Russell handed the rental certificate and licence through the window. The officer, who bore the insignia of Ross County, examined them, but did not give them back. He was a thickset man, with a broad nose and pockmarked skin.
‘Where are you from, Mr Wade?’
‘New York. I just landed at Ross County Airport.’
The grimace he received in return made him realize his mistake.
‘Well, Mr Wade, I’m afraid there’s a problem.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘You were going along like a bat out of hell. And from your breath, I’m pretty sure I know why.’
‘I’m not drunk, officer.’
‘We’ll soon see. All you have to do is breathe into a balloon, just like you did when you were a kid.’
He climbed out of the Mercedes and followed the officer to his car. He did as he was asked, but unfortunately the result wasn’t the same as when he was a kid, thanks to Jenson Wade’s personal whisky reserve.
The officer looked at him with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘You’ll have to come with me. Will you come quietly or do I have to put cuffs on you? Don’t forget, resisting arrest is an aggravating factor.’
Russell knew that only too well. He had learned it the hard way. ‘You don’t need cuffs.’
With no thought for Mr Balling, he left the Mercedes in a lay-by and climbed in the patrol car. As he was getting out at 28 North Paint Street, he realized there was one bright spot in all this. He had been looking for the sheriff’s office and now here he was.
Hearing footsteps in the corridor, he got up from the bunk and approached the bars. A moment or two later, a man in uniform stopped in front of the cell door.
‘Russell Wade?’
‘That’s me.’
Unceremoniously, the officer made a sign with his nearly bald head. He looked like the good brother of the guy who was sleeping – and snoring – on the other bunk.
‘Come on, your backup’s here.’
After the snap of the lock and the clatter of the bars, he found himself following the man along the corridor. They stopped in front of a wooden door. A sign on it indicated that Thomas Blein was the sheriff of Ross County. The officer knocked, and immediately opened. He motioned to him to enter and closed the door behind him.
In the office were two men and a vague smell of cigars. One was sitting behind a desk piled high with papers. It was obvious he was the Thomas Blein mentioned on the door. He was tall with thick white hair, and a calm but resolute face. His uniform both emphasized his slender build and conferred the right degree of authority.
The man sitting on the chair just in front of the desk was a lawyer. He didn’t look like one, but the fact that he was there, plus the officer’s words, made it seem likely. Confirmation came when the man, who had an easygoing air but sharp eyes, stood up and held out his hand.
‘Hello, Mr Wade. I’m Jim Woodstone, your lawyer.’
The previous evening he had taken advantage of the one call allowed him to call the plane on the number the stewardess had given him. After explaining the situation he was in, he had asked that his father be contacted and brought up to date. Sheila Lavender hadn’t sounded at all surprised.
Russell shook the lawyer’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Then he turned to the man behind the desk. ‘Good morning, sheriff. I’m sorry if I caused you any inconvenience. That wasn’t my intention.’
In the light of what they knew about him, this submissive attitude seemed to surprise both men, who for a moment found themselves on the same side of the barricades.
Blein simply nodded at him. ‘Are you Russell Wade, the rich guy?’
‘My father’s the rich guy. I’m the wild guy who got disowned.’
The sheriff smiled at this brief but comprehensive self-description. ‘You get yourself in the news a lot. Quite rightly, I think. Would you agree?’
‘I think I would, yes.’
‘What do you do in life?’
Russell smiled. ‘When I don’t spend my time getting arrested, I’m a journalist.’
‘What paper do you work for?’
‘I don’t work for any at the moment. I’m freelance.’
‘And what brought you to Chillicothe?’
Woodstone intervened, with professional shrewdness. After all, he had to justify the bill he’d be sending Wade Enterprises. ‘Mr Wade, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
Russell made a gesture with his hand that meant that everything was fine and he would satisfy the sheriff’s curiosity. It was easy – all he had to do was tell the truth. ‘I’m doing an article about the Vietnam war.’
Blein raised an eyebrow, in a vaguely cinematic manner. ‘Is anyone still interested in that?’
More than you might imagine …
‘There are certain things still unresolved that I think the public has a right to know about.’
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.
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.
‘In spite of the fact that they were there, the raid went ahead. Wendell Johnson and Matt Corey were hit with napalm. One burned to death, the other was rescued but had severe burns all over his body. After a long period of rehabilitation in a military hospital, he was discharged, but in a damaged state, both physically and mentally.’