Greg Iles - Dead Sleep

“No,” I cut in. “Just tell us what you know.”

“All right. I think it happened this way. Wingate was casting about for a way to revenge himself upon me. One day, as he searched his memory, he remembered the story I’d told him of the famous Jonathan Glass, and of the lovely twin girls I watched from a distance: the world traveler, and the southern belle of St. Charles Avenue.”

My mouth falls open.

“A simple matter of mental association. In any case, once he hit upon it, the mechanics were simple. He sent a photograph and an address to Wheaton’s associate, made a request, possibly promised a bounty, and the thing was done.”

John and I sit in stunned silence.

“So,” says de Becque. “Jane Lacour, nee Glass, became the only Sleeping Woman chosen by someone other than Wheaton or his associate. At least that is my guess.”

“It’s a good guess,” John says. “Jane Lacour died because she knew you. How did that make you feel? No big deal, I suppose?”

De Becque’s lips flatten to a thin line. “You are near to offending me, young man. I do not advise it.” A tight smile now. “Because I was watching New Orleans for other disappearances, I learned very quickly of Jane’s disappearance. I owed my dead friend. I could not let this thing pass without taking steps.”

“What did you do?” I ask.

“I sent an emissary to discuss the matter with Wingate.”

“Who did you send?” asks John.

“A retired military man. A friend from my Indochina days. Perhaps you’ve met the sort of man I mean.”

“A persuasive man?”

De Becque gives a single firm nod. “Just so. He made clear to Wingate that the death of Jane Lacour would mean not only the death of Christopher Wingate, but the death of his line. His women, children, parents-”

“Stop,” I plead. “I don’t think I want to know this.”

De Becque makes a gesture of apology. “I merely wished you to be aware that I spared no effort.”

“But you didn’t do much good, did you?” says John.

De Becque sighs. “Some things, once set in motion, are difficult to stop. Wingate understood the stakes, and he used all his influence to get Wheaton’s associate to release Jane. The associate agreed to try.”

“He may have tried,” I tell them, recalling what Wheaton told me of Jane’s death. “Wheaton said Jane tried to escape and almost succeeded. Hoffman only caught her in the yard, and he – he ended it there. Wheaton finished painting Jane from a photograph.”

“I know that upset you very much.”

John is staring at de Becque with open hostility, but de Becque ignores him. The Frenchman reaches out and takes my hand.

“Prepare yourself, cherie. I have news for you.”

“What?”

“Your sister lives.”

My hand jerks out of his as though of its own accord. “What?”

“Jane Glass is alive.”

“What the hell is this?” asks John. “You’re saying Hoffman didn’t kill her?”

“Oui. Considering what Jordan just told me, I would guess this Hoffman released Jane, then lied to Wheaton to protect himself.”

“If Jane Lacour is alive,” says John, “where has she been for the past eighteen months?”

“Thailand.” De Becque shrugs. “I still have a plantation there.”

“You’re lying. Even you wouldn’t-”

“Save your indignation,” scoffs de Becque. “I found myself in a very difficult position. A woman had been kidnapped. Several women, to be exact. I knew more than I should about those events, in a legal sense. Normally, I would not have interfered. But this woman was special. I had no choice.”

“If this is true, you could have solved the case! You could have saved-”

“I don’t care!” I shout. “I don’t care what he did! All I want to know is if he’s telling the truth.”

De Becque nods. “I am.”

“The phone call?” I say softly. “The phone call from Thailand?”

“That was your sister. She was drinking at the time, a bit confused. She had recently learned the truth about your father, and it upset her.”

“I want to go to Thailand,” I tell him. “Right now.”

The Frenchman stands and claps his hands twice. Li appears in the far doorway like a brown-skinned princess conjured from thin air. De Becque nods once, and she vanishes.

“Will you take me?” I ask. “I won’t believe she’s alive until I see her.”

“There are other things you must know first.”

“Oh God,” I whisper, an image of Thalia Laveau in my mind. “Don’t tell me she’s brain damaged or-”

“No, no. But she endured a traumatic experience at the hands of this Hoffman. He was a man of peculiar tastes.”

Now I understand my precognition of Jane’s death in Sarajevo: perhaps she did not physically die; perhaps what I felt was the death of innocence that is every rape, the murder of part of the spirit.

“She has largely recovered now,” says de Becque, “but she is fragile in some ways. At first she required much care. Later, quite naturally, she desired to return home. I was unable to allow that. For legal reasons, as I mentioned, but also because I did not wish to stop the painter of the Sleeping Women. I make no apologies to anyone but you, but to you I apologize.”

“Please, take me to her!”

“You are on your way, ma cherie.”

“Jordan,” John says in a low voice. “Don’t let this guy get your hopes up. He’s a-”

John comes out of his chair and stands with his mouth open, as if struck dumb.

In the doorway at the far end of the great room stands a mirror image of the woman he claims he loves. Jane is wearing a white robe like Li’s, and the French-Vietnamese woman stands behind her like an attendant. My hands begin to shake, my palms go clammy, and my bladder feels weak. Never in my life have I felt such emotions, and how. could I? I have never witnessed a resurrection.

“You son of a bitch,” John says softly to de Becque. “How long would you have kept her?”

Jane is walking toward me, her cheeks red, her eyes glittering with tears. Li follows one step behind, as though ready to catch her if she falls. Jane looks more beautiful than she ever did, thinner perhaps, but with a self-awareness in her face and bearing that wasn’t there before. De Becque’s voice rises in argument with John, but I don’t hear their words – only blood pounding in my ears. When Jane is halfway across the room, I find the strength to take a step -and then to run. As I fly to her, a fleeting image passes through my mind: a tall man with a camera walks down a Mississippi road, a little girl on either side of him; one clings tightly to his hand, the other skips ahead, her eyes on the horizon. That man is gone now, but not the little girls.

It is dusk, and the house on St. Charles Avenue looks just as it did the day Jane walked out of it in her jogging suit, eighteen months ago. But the people inside are different. The lights glow warm and yellow through the windows, hinting to passersby of an idyllic life beyond the wrought-iron rail and polished door, but this is a false impression. A woman once told me that good homes have hearts. This house had a heart once. Now it has a great emptiness.

Jane and I mount the steps together, hand in hand. After much discussion, we agreed it would be better this way. Not to call first. Not to try to explain. Why put Marc or the children through an hour or even a minute of confusion? And why let Marc see her first, when it is undoubtedly the children who miss her most terribly?

Behind us, at the curb, John waits in the car. Not my rented Mustang, but an FBI sedan that let us all be comfortable. I look back at him, then raise my hand to knock on the door, but Jane stops me with a touch on my shoulder.