James Hayman - The Cutting

She opened the box, examined the device, saw he was telling the truth, and put it back. She picked up the extra magazine and some shotgun shells. ‘Are you planning a war?’

‘You never know these days, do you?’

She put the mag and the shells back and closed the door.

‘Quebecoise?’ he asked.

‘Non. Francaise. Je suis de Montpellier. Pres du Mediterranee.’

McCabe didn’t respond.

‘You speak French?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Okay. We’ll speak English.’ Her English seemed good, though accented.

‘You’re the note writer?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘I didn’t think anyone was going to show up.’

‘I had to be sure you weren’t followed.’

‘Why would I be followed?’

‘Because of me.’

McCabe checked the rearview again. No lights. He drove faster, turning from one small country road onto another, occasionally doubling back, using the map in his mind to track every twist and turn. The Bird wasn’t a Porsche, but with its 312 V8 and a three-speed stick, it had plenty of kick and was more than passably agile. If anyone was attempting to follow, he’d either lose them or they’d reveal themselves soon enough. Unless, of course, they were attempting to follow with lights turned off. Treacherous on these roads. Especially at high speeds, even on a moon-filled night.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘My name is Sophie Gauthier. As I told you, I’m French. French-Algerian, actually. Born in Algiers. My father was in the colonial army. My mother was Algerian. Like most of the colonials, we left after independence in 1962 and resettled in France. I was two at the time. I was brought up in Languedoc. That’s in the south of France, west of Provence.’ Sophie Gauthier kept looking to the rear for signs of a following car.

‘Keep going,’ said McCabe.

‘I’m a cardiac perfusionist. Until last year I worked at the university hospital in Montpellier in France, specializing in cardio-thoracic transplant procedures.’

Transplant, thought McCabe, Spencer’s assurances that it couldn’t be done ringing in his ears. It was a fucking transplant. ‘Heart transplants?’ he asked.

‘Yes, and heart/lung transplants.’

‘Were you involved in the murder of Katie Dubois?’

‘No. Not directly, but I believe I know how she was killed and why.’

‘And by whom?’

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘Was she killed to harvest her heart for a transplant?’

‘I have no proof of that. In fact, I’ve never laid eyes on Katie Dubois. But yes, that is my suspicion.’ The glow from the dash lit her face from below in a green light that accented the natural sadness of her expression.

‘Tell me what you know.’

‘I can’t. Not until I know I am safe.’ She looked at him. ‘I want immunity from prosecution.’ Headlights approached from the opposite direction. McCabe slowed the Bird and eased a little over to the right to give the car, an SUV, more room to pass on the narrow road. Sophie Gauthier bent down and shielded her face with her arm as the lights from the oncoming vehicle swept over them.

‘Who are you hiding from?’ he asked.

‘There are people who I’m sure would kill me if they knew I was talking to you.’

McCabe glanced at Sophie and then at the clock on the dash with its old-fashioned hands. Fifteen minutes since he’d called Maggie. She’d be at his apartment by now. Casey would be safe. He’d have heard if there’d been a problem.

‘It’s a little premature to be discussing immunity,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you have to offer. I don’t even know exactly what you’re supposed to have done. Besides, I’m just a cop. It’s up to the prosecutors, not the police, to discuss immunity or plea bargains. I can make a recommendation, but that’s all it will be. A recommendation.’

McCabe downshifted and pushed the Bird hard through a tight curve. Driving fast on back roads was usually a pleasure. Sophie Gauthier’s body lurched against his.

By now, McCabe figured, if anybody was following, he lost them long ago. He pulled over to the side of the road and killed the lights. ‘Listen,’ he said, turning to face her, ‘we’re all alone here. Nobody is listening, and I need to know more if I’m going to help you. Just tell me what you know about Dubois and what you suspect. I’m not recording the conversation. I haven’t read you your rights. Did you ever hear the expression “he said, she said”? That’s all this is. No matter what you tell me, all you have to do is deny you ever said it.’ McCabe knew the reality wasn’t quite that simple, but he needed information fast and this woman had it. ‘Once I know what you know,’ he continued, ‘if you really do need protection, it can be provided.’

He guessed Sophie Gauthier was debating how much she was willing to risk. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked.

‘Just crack the window,’ he said. She looked puzzled. ‘That means open it. A little.’ She did.

He waited while Sophie performed what seemed a practiced ritual of delay. She fished around in her small shoulder bag and found her cigarettes. She tapped one out. She returned the pack to the bag and pushed in the car’s electric lighter. She waited for the pop. Finally she lit the cigarette, took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke. A strong familiar scent filled the car. ‘Gauloises?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Do you want one?’

‘No. I don’t smoke anymore. They remind me of when I was a student in New York. We thought smoking French cigarettes was cool.’

‘Young people are silly about things like that,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

For a while neither of them said anything. ‘Alright,’ she said finally, ‘I will tell you what I know. As I said, I am French. I am an operating theater perfusionist. That’s the person who operates a machine that keeps a patient alive by circulating and oxygenating the blood during thoracic surgery, including transplants of either the heart or of the heart and lungs. I was trained and, until about six months ago, worked at the Hopital Edouard des Toussaints in Montpellier. It’s a major cardiac center. We do many transplant procedures there. Edouard des Toussaints is one of two transplant hospitals in southwestern France. The other is in Toulouse. Anyway, I took my training there and afterward became a member of the staff.’ She paused as if waiting for him to ask a question. He didn’t, so she continued.

‘Transplant operations can be long and tiring,’ she said. ‘You never know when one is going to start because you are never sure when a heart will become available. So you’re more or less always on call.’

‘It’s the same over here,’ said McCabe.

‘I’m sure it is. Anyway, after an operation, before going home, whatever time it was, I usually stopped in at a small cafe near the hospital to have a glass of wine or sometimes a Pernod and water. Sometimes I’d also have something to eat. Last year, about this time, three or four times in a row, I saw the same man there, sitting at the bar. He was a good-looking man. Early forties. Tall. Dark hair. Expensive clothes. He wore a closely cropped gray beard.’

McCabe wondered if Spencer ever had a beard. If there was a picture of him anywhere with a beard.

‘Always he sat alone. Like me. Though not so tired as me, I think. Sometimes he’d be drinking wine. Sometimes whiskey. It was easy for me to tell he was not French. I thought English or possibly American. I thought perhaps he was visiting a relative who was in the hospital for a long stay. I’m divorced, and he seemed interested, so we struck up a conversation that lasted several hours. After that we saw each other two or three more times in the cafe. Once we went elsewhere to dinner.’