want to attract police attention. Within half an hour at most they stopped.
Lucas was dragged out of the car feet first, by a rope looped between them. He banged his head, his back, on the car, the drive, the steps leading into a garage. He was well trussed up and that protected his arms and hands, but not his elbows and head and back. The cowboy removed the tape covering his mouth, went out and it was dark. Lucas could barely move, so went to sleep. He hadn’t slept much all night, and he reflected that the cowboy was probably doing the same.
Chapter 18 – End
When he awoke, Lucas saw that the rucksack cowboy was reading the paper, le Figaro, the Sunday edition that now cost 4€. He seemed to take immense care reading what looked like the personal columns. Was he advertising for a girlfriend ? In his job, maybe that was the best way of meeting someone.
He was sat sideways on to Lucas, the back of the chair towards Lucas. A gun, a heavy revolver, was on the table, a rustic, wooden affair, covered in apples. There was no sign of the rucksack, or the hat.
“Why did you have to kill him like that ?”
“How were you going to kill him ?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think you can just kill someone, just like that ? That you can go up to someone and just snuff their life out ?”
“No.”
“Do you want a bite ?”
He covered the apple with two huge bony hands, cracked it smartly in half, and passed one half to a stunned Lucas. Lucas had never tried to open an apple himself.
“They can’t be very fresh, at this time of the year.”
“If they’re picked right, kept right, you can keep them for twenty-four months and they’ll still be just as good to eat; just as crisp, and juicy. The trouble is the fridge.”
“In Russia, they freeze apples in sheds.”
“Yes, but they only defrost them immediately before they eat them. All your shop-bought apples are picked green, frozen, defrosted, put on a shelf for a week, and then people expect them to taste.”
The cowboy sunk to a sullen silence; the effort of talking had expended his available social energy, Lucas guessed, and he would be quiet for some time. They both ate apple.
“You could just have shot him.”
“You are a fool, don’t you know that the first suspect in a husband’s death is always the wife ? I had to shock her, as shocked as she would have been for real at her husband’s death. Do you think a woman knows how to act, how to behave ? I don’t leave that to chance. When she broke down it was for real.”
“She’ll never get over it. You’ve, you’ve traumatised her. How’s that supposed to make her life better ?”
“I wasn’t paid to make her life better. I was paid to kill her husband. Which I did. And you took the money. My money. And I’ll kill you if you don’t give it to me.”
“You’ll kill me if I do give it to you.”
“I’ll kill her as well, if you don’t give it to me.”
“Why did you leave the money behind ?”
“I didn’t. I’d only just finished with the old man when the dogs started barking. I hid in the kitchen because I could hear your clod-feet coming up the gravel. I couldn’t hear you after that. I waited five minutes, but by the time I got out, you had gone, and with the money. There’s no way goody-two-shoes could have got it, so that leaves just you.”
Lucas had already worked out that to defend himself, he could only implicate Nicole; so at any cost, he had to take the blame. If he were to delay his death, it would have to be in some other way. Lucas was absolutely clear that he would die here. The rucksack cowboy could leave no clues, had killed too often, and was too ruthlessly efficient. But Lucas would have to die convinced that he had the money.
“Don’t think I didn’t know how lovey-dovey you two were. I was following you for days, it made me sick. Fancy getting involved. You’re crazy.”
“Leave her out of it.”
Where was the money ? How had he managed to take it, to hide it ? Where was it now ? He couldn’t remember. He knew he had touched it, felt it, left his fingerprints on it. But the horror of the crime had left him only the vaguest recollection. He couldn’t remember how, even, he had left the castle: by the tunnel or by the front entrance ? Or the journey back to the campsite.
“Where have you been the last week ?” The cowboy had regained his breath, now stood over the prostrate Lucas.
“I’ve been following you.”
“No, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“No, I’ve been following you.”
“Well, you didn’t do a very good job.”
“I got you, didn’t I ?”
“I don’t look very got, do I ?” and he kicked Lucas in the stomach, hard, so that the conversation reached another of its difficult moments.
“And you dumped her as soon as her husband was hit.”
“I was trying to find you. I went south.”
“Why ?”
“To find you. In Bazas.”
“Bazas ? Bazas ? I’ve never been to Bazas in my life. Why would I want to go there ?”
“The melons.”
“What melons ?”
“I don’t know, you were going there to pick the melons. You told me.”
“Do you believe everything you’re told ?”
“Yes. Well, not if it’s not true.”
Lucas could see enough in the dark to know that he was in a barn or garage. The cold, hard, cement floor was littered with seed and dust. He could be anywhere.
“So, where is the money ?” The cowboy had returned to his questioning seat, straddling it, ready to shoot with either hand, protected by the rattan back against Lucas’ spit and venom.
“Where is the money ?” Lucas asked himself. “What money ?” he asked the cowboy.
“The two hundred thousand.”
The kick came again before Lucas could ask the question. He was expecting it, and managed to absorb most of the blow before regretting opening his mouth.
“Why do you think I know anything ?”
“I told you.”
“The money was for his murder. I didn’t kill him, and I wouldn’t take the money.”
“She told me, you took the money, she saw you.”
“She did what ?”
“She saw you.”
“No.” And then, anything was possible. Was the cowboy lying ? Or did Nicole rat on him, to save herself ?
“I don’t believe you.”
“All I want is the money. If I kill you here, I’ll just follow you back, everywhere you’ve been. Of course, I’ll have to kill a few people as I go, your friends, family, the nice couple who run the campsite.”
“You can kill them.”
“You see, there’s no point in hiding it. It’s only two hundred thou, but it’s my living. I can’t allow people to steal my work, or my pay.”
“I still don’t believe you.”
“What does it matter ? How do you think I found you ? Do you think you were in my address book ? Who told me your Paris address ? Who told me you were here in Le Mans ?”
“You could have got my address from the campsite.”
“Oh, I did, but she gave it me as well.”
Salomé ! The kick to his stomach was brutal. The woman he had lain with, whose blubbing had made him promise to return – who twisted his emotions to suit her needs, had used him to kill her husband, and had set him up as well. And so who had the money ? Nicole, the victorious. She had the cowboy and the policeman fighting each other, while she went off with the money.
“I know all about Rennes.”
“I don’t know Rennes.”
“I know about the Figaro.”
“It’s a newspaper.”
“I know how you get your jobs. From the announcements in the Figaro.”
“You’re crazy. You think I advertise in a newspaper ?”
“That‘s how they find you. There’s no other way to find a killer when you want one, without the Police knowing as well. No contract killer can survive without being known to the criminal fraternity, or the police – and often, it’s the same thing.”
“You’re stupid.”
“Well, how do you get your jobs ?”
“Do you think I am going to tell you ? You tell me where you put the money.”
“Do you think I am going to” and another kick to the stomach.
- - -
The rucksack cowboy tried to lift Lucas, but couldn’t. Maybe he was too old, or not as strong as he looked, or smaller than he looked, but Lucas had put on a few pounds recently. Since making love to Marianne, when her powerful pelvic thrusts had lifted him bodily into the air, he had been eating more to bulk up and provide more weight to tamp down on her at critical moments, in case he ever met her again. He might have lost a pound or two in Bazas, but he still struggled to get into his suit.
If the cowboy couldn’t get his deadweight into the car while he was alive, he certainly wouldn’t be able to get him in dead. Lucas was pulled into the car, possibly to be killed near the disposal site, a lake or quarry nearby perhaps. Maybe this barn was the cowboy’s and he didn’t want to leave any trace, or maybe they still had some distance to go to the real lair – this could be just his local Le Mans lair he used while planning his hit on M. Saint-Jean. Most likely, he was taking Lucas to Nicole, to confront her and demand his money. It did not look promising – he would surely kill them both afterwards.
They set off in the little car again, Lucas covered in the blanket on the back seat trussed up. At the first junction, the cowboy adjusted the seat, and as he was braking at the same time, the seat slid forward, accelerating as he braked, and accelerating harder as he braked harder as he slid further forward, till he was pushed against the steering wheel and in panic he slammed the brake full on, the seat sliding even faster forward and trapping him fully, Lucas sliding off the bench seat into the well. Now Lucas could see the Cowboy vulnerable against the wheel; Lucas swung his legs round and over and neatly kicked him in the back of the head with all his strength, breaking the man’s neck. Lucas was glad he wore sensible shoes with nail-hardened heels.
It took Lucas a good hour to cut himself free from the tape, on the only sharp object he could find, the runners for the sliding seats that had saved his life.
The rucksack cowboy lay slumped against the steering wheel, trapped against it by the car seat and attached to that by his seatbelt. Lucas felt for a pulse, but even on a live corpse, live body, it was difficult to find; he tried the neck, the wrist, the temples. Nothing. He tried to sense if there was any breathing. He wondered if it was worth trying to resuscitate, cardinal massage, mouth to mouth, but thought, probably not.
On the other hand, how was Lucas going to explain this to the cops ? Sure, he had the body, the body of the killer of M. Saint-Jean, but he didn’t know who he was or anything about him; even if there would be any evidence to link him to the killing.
Chapter 19 – Start
“Why did you kill the old man ?” The interrogation had started. Lucas wanted to discuss the rucksack cowboy, to get some investigation going, to find the farm where he had holed up.
“Why did you kill the old man ?”
“Look, the cowboy did it. You need to find out who . . .”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job.” Lucas looked at the young dry face. It was going to be a difficult meeting.
“What did you do between leaving the campsite on the evening M. Saint-Jean was murdered and checking out the next morning ?”
“I went for a walk. Look, I already told you. I am a friend of M. and Mme Saint-Jean. I arrived at their house just after the cowboy had killed him. I don’t know why he did it. I have been chasing him around France since then. When I found him, he overpowered me, tortured me, and I managed to escape but had to kill him.”
“This cowboy, where is he ?”
“He was in the car ?”
“The body in the car, which you freely admit to killing, has not been identified. The car belongs to a lady in Bazas.”
“Yes, she let me borrow the car.”
“She denies all knowledge of you.”
“Of course she does, you’ve been telling the news for a day that I am a mass-murderer. Do you think she would admit to helping me ?”
“The body has no identification marks or features and his fingerprints are not recognised in France. We are asking abroad. It looks like you just picked up a sans papier and killed him.”
“Why would I do a thing like that ?”
“You’ve blamed him for the Saint-Jean murder.”
“He did it !”
“It’s only your word against his; he can’t speak for himself and you admit killing him.”
“He did do it !”
“Exactly.”
“No, but he did.”
“We have no evidence to place him at the scene. We do have your fingerprints. We have no witnesses who place him at the scene. You have admitted . . .”
“I saw him there. He told me he was there.”
“You are wanted for double murder – hardly a reliable
witness.”
“A double murder ?! He was going to kill me. He had already killed M. Saint-Jean.”
“That is your accusation. There is no evidence. Yet.”
The other policeman joined in. “Why were you in Bazas ?”
“I was looking for the rucksack cowboy.”
“The local police say you upset a lot of children at the local school. You were hanging around their toilets, drunk, and waving a gun around. You also harassed the janitor, who had worked there for 20 years; he seems very upset, and feels very lucky to be alive, to have survived the great murderer, Lucas.”
“Look, I’m not a murderer. I was just trying to help catch the real murderer. It’s not my fault he left no clues as to who he was – where he lived. Somebody must be missing him by now; he must have been away for at least 10 days.”
“He was just a bum – you found him, killed him, set him up. For all we know, he was driving you to the police station when you killed him.”
- - -
“The prosecutor is here.”
Lucas looked up. The prosecutor was smiling. “Well, so it is Lucas. – I have been looking forward to seeing you for a long time. You thought you could escape; you thought you could hide – but you were wrong. We were always just behind you. We have you now, and we’re not going to let you go.”
“Well, you see, I was hoping I’d be able to explain to you, ‘cos this guy didn’t really understand. I stumbled on the old dead guy by accident and managed to follow the killer and eventually tracked him down and killed him. Well, I didn’t set out to kill him, I would of course have handed him over to the police. You can see I’m being cooperative.” He looked at them. They looked at him. “Anyway, he got the better of me, don’t know how, and the next thing, you know, I had a chance to get free – I was sure he was going to kill me and dump my body near the house where the murder took place. So it would look like I killed Saint-Jean and then had a fight with my accomplice. Anyway, so I kicked him. I didn’t think to kill him, just kicked him.”