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.