He noticed a heavy brown envelope on the sheriff’s desk. It looked like the one in which they’d placed the contents of his pockets the previous evening, just before they photographed him, took his fingerprints, and threw him in the cell.
‘Are those my meagre belongings?’
The sheriff took the envelope and opened it. He extracted the contents and put them on the desk in front of him. When Russell looked closer, he saw that nothing was missing. Watch, wallet, the keys of the Mercedes…
The sheriff’s eyes fell on the photograph of the young man with the cat. There was a puzzled look on his face as he moved forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the desk. ‘May I?’
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.
CHAPTER 33
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.