Reck eyed him suspiciously. “Going somewhere, Inspector?”
Lenoir gave a thin smile. “I was only thinking that it has been a very long couple of days.”
“That it has,” Reck said quietly. “That it has.”
Lenoir scanned the cramped lines of his handwriting, reading over the report one last time. He had not bothered to use a scribe. He told himself that was because he needed time to sort through his thoughts, but the truth was that he wanted to be alone while he recorded the depressing history of his investigation. It was so easy now to connect the dots, to trace the constellation among the stars. He spared himself nothing in the retelling, and he was sure that the chief, in reading the report, would shake his head in disgust at Lenoir’s incompetence.
Lady Zera’s frequent questions surrounding the investigation should have betrayed an unusual interest in the case, Lenoir read. I should have noticed these signs, but my judgment was clouded by my personal relationship with the accused. Dipping his quill in ink, he added a note in the margins: I was also quick to dismiss coincidences that Sergeant Kody remarked upon. If Kody died, Lenoir wanted it known that the sergeant had not been as blind as his supervisor.
In other details, he was more economical. While he could not avoid mentioning khekra, and the intention of Los and his cronies to use Zach in their magic, he did not go into particulars. Let his colleagues get that information from Merden, if they chose to interview him. Spelling it out in his report would make him sound insane, or at least backward and superstitious. That might damage the credibility of everything else in the report, and Lenoir did not want to provide any excuse for the case to remain open. He owed that much to Kody and Hardin. On the matter of khekra, therefore, he confined himself to the bare minimum, saying only, It is a common belief among the Adali that magic can produce curses or windfalls, and such spells often go for a steep price. I have concluded that Los and his followers intended his magic to result in something of great value to the Duke of Warrick, in exchange for which they hoped to secure grazing rights to His Grace’s lands.
Lenoir’s eyes paused on the next line. While the motive is clear, there is no tangible evidence of any contact between the kidnappers and the Duke of Warrick. He read the words aloud, and they stuck in his throat.
“What did you know, you bastard?” he whispered at the page. He was not sure what he himself believed. It was possible the kidnappers had not yet approached Warrick with their plan, intending to contact him only once they had succeeded. Or Warrick might have been in on it from the start. In the end, what did it matter? Lenoir had no proof. Carelessly accusing Warrick would cause the Metropolitan Police no end of grief, and for what? Even if he was guilty, the odds of him being held to account were virtually nil.
Dipping his quill again, Lenoir underlined the words tangible evidence. He was confident that Lendon Reck would understand him perfectly.
No amount of editing, however, would address the most glaring flaw in the report, which was the absence of any mention of Vincent. Nor was it simply a lie of omission; to account for the shoot-up at Zera’s, Lenoir had been obliged to fabricate something. His report described an unknown Adal, implied to be a member of the Asis clan, who pursued the kidnappers and picked them off one by one.
If my information is correct, the report said, the man called Raiyen was exiled from the Asis clan for performing khekra, which was forbidden among them. It is my belief that Raiyen’s designs were in part intended as an act of atonement, a way of regaining his status within the clan. He reached out to his kinsman and fellow witchdoctor, Los, to assist him in the enterprise. However, if their actions were not sanctioned by the clan elders, the clan could well have taken the law into their own hands, as Adali are frequently known to do, preferring their own traditional justice to the more formal mechanisms here in the Five Villages.
With any luck, the deaths at Zera’s apartments, as well as those at the cathedral, would be explained as an act of vigilante justice. The Metropolitan Police would make some effort to track down the culprit, but the Asis clan would claim to know nothing about it. And they would be telling the truth. It was an unavoidable loose end, but Lenoir was reasonably confident that it would not be enough to prevent the case from being closed.
He gazed at the finalized report for a long moment. Absurd as it was, it felt as if his entire life were on those sheets of parchment. It was the last record he would leave behind.
It was shortly before dusk when Lenoir left the police station. For some reason, he found himself heading for the market square, the place where he had first spoken to Vincent. It seemed like the most appropriate place to meet the spirit again, for the last time.
Lenoir sat on a bench and watched the evening routine unfold. He felt much calmer than he had two nights before, when last he sat here waiting for Vincent to appear. There was no longer anything to fear. It was not that he welcomed death—he would happily have deferred it indefinitely—but he could face it now, serene in the knowledge that Zach was safe. Lenoir had done what he set out to do. “There is no redemption,” Vincent had said, but he was wrong. Lenoir had reclaimed something of himself in these, his last hours of life. He was no longer filled with self-loathing. His apathy had given way, if not to peace, then at least to acceptance.
He might have dozed off, for darkness seemed to come upon the square suddenly. Lenoir felt eyes on him, and he twisted in his seat to find Vincent watching him from the shadows. In spite of his resignation, he could not help the spasm of fear that jolted his limbs. Would Vincent speak to him, or simply attack without warning? Belatedly, Lenoir wondered if the market square had been a poor choice of venue after all. At least my death will cause a spectacle, he thought wryly. It would be nice to be remembered for something.
Vincent sat down on the bench beside Lenoir. He said nothing at first, his uncanny gaze sweeping over the square. He watched the flower merchants and the street musicians, the young couples and the stray dogs, his expression utterly inscrutable. Lenoir would have given anything to hear his thoughts.
“The boy lives?” Vincent asked finally.
“He does, thanks to you.”
“I have never used my weapon on a child before. I was not certain he would survive, even for a short time.”
There was another stretch of silence. Lenoir said, “You went for Zach instead of Zera. I was . . . surprised.”
Vincent looked at him. “As was I.”
“Oh?” Lenoir cocked his head. “You were surprised that . . . it . . . commanded you to save the boy?”
“It did not.”
Lenoir looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”
“It commanded me to kill the woman. The boy . . . that was my own choice.” If Lenoir had failed to understand the significance of these words, the look in Vincent’s eyes would have driven it home. His gaze burned with emotion—genuine, human emotion—intense and complex and utterly unexpected. There was confusion, excitement, and even a little fear. There was also something more difficult to identify. Pride, perhaps?
“Your choice?” Lenoir echoed in disbelief.
“Yes.” Vincent’s voice was low and intent, as though he were relating a powerful secret.
“You defied it?”
“Not exactly. But I chose.”