Theory of Remainders (39 page)

His vision blurred, then cleared. It wasn’t a child at all. Embraced against the soldier’s chest and slumping over his shoulder was a sheaf of grain—an agricultural motif for all the young lives reaped in these fields. The shadows had played part of the trick and his mind had done the rest. You see what you want to see.

Eventually he tipped himself into motion again, staggering down the street, past the old hardware store, coming back around the big-bellied church, faintly illuminated by floodlights. Then it had been a series of back streets as he stumbled south along a road, watching as an enormous shadow loomed up before him, a monstrous silhouette, taller than a building, arms outstretched to embrace him. It was the shape of the tree outside the cemetery, black against the black sky. He followed the stone wall to the entrance, but the gate wouldn’t open. Rattling it did no good.

Then he pitched off in another direction. Maybe he’d light out for the countryside. That’s what he should do: keep walking. Go and never return. To hell with this town. To hell with people studying his every move. To hell with Hervé and Roger and Yvonne and Margaux—to hell with it all.

But the streets were up to their old deceptions, knotting themselves even more than usual, looping back toward the middle each time he thought he was headed for the open road.

Then he felt the nip of familiarity. He knew this street, this hedge. His legs were acquainted with the unevenness of the sidewalk. Even the shapes of the cars lining the street were known, friendly. Under his feet he felt the gravel of the driveway, and he knew the lawn, those front steps, the shuttered windows. It was the Aubert home, empty and asleep.

There was no need to find his way back to the hotel tonight. He dug in his pocket and pulled out the key Roger had given him.

Flicking on a table lamp inside made the downstairs navigable. The dust cover Roger had pulled off the sofa still lay in a heap on the floor. The cardboard boxes sat by the bookshelves, their flaps outstretched like wings. But something had been moved. In the kitchen the breakfast dishes were gone. Had Roger washed them? He didn’t recall. Then, as he passed by the narrow opening of the service stairway he saw a glow upstairs. How stupid of him: he must have left the light on in the guestroom the other night. Someone could have seen it.

But when he reached the second floor no lights were lit. The glow didn’t come from there, but from farther up, dimly illuminating the stairs, leading the way to the compact third floor, the level that held nothing but the tiny room with the dormer. Sophie’s bedroom.

He tried to blink back the effects of the scotch. A creak sounded as he mounted the steps, but the old house was so full of noises that he wasn’t sure what had produced it. As he turned the corner of the landing he saw the simple fixture in the third floor hallway above him, brightly lit. He continued his ascent, soon reaching the top. With an outstretched finger he flicked the switch down and the light went out. He flicked it up, and the light went back on. This was no dream. Physics worked too reliably.

At the end of the hallway the door to Sophie’s bedroom stood barely ajar, a tall slit of darkness showing from within. It transfixed him. His heart pounded. But at the same time he had absolutely no doubt: he was going to open that door. There was no way not to do so.

Stepping forward, he reached out and the panel yielded under his fingertips, swinging silently inward as the light from behind swept across the little desk, the chair, the rug, and finally the bed.

His breath caught in his throat. A body lay under the covers.

No, two bodies.

His eyes adjusted to the dimness. Huddled together on the single bed were Yvonne and Margaux, asleep.

Twenty-One

The moment Philip awoke, he regretted it. Beside the throbbing in his head, his tongue felt swollen, and a pain drilled into the small of his back. His knee hurt. He wasn’t sure where he was, or what time of day it might be. Jet lag all over again.

Still reclined, he looked around, wincing at the crick in his neck. Instead of the high little window of his hotel room, here there was a broad expanse of glass, a thin soup of sunlight leaking around the edges of shutters. To the left were bookshelves. Voices sounded from another room, a ribbon of light shining beneath the door.

Then he remembered: it was the old house. He was on the sofa in the living room, the heavy dust cover pulled over him as a blanket. The rest came back to him in reverse order: Yvonne and Margaux, the scotch, Melanie Patterson, Le Mont de l’If, Roger, Édouard Morin.

He struggled to his feet, still dressed, needing only to pull on his shoes to complete the bedraggled uniform. He followed the sounds into the kitchen, surprising Yvonne and Margaux as they whispered over breakfast.

“He’s up,” Margaux cried, and she hopped off her chair to present her cheeks for Philip’s morning greeting. “We’ve been tiptoeing around,” she said. “It was quite a surprise to find you here this morning. We weren’t expecting that.”

Then she was back at the table, spreading jam on her toast and chatting nonstop. What a coincidence that they would both show up on the same night! How strange that he hadn’t brought a change of clothes with him! Hadn’t he been surprised to find them there? Didn’t he hope they would keep the old house?

Yvonne was more reserved. Dressed in jeans and a cardigan, her dark hair unbound, she avoided his eyes, busying herself by sponging up crumbs from the table, then setting to scrubbing the morning’s dishes with rapt attention. When Margaux dashed upstairs to change for the day, neither of them rushed to break the silence.

“You’ve been drinking again,” she said finally.

He winced. Five years he’d kept himself under control. Five whole years. But there was no use denying it. He’d tumbled from the tightrope of sobriety, taking a spectacular spill.

He related as concisely as possible his chain of disasters.

“My God,” she breathed as he told her about Le Mont de l’If, the bones. She sank onto a chair at the table, staring vacantly.

“The rest of the night,” he continued, “well, it only got worse.” He didn’t care to discuss Melanie. Yvonne already had all the explanation she needed.

“So you ended up here,” she said. “You had a key to the house?”

“Roger. He brought me here the other night. To keep me out of harm’s way.”

She nodded. “Not a bad idea. Ever since the stunt you pulled at the hospital, Hervé has been beside himself.”

Philip didn’t plan to be a problem for Hervé much longer. He understood the warning sign of the whiskey, of his own drunkenness. He’d have to get out soon while he still could.

“What about you?” he said. “What are you and Margaux doing here?”

She ran her fingertips along the edge of the table. “I needed . . . a little space,” she said. “We came for the weekend.”

Philip allowed himself a flush of privilege. For the moment Yvonne had turned away from Hervé. She was right there, sitting only an arm’s length away.

Alone with her in this familiar kitchen, drinking coffee from these cream-colored bowls, he hovered between ease and awkwardness. When had he last sat at a breakfast table with Yvonne while a girl’s footsteps pattered upstairs? He felt like a doppelgänger of his former self.

She stood and straightened the chairs, then vanished upstairs.

The silence was broken by his cell phone. It was Roger.

“Good grief,” Roger began. “Where on earth are you? You had me worried. I just stopped by the hotel. Bécot told me you went out late and never came back in. And yet your car is still parked outside.”

“I’m at your mother’s place.”

“Ah,” he drawled, relieved. “I was worried Hervé had laid his hands on you.”

“I managed to get myself into plenty of trouble without his help.”

“Shall I swing by and pick you up?”

Philip declined the offer, then paused. “I’m pulling the plug, Roger. I can’t do this anymore.”

There was a silence before Roger spoke. “Look. Yesterday was bad.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Philip told him about Melanie Patterson, about her attempt to take her own life, about his own failure to predict it. Then there was the whiskey, the plunge into that familiar abyss. “You don’t understand,” he continued, curtailing Roger’s protest. “I have other responsibilities. Back in Boston. I’m out of time, and I have less than nothing to show for it. I’m done here. I’m spent. And I’ve only made things worse.”

Roger tried to argue, but Philip held fast.

There would be loose ends to tie up: airline tickets to purchase, goodbyes to be said. And this morning the police needed to fill out their report about the discovery on Le Mont de l’If, for which they required Philip’s statement.

“Do you want me to come by?” Roger offered.

“I can get a lift.” There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Philip supplied the explanation. “Yvonne’s here.”

Roger let out a long “ah.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Of course not. I didn’t say anything.”

When he arrived back at La Cauchoise, Roger was engaged in conversation with Monsieur Bécot. The story of the previous day had swept through town like a galloping tide, and the man was hungry for details.

“Monsieur Adler!” Bécot called out as Philip approached. “I have heard it all. Imagine, right at Le Mont de l’If, not far from Monsieur Houellebecq’s farm. After more than sixty years. And to think—the body of Raymond Desplanches! I knew him—or rather, his younger brother. He was from Auzebosc, just a few kilometers away. And his cousin lived right here in Yvetot. We always wondered what became of him.”

Philip nodded stiffly. The story held nothing but horror for him now, and he had no patience for Bécot’s fascination. Leaving Roger to finish the storytelling, he climbed the stairs to his sanctuary: the too-soft bed, the mildewed little bathroom, the ill-fitted window, the sack of dingy laundry, the sordid minibar. He showered and changed, then marched back down the uneven stairs, having made himself as presentable as possible in another gray-tinged shirt. His shoelaces still bulged with knots.

Roger accompanied him to the police station at the Hôtel de Ville. The man waiting for them was the lanky, long-nosed officer Philip had knocked heads with before.

“Good God,” Philip muttered. “Anyone but him.”

“Don’t be so judgmental,” Roger said under his breath. He called out to the approaching officer. “Good morning, Francis.”

The officer gave a deferential smile and a bob of the head, shaking Roger’s outstretched hand. “G’morning, Monsieur Aubert.”

“Francis Boucher,” Roger said, presenting the man to Philip. “Recently promoted brigadier in the Yvetot police.”

“I’ve already had the pleasure of his acquaintance,” Philip said icily.

“Not to mention,” Roger continued, “a schoolmate of mine, from a thousand years ago.”

Boucher pulled off his cap and scratched behind his ear, smiling at Roger’s happy recollection. He reached his hand out to Philip, grinning broadly. “Good morning, Monsieur Adler. Nice to see you again, Sir.”

Philip declined to shake, but instead of taking offense, Boucher laughed. “Oh, that’s right. I suppose I owe you an apology, Monsieur.” He chuckled again, and Roger joined him as Philip’s scowl melted into a frown of perplexity. “You see,” Boucher continued, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, “Monsieur Aubert here, he told me to play my cards close to the vest. He wanted me to keep an eye on you, but only to intervene if it was necessary.”

Philip felt off-balance. “What are you talking about?” He looked at Roger, who winked back. “You don’t mean . . . ?”

“That’s right, sir. The tires, well, that seemed harmless enough, so I didn’t want to pursue it. The rooster, though, that was something else. Still, I hadn’t seen anything firsthand, and it wouldn’t have helped to make enemies. So I thought it would be best to start with quiet inquiries.”

Roger stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets, a satisfied look on his face. “Didn’t you wonder why the police never came to your door after you wormed your way into the hospital? When Rouen called down here, it was Francis who took the call.”