I Am God (32 page)

Russell said yes without quite knowing what he was saying yes to.

The sheriff picked up the photograph, looked at it for a moment, then put it back among Russell’s personal effects. ‘Mind telling me how you got hold of this photograph, Mr Wade?’ he asked, then immediately turned and threw a significant glance at the lawyer. ‘Of course you don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to.’

Russell stopped the lawyer before he could reply, and took the plunge. ‘According to my information, that young man died in Vietnam. His name was Matt Corey.’

‘That’s right.’

The words echoed in his ears like the sound of a parachute opening. ‘Did you know him?’

‘We worked together when we were young. I used to earn myself a few dollars in my spare time, working as a
bricklayer
on construction sites. He was a couple of years older than me and was working for a company I was with for a whole summer.’

‘Do you remember what it was called?’

‘Sure, it was Ben Shepard’s old firm. He was based over towards North Folk Village. Matt was like a son to Ben. He even lived in a room attached to the main building.’ Blein pointed at one of the two photographs. ‘With Waltz, that weird three-legged cat.’

Without holding out too much hope, Russell asked, ‘Is this Ben Shepard still alive?’

The sheriff’s reply was not only unexpected, but tinged with a barely concealed hint of envy. ‘More alive than ever. The old dog’s almost eighty-five, but he’s straight as a rocket and bursting with health. And I’m sure he still screws like a rabbit.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He has a house at Slate Mills, not far from his old place. I’ll write down the address.’

Blein took paper and a pen, scribbled a few words, and placed the paper on top of the photographs. Russell took that gesture as a good omen. Those images had been the start of everything. He hoped that what was written on the sheet of paper represented the beginning of the end.

Russell felt impatience fluttering in his stomach like a flight of butterflies. ‘Can I go?’

Blein made a gesture with his hands that meant freedom. ‘Of course. Your lawyer and the bail he put up say you can.’

‘I’m very grateful, sheriff, and I mean that. In spite of the circumstances, it’s been a pleasure.’

Woodstone got up from his chair, and he and Blein shook hands. They presumably saw a lot of each other, given their respective jobs in a small town like Chillicothe. In the meantime Russell had already reached the door and was opening it.

He was stopped by the sheriff’s voice.

‘Mr Wade?’

He turned in the doorway and saw the sheriff’s clear eyes fixed on him. ‘Yes?’

‘Seeing as how you just interrogated me, can I ask you a question now?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Why are you interested in Matt Corey?’

Russell lied shamelessly, trying his damnedest not to let it show. ‘According to reliable sources, he performed an act of heroism that has never been recognized. I’m writing an article to draw attention to his sacrifice and that of other soldiers like him who’ve also been ignored.’

He didn’t stop to wonder if his patriotic tone had deceived such a mature lawman. In his head he was already sitting in front of a former builder named Ben Shepard. Assuming the old dog, as Blein had called him, agreed to talk to him. Russell remembered perfectly well how difficult it had been to be received by that other old dog, his father.

He followed Woodstone outside, crossing the part of the office open to the public, where a young woman in uniform was behind the desk and another officer sat filling out forms. He found himself back in America. Chillicothe was the essence of it.

Russell saw his rented Mercedes parked on the other side of the street.

Following the direction of his gaze, the lawyer gestured towards the car. ‘Mr Balling sent someone with a second set of keys to get the car. I gave instructions that they bring it here.’

‘Good work. Thank you, Mr Woodstone. I’ll tell the person who contacted you.’

‘It was your father actually.’

Russell couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘My father, personally?’

‘Yes. I thought it was a joke at first, but when I heard you’d been arrested …’

The lawyer broke off, realizing he had made a gaffe. He seemed to be saying that he’d been more convinced by the
news that Russell Wade was in jail for speeding and for drunk driving than by a voice on the telephone claiming to be Jenson Wade in person.

Russell felt like smiling, and hid it by scratching his nose. ‘How did my father sound?’

The lawyer shrugged, as if trying to erase his embarrassment. ‘That’s what fooled me. When I heard his voice on the telephone, I had the impression he was trying hard not to laugh.’

Russell allowed himself that smile after all.

Discovering after all this time that Jenson Wade had a sense of humour was weird, to say the least. He wondered how many other things he didn’t know about his father. He immediately told himself, with a touch of bitterness, that there were at least as many things his father didn’t know about him.

Russell stopped the car in front of the house and switched off the engine.

He sat for a few moments in the middle of that rural
landscape
, beneath an unsmiling sky. He had gently but firmly refused Woodstone’s offer to go with him, in spite of the fact that he claimed to have known Ben Shepard for decades. Whether that was true or not, his eyes had glittered with curiosity as he made the offer. Russell had understood why. This was a small town and being in possession of new information could make anyone the centre of attention.

The house he was looking at now was of stone and wood, had wide windows, and gave the impression of solidity. Its owner had clearly built it according to his own needs and his own aesthetic criteria, which were admirable. It was a
two-storey
house at the top of a hill. In front of the house was a lawn and a well-tended garden and in back was what looked, from the position in which he was parked, like a vegetable garden. About a hundred yards to his right there was an asphalted road that went around to the rear of the house, which was where the garage must be.

He got out of the car and approached the fence that
surrounded
the property. Next to the small gate was a green painted letterbox with the name Shepard on it in white
letters. The gate was not locked and there were no signs warning of dogs. Russell opened it and walked along the path, which was marked out with slabs embedded in the grass. He was a few steps from the house when someone emerged from around the corner to his left. He was an elderly but still vigorous-looking man of above average height, with a lined and tanned face and surprisingly young blue eyes. His work clothes and the basket he had in his hand indicated that he had come from the vegetable garden.

When he noticed Russell, he came to a halt. ‘What do you want?’ he asked calmly but firmly.

‘I’m looking for Ben Shepard.’

‘In that case, you’ve found him.’

Russell was impressed by the old man’s character. Instinctively, he decided that the one way to deal with him was to tell him the truth.

‘My name’s Russell Wade and I’m a journalist from New York.’

‘Good. Now you’ve told me, you can take your car and go back where you came from.’

Ben Shepard walked unhurriedly past him and climbed the steps leading to the porch.

‘This is very important, Mr Shepard.’

‘I’m nearly eighty-five, young man,’ Ben Shepard replied, without turning around. ‘At my age, the only important thing is to open your eyes again the next morning.’

Russell realized that if he didn’t say something, the encounter would finish before it had even started. ‘I came here to talk to you about Little Boss.’

On hearing that name, which for years had probably been spoken nowhere but in his memory, the old man stopped on
the steps. ‘What do you know about Little Boss?’ he asked, coming back down.

‘I know it was the nickname of a boy whose real name was Matt Corey.’

The reply was curt and determined. ‘Matt Corey died many years ago in Vietnam.’

‘No. Matt Corey died in New York just over six months ago.’

Ben Shepard’s shoulders appeared to droop. He seemed affected by the news, but not surprised. He stood there for a few moments, head bowed. When he looked up again, Russell saw that his eyes were watery. He recalled the tears Wendell Johnson’s brother Lester had tried to hold back.

The old man nodded towards the house. ‘Come in.’

Russell followed Ben Shepard inside and found himself in a spacious living room that occupied the whole front part of the house. On the right, over towards the fireplace, there was a pool table with a rack for the cues. The left side of the room was given over to the TV area, with armchairs and couches. The whole room was furnished in a sober and surprisingly modern style, even though the furniture didn’t look new. In the past, Russell thought, that room must have been cutting-edge of its kind. Everywhere, as a unifying element, there were pictures and objects representing a lifetime’s memories.

Shepard walked to the living room area. ‘Take a seat. Would you like a coffee?’

Russell collapsed into an armchair that promised comfort. ‘Yes, I would. I just spent a night in jail. A coffee would be great.’

The old man made no comment on this, but appeared to appreciate his honesty. He turned towards the door on the
other side of the living room, through which the kitchen could be glimpsed.

‘Maria!’

A dark-haired, olive-skinned woman appeared in the doorway. She was young and quite pretty and Russell
understood
where the sheriff’s sly comment about his host had come from.

‘Could you make us some coffee, please?’

Without saying a word, the woman went back in the kitchen. The old man sat down in the other armchair, facing Russell. He crossed his legs and looked at him curiously. ‘Who put you inside?’

‘One of the sheriff’s officers, out on Route 104.’

‘Big guy with a pockmarked face, looks like a cowboy who’s lost his cows?’

‘Yes.’

The old man nodded, as if to say: a leopard never changes his spots. ‘Lou Ingraham. He thinks the world ends at the county line. He doesn’t like strangers and never misses an opportunity to harass them. He has quite a collection of scalps.’

At that moment Maria came in carrying a tray with a coffee pot, a jar of milk and two cups. She approached Shepard and placed everything on the little table next to his armchair.

‘Thanks, Maria. You can take the day off. I’ll see to
everything
here.’

The woman gave a smile that lit up the room. ‘Thanks, Ben.’

Russell realized that his host’s idle chatter had only been a way of gaining time until he was free of this possibly indiscreet presence. This cheered him and at the same time put him on his guard.

‘How do you like your coffee?’

‘Black, no sugar. I’m a cheap date, as you can see.’

As the old man poured the coffee from the thermal pot, Russell decided to take the initiative.

‘Mr Shepard, I’ll say my piece first. If what I say is correct, then if you allow me to, I’ll ask you a few questions. But if it isn’t correct, then I’ll do what you told me to do. I’ll get in my car and go back the way I came.’

‘OK.’

Russell began his presentation of the facts. With a certain apprehension, given that he was not entirely sure things had actually happened that way.

‘Matt Corey worked for you and lived on your premises. He had with him a cat that, by some freak of nature, or something someone had done to it, had only three legs. It was called Waltz.’

From his pocket, he took the photograph of the young man with the cat and placed it in Ben Shepard’s lap. The old man lowered his head slightly and looked at it, but did not pick it up.

‘In 1971, he left for Vietnam. 11th Mechanized Cavalry Regiment, to be precise. At Xuan-Loc he met a young man named Wendell Johnson. The two of them became friends. One day, they took part in an operation that ended up in a massacre, and they were the only survivors of their platoon. They were taken prisoner and were later used by the Vietcong as human shields against an air raid.’

Russell paused, wondering if he might be going too fast. He saw that Ben Shepard was looking at him with interest, perhaps paying more attention to his attitude than his words.

‘In spite of the fact that they were there, the raid went ahead. Wendell Johnson and Matt Corey were hit with napalm. One burned to death, the other was rescued but had
severe burns all over his body. After a long period of rehabilitation in a military hospital, he was discharged, but in a damaged state, both physically and mentally.’

Russell paused again, and in the silence he realized they were both holding their breaths.

‘I have reason to believe that, for some reason I can’t explain, the two men’s dogtags got mixed up. Matt Corey was declared dead and everyone thought the survivor was Wendell Johnson. And when he recovered, he accepted this change of identity. There were no photos or prints to contradict him. His face was completely deformed and it’s quite likely he didn’t have any prints left.’

Silence fell in the room. A silence evoking memories and provoking the appearance of ghosts. Ben Shepard allowed a tear held back for years to roll from his eyes and drip onto the photograph.

‘Mr Shepard—’

The old man interrupted him, looking at him with eyes uncorrupted by age or men. ‘Ben.’

In the light of this unexpected bond, Russell asked his next question in a calm voice.

‘Ben, when did you last see Matt Corey?’

The old man took an eternity to answer. ‘In the summer of 1972, just after he left the military hospital.’

After this admission, the old man decided at last to pour himself some coffee. He picked up the cup and took a long sip.

‘He came to see me and told me the same story you just told me. Then he took the cat and left. I never saw him again.’

Russell decided that Ben Shepard wasn’t a good liar, and that what he had just told him, even if not a lie, was only a half-truth. But at the same time he realized that if he got
something wrong, the old man would clam up and he wouldn’t get anything more out of him.

‘Did you know Matt had a son?’

‘No.’

The way Ben Shepard lifted the cup to his mouth again immediately after uttering that monosyllable struck Russell as a little too hurried. He realized that he had no alternative but to let the old man know how important any information he had was.

And there was only one way to do that.

‘Ben, I know you’re a man of honour, in the best sense of that word. And I want to give you credit for that. I’m going to tell you something I’d never dream of revealing if you weren’t the man I think you are.’

Ben made a gesture with the cup to thank him and invite him to continue.

‘It’s a hard story to tell, because it’s a hard story to believe.’

He said that for Ben’s sake, but at the same time to confirm to himself the absurdity of the whole story. And the absolute necessity to bring it to an end as soon as possible.

‘Have you been following the news of the attacks in New York?’

Ben nodded. ‘Terrible business.’

Russell took a deep breath before continuing. He couldn’t do it physically, but in his mind he had his fingers crossed. He looked Ben straight in the eyes. ‘Matt Corey moved to New York after the last time you saw him, and spent the rest of his life working in the construction industry.’

Instinctively, the old man was pleased. ‘He was very good. It was the thing he was born for. He understood more at his age than many people who’d studied.’

There was both affection and regret on Ben Shepard’s face.
But Russell felt his own face drawn with anxiety. He took care that what he was about to say should seem an expression of compassion and not an insult.

‘Matt was a very sick person, Ben. And after what had happened to him, the solitary life he led all those years made his mental state even worse. During his career, he planted bombs in many of the buildings he worked on. New York is full of them. Six months after he died, they started exploding.’

Abruptly, the old man’s face turned pale.

Russell gave him time to absorb what he had said. Then, with all the conviction he could muster, he said, ‘If we don’t find Matt Corey’s son, those explosions will continue.’

Ben Shepard put the cup down on the little table next to him, then stood up and went to the window. He stood there for a few moments. He might have been listening to the song of the birds or the beating of his heart or maybe the wind in the branches. Or else something that didn’t come from outside but from inside. Maybe the last words he and Matt Corey had said to each other, many years earlier, were echoing in his mind.

Russell thought it best at this point to clarify his own role. ‘I’m here because I’m working in collaboration with the New York Police Department. It’s a privilege I was given because I had some information they thought would help them. If you talk about it to me, you have my word that I’ll tell them only what’s absolutely necessary to stop the attacks, without involving you.’

Ben said nothing, and still did not turn around. Russell decided to insist on the gravity of the situation.

‘More than a hundred people have died, Ben. And others will die. I can’t say how many, but next time the death toll could be even higher.’

The old man started speaking without turning around.
‘When I met him, Matt was in a reformatory up north, near the state border. I’d won the contract to renovate the building. When we got there and started putting up the scaffolding, the other kids looked at us suspiciously. Some of them made fun of us. But Matt was interested – he liked the way things kept changing in front of his eyes. He asked me questions, wanted to know what we were doing and how we were doing it. In the end I was convinced, and I asked the warden if he could work with us. The warden wasn’t too crazy about the idea at first, but he agreed in the end, though he warned me the boy was a difficult character. His family background was enough to make anyone shudder.’

Russell realized that Ben was reliving an important moment of his life. He didn’t know why, but he had the feeling he was the first person to hear any of this.

‘I became fond of the boy. He was quiet and touchy, but he was a quick learner. When he left reformatory, I took him to work for me permanently and gave him that room to live in. There was a gleam in his eyes when he went in there for the first time. It was the first place he’d ever lived in that was really his.’

The old man moved away from the window and came and sat down again facing Russell.

‘Matt soon became the son I never had. And my right-hand man. It was the other workers who gave him the nickname Little Boss, because of how he ran things whenever I was away. If he’d stayed, I’d have left him the business, instead of selling it to the asshole who bought it. But one day he told me he’d volunteered for Vietnam.’

‘He volunteered? I didn’t know that.’

‘This is the really lousy part of the story. The kind of story that makes you ashamed to be a man.’