Blue with Black Dots (The Caprice Trilogy Book 2) (48 page)

              “What does it make?” asked Georgia.

              “Hypocrites,” said Alan, “You know my father, Mr. Robert Forsythe, is the most respected asshole you’ll ever meet.  Since I was a kid, he’s banged more whores than I could hope to and I’m still young.  I caught him naked with two women in a Jacuzzi when I came back from playing soccer with some kids down the street and he says to me,
close the door to the patio
.  That’s all he said to me.  And my mom has stayed with him for fear of losing her place in society.  I’d rather be in a classless society than see rich people do what they want because they’re rich.  You know the stereotype of the Harlem dope fiend.  I’ve seen more dope and cocaine consumed on a Fourth of July party at my dad’s house than a hood from Harlem could get his hands on.  I’ve seen people overdose and have the ambulance called and then no one files a report because this person is a prominent lawyer from Midtown and that’s bad for business.  I know of pedophiles that walk free and enjoy life because money bends justice.  And it somehow makes people forget what they know and their social responsibility.  Rosseau said we give up freedom for protection in a society.  He never predicted the extremes of capitalist, like today.  You wanna know what it really means to have money?  It means being as dirty as you want because you always have the means to clean up yourself and your mess.”

              “And you would kill us all because your family is rich and fucked up?” said Georgia.

“Your society is fucked up,” said Alan, “You’re just a part of it and so is my family.  The Agency protects the interest of a bunch of corrupt motherfuckers.  You think you work for the good guys, Gigi.  You work for the capitalist pigs, who have the money to look good.  In America, looking good and being good, plays like the same thing.  It’s not.”

“And look where it’s got you,” said Georgia, “Lying in a ditch in the middle of France.  You’ve been shot but it should feel good.  You’ve clearly made all the right choices.”

              “It’s not so bad, Gigi,” said Alan, “At least I get a nice view of you.  You’re special, Gigi.  Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”

“I won’t,” said Georgia.  She squeezed slow on the trigger and sent a sharp round through Alan’s forehead.  She grabbed his left arm and leg and dragged him as far from the road as she could.  She contorted Alan’s body, putting one arm bent up above his head and one folded over his chest.  She took his right leg and pushed it upward and bent it at the knee.  She took his left leg and dragged it away from his body and folded it inward.  To hide a body, it had to look unlike a human body.  She contorted his position so his body looked awkward, inhuman.  She pulled his shirt over his face and pulled all tall grass from the surroundings to cover his body as best she could. 

Georgia had one shot left but much to do.  She was tired and sore.  Her shoulder ached and the backs of her thighs hurt from the hustle.  She had her
Browning
in her pocket, safety on.  She started a slow jog back to the property.  She slowed down toward the fence and took her time and went through the gate.  She was so tired she could see stars in her eyes but she kept up her steady jog.  She jogged over the grass, not the gravel.  She started to walk as she approached the garden.  Out of respect for Simone, she didn’t want to trample any more flowers.  From far back, the shadow of the house masked the fact that the front door was left wide open.  With heavy breath, Georgia entered the house but didn’t shut the door.  She found a hiding place for her
Browning
in the drawer of the mahogany console table in the entryway. 

“Gavril,” said Georgia, thinking her voice would signal an all-clear.

“Cedric,
aidez moi
,” said Georgia. 
Help me
.  Georgia had used much of her energy to chase the intruder.  She didn’t have much reserve air in her lungs for shouting.  She rested her back against the console table and let her expanding lungs breathe inside air.  She waited but no one came. 

“Cedric,” said Georgia.  The house was silent.  She didn’t know if they were inside or out.  She wasn’t going looking.  Instead, she went fishing.  She moved away from the console table and grabbed her
Browning
laying in the drawer.  The front door was still open.  She aimed out toward the garden for the flowerbed.  She fired one shot, trying not to hit a single flower.  She figured the shot would send someone running.  It did but not as soon as she expected.  More than three minutes later, Cedric showed his head cradling a
MAS-62
.  When Georgia told him to get his gun she didn’t know what she was asking of him.  The MAS-62 was an automatic rifle manufactured by the French government.  It was a decade old, but it was more than would be expected in a countryside chateau.  Georgia looked at Cedric.  He lowered his rifle.

“
Madame est morte
,” said Cedric. 
Madam is dead
.

“
So is her killer
,” said Georgia.

“
Where
?” asked Cedric.

“
By the road
,” said Georgia.

“
You shot him
?” said Cedric.  Georgia nodded.

“
Four times
,” said Georgia.

“
That’s as many times as Madam
,” said Cedric.

“
I know
,” said Georgia, “
I counted
.”  Georgia paused, there was a silent mourning.

“
I need your help
,” said Georgia.

“
With what
?” asked Cedric. 

“
The body
,” said Georgia, “
We can’t leave it there.  It’s not far
.”

“
Wait
,” said Cedric.

“
For what
?” asked Georgia.

“
For nightfall
,” said Cedric, “
We can’t risk being seen loading a dead body in a car.  We can’t have that association with the house.  Our anonymity is our shield.  You know that
.”

“
And the gunfire
?” said Georgia.

“
Let them think we were shooting at rabbits in the vineyard
,” said Cedric, “
You hear shots in this area, from time to time
. 
Some people have a license for hunting rifles
.”

“
I hid the body
,” said Georgia, “
It was the best I could do
.”

“
Very good
,” said Cedric, “
Do you want to see her
?”

“
Let me ask you
,” said Georgia, “
Do I want to see her
?”

“
Briefly
,” said Cedric, “
It will give you a sense of an ending, a sense of closure
.”

“
You talk like you’ve done this many times
,” said Georgia.

“
I was a Legionnaire
,” said Cedric, “
I have done this many times
.”  Georgia looked at Cedric and walked to the end of the entrance hallway and into the den.  She went through the den and saw Gavril standing in the doorway leading to the living room.

“Are you ok?” asked Georgia.

“No,” said Gavril.  That was all he said.  Georgia didn’t want an argument.  She left him alone and opened the door that lead out to the table where she sat with Simone on more than one occasion.  Instead of coffee cups, wine glasses or plates of cassata cake, Simone’s lifeless body lay on the table.  Cedric had lifted her body onto the table and folded her arms across her chest.   Georgia took two steps closer but no more.  Georgia could see hard bits of blood matted in Simone’s dark hair.  It looked like dirt.  From a distance back, Georgia could see Simone’s face.  It looked contorted, not so much lifeless.  Her face looked like she was making a very animated grimace, which is why it didn’t look like Simone.  Simone had no expressions.  She didn’t communicate with facial movements but she moved mountains with the words she chose to let fly.  Georgia thought about how careful Simone was, how smart she was.  She crafted so much and made it look so effortless.  Georgia took in the sight, noticing one more thing, half of Simone’s neck looked black.  It was all Georgia needed to see.

Georgia went back inside through the den.  Gavril was gone.  She could hear footsteps coming from the living room toward her.  She turned around expecting to see Gavril.   Cedric came through the doorway.  Instead of cradling his rifle, he was cradling a stack of bound books and a binder.  He walked into the den and sat the stack down on the little used card table in the far right corner. 

“
I have called Guillame
,” said Cedric, “
He’s coming with Marc to help.  They are coming from Lyon.  It will take some hours
.”

“Ok,” said Georgia.

“
These are all for you
,” said Cedric, putting his hand on the stack of books and papers.

“
What is that
?” asked Georgia.

“
Complicated
,” said Cedric.  He took an envelope, wedged between two of the books, and handed it to Georgia.  Cedric closed the curtain and locked the door leading outside to the veranda.   He walked toward the living room but didn’t enter.  He closed the door to the living room and then walked across the den to the door leading to the entrance hall, before he closed the door he looked back at Georgia.

“
Prenez votre temps…Madame
,” said Cedric. 
Take you time
,
Madam
.  The envelope wasn’t a normal kind.  It was higher quality, label-print paper.  Georgia thought about it and was reminded that
Chateau Constance
was a working vineyard.  She enjoyed the wine the first time from bottles without printed labels.  But they couldn’t sell unlabelled wine.  The paper had to come from the labels printed on the wine bottles.  Georgia didn’t know if it was on the house grounds or somewhere else.  But she looked at the envelope and realized it had been completely folded, seam-by-seam.  As she felt the paper, her fingers rubbed against something hard and dry on the back of the envelope, prompting her to turn it over.  She saw her finger was pressed against a red wax seal.  Stamped into the dried wax was the emblem of a morning rooster.  Georgia broke the seal and opened the envelope.  There was a two-page letter inside, written on parchment paper. 

Hello Agent Georgia Standing,

              You’re reading this because we are at a crossroads and yet we are at it again, playing this game of ours.  It is said to be the second oldest profession in the world, which means it has been going a long time.  Because of that, we know it will continue.   These games are never at an end, even when we are.  My sincerest apologies that I am coming to you as a fiction, scribbles on a page meant to say to you what I would, if I could.  And I can’t, so I have to settle for this, as our last conversation.  It will be very one-sided but then they always were.  Weren’t they?  That’s the mechanism of a profound education, a love of letters, a wanting for words.  I told you before that I was beginning to like you, that was true.  I said it was dangerous, that was more true.  Let’s get passed the obvious and get to the truth. I’m dead.  It’s true but what is also true is that my death has profound consequences.  And though dead, I still have this idea and this feeling about you.

              I have revered only one man in my life, my father.  I have a deep hope that my son will be what my father was but I have no part to play in it, unless those characteristics are in our blood.  Then, perhaps, I’ve put my father in my son.  Otherwise, I’ve grown quite short with men.  They are happy to do one thing then happy to deny themselves that thing’s consequences.  My son’s father would be but one of many examples.  And of course, there is the other man who had such an impact on my life, Mr. Hitler.  After engulfing the world in the flames of his madness and killing millions of Jews, he had the coward’s audacity to fake his death and live the rest of his days in Argentina.  After all he started, there wasn’t enough in him to be there at the end.  He didn’t die in 1945 in the Führerbunker in Berlin.  He died in 1963 on a property much like Constance.  He couldn’t be asked to meet his end with a hair of dignity.  None of them could.  His false end was a way of covering himself and his cowardice.  And men on both sides let him get away with it.  The Americans as well as the Soviets knew Hitler had escaped to Argentina but when he was reported dead, it made things so much easier.  It’s the same behavior of my father’s fat friends.  They made themselves believe that they were helping France by collaborating with the Nazis, dining with the ones who killed their countrymen. It’s easy when you tell yourself it’s for the best.  If you look at history, you see men and their leadership.  You see Brutus killing Ceasar, you see Crassius being fed with molten gold to satiate his greed.  You see Napoleon and his ego.  But you also see Jean d’Arc, and you see Sheba and Elizabeth I.  Don’t misunderstand me.  I am not saying that all men are bad leaders.  France had one of the most magnificent kings in modern times.  But when you juxtapose women leaders with their male counterparts, you see one thing.  The women are not the worst, like I have said.