An hour later he stepped into the tiny post office on the tiny square and asked the postmaster if he knew any Cooper-Ellis still extant and the man shook his head. He wasn’t much older than Hank. Hank asked him who was the oldest old-timer still in town. Dottie Caulkins, must be ninety-plus. He got directions, and a mile from town, in a dark pine wood beside a black-water creek that was not yet frozen, he knocked on the door of a run-down farmhouse with an ancient and rusted log skidder parked to the side. The house had once been white and the skidder yellow, and they were both weathered now to almost the same nameless dun. She came to the door on the fifth knock. She held a bent-handled cane and did not invite him in.
“Cooper-Ellis?” she said in a strong, frayed voice. “I knew ’em all.” Nothing about the way she said it betrayed good nor bad.
“Are there any relatives still—”
“Alive?” She actually laughed. “Alive is all anybody cares about. Might be overrated.” The laugh again. It occurred to Hank that she might be crazy—with years, with watching so many things pass.
She took a tissue from a pocket on her dressing gown and dabbed the corners of her eyes. “No, they ain’t. Not any I know about. The boy died—in the war—then the parents died. Stove fire they said.”
“The house?”
“Gone. Gone gone gone. Where Dr. Dixon lives now with that pretty wife.”
“Did the boy, the boy Silas—”
“Died in the war.”
“Yes. Did he have a… a child?”
“A child? He died in the war. How could he have a child? Don’t you remember a thing? If he saw a girl a half mile away he’d run the other way. The boy never said a word. Not a damn word.”
Hank thanked her and she slammed the door.
For the next two years, while he was still in New Hampshire, he drove over and visited Sandwich and the cemetery maybe half a dozen times. He never found out anything he could ever use in connecting Silas to his mother, but he liked walking the dirt road along the stone wall above the big field, and for some reason he liked visiting Silas’s grave. He’d sit and speak about whatever was on his mind, and if it was summer he’d often stay to watch the swallows hunt in the long light of the late afternoon.
Fernanda Muños was not at home in New York. Or she did not answer her phone. Nor did she pick up at the number they had in Valparaiso. Dead end, for now. Celine sat on the bed. She did not look frustrated. She pursed her lips and dialed the New York number again. This time an answer.
A sleepy voice said, “Bueno?”
“Hello, Señora Muños? My name is Celine Watkins. I am an artist, just about your age, and I am also a private eye…”
Safe to say that in the richly colored life of Fernanda de Santos, she had never heard an introduction like this before. She was not put off. Even through a phone line, one could tell immediately that Celine Watkins had heft: She was not going to waste your time. The two chatted for almost fifteen minutes. The conversation might have concluded sooner, except that Fernanda sometimes lapsed into Spanish. She said, “Yes, I remember Paul Lamont. Who wouldn’t? The famous photographer from National Geographic. He was brilliant. But even so, even then, if he had not been so good… Pues—todavia el nos hubiera encantado. Even Allende.”
“You mean that he came to the palace? The presidential palace.”
“Yes, he came to some of the parties. It was not unusual. Many illustrious visitors came. All the embassies invited whomever was in town.”
“My God,” Celine whispered. She coughed once, cleared her throat. “Excuse me. You say you fled the country before the coup?”
“An anteater could have seen what was coming. You know I did a large and rather famous Chilean Guernica. This was an echoing of the disgust with Franco, with all fascists. My affiliations were well known. No, I was not at all popular with the generals.”
“Wow,” Celine murmured to herself. And to Señora Muños: “This is hugely helpful. Thank you so much.”
Pete had learned that the hotter the chase became, the more his wife’s mind clarified, like warming butter. Now she seemed dazed. “He was there,” she said. Her voice was husky. “Lamont. He was a great charmer, greater even than we had imagined. He charmed himself right into the presidential palace.” It occurred to Pete that the case had become personal. They all were, to an extent. But this one had become more so; it had had a certain charge right from the beginning, and the Quiet American now understood that Lamont may have been as charming, and as prodigal, as Harry Watkins.
She coughed. She patted her mouth with a Kleenex and straightened. “There is a photograph, Pete. What all this is about. I know. Now we have to call Gabriela. We’ll use the phone in the motel office.”
The owner of the Yellowstone Lodge was home. He had a gray beard to his sternum and rivaled Pete in volubility. Not much could impress him or ever would. Celine got the impression that when the Grim Reaper showed up with his scythe the proprietor would show him to one of the rooms with a moose print and tell him to cool his bony heels. He waved them to a phone.
Celine had a strong hunch and she was eager to test it. From what she was learning of Lamont, of how his mind worked, she was certain that he would place the two most important photographs of his life in the same frame. The one, of the darkest thing he had ever witnessed; the other, of the greatest love he had ever known, and lost. There was a weird and awful logic there that Celine, who coupled death and beauty in her own art, could appreciate. She would have bet a significant sum. When Gabriela answered, she was brisk. “Remember how your dad would give you pictures of Amana? How he’d slip the one picture behind another?” she said. “I want you to check the one on the ferry, your favorite. Open the frame. And call me back in five minutes at Poli’s Restaurant.” She hung up. They walked across the street. Celine walked fast and her breathing was clear. The phone rang as soon as they got to the counter.
“I—I have it.” Gabriela’s voice shook. “Christ.”
“Listen, Gabriela, we don’t have long. It’s a body.”
“Yes.”
“There’s a man beside it?”
“Two… two men.” The girl was holding it together, barely. Good.
“One looks familiar,” Celine said.
“Yes. Oh, God. Younger, young, but. Vice pres—”
“Makes sense. The other?”
“I don’t know. Latin. A soldier. Wait… there’s something here—”
“What? What is it?”
“On the back, something written. It’s Pop’s hand. Hold on.” Slowly she made it out: “It says, Francisco Peña de la Cruz, La Moneda.”
“La Moneda is the presidential palace. That would have been the day of the coup.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know, we’ll find out. Jesus. Right. Okay. Take your son now. Right now. Is he—”
“He’s here, he’s here.” Gabriela’s voice sounded strong and clear again. A bit afraid, but excited, too. That’s my girl, Celine thought. This is one to ride the river with.
“Okay, don’t pack a bag. This is just for a couple of days, I promise you. I want you to get in your car now and drive. Not to a friend or relative. Take the, the Thing. Park at a bus stop, take a city bus, then another, and change again. Leave the Thing at a random business to hold for a few days. Tell them it’s your husband’s fortieth birthday and you are going to pull a prank and surprise him, give them some money. Get to a suburb and—”
“I get the idea. Got it.”