Read Online A World I Never Made by James Lepore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Lepore
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Did it bring Nolan’s scent with it, his American scent—leather and aftershave bought at the corner drugstore—or was it her imagination? She watched in silence as Pat then loosened his belt and, working mostly with his good arm and hand, tucked his loose shirttails into his jeans. When he was done, he faced Catherine, who had kicked off her shoes and curled her long stockinged legs under her.
“You are now presentable;” she said, unable to suppress a brief, wry smile. He returned her quasi-smile, shaking his head slowly. Was he blushing slightly? Or was it just the cold night air that had brought the color to his face? Catherine could not tell. But the smile and quizzical head shake were genuine. A man in his position would be wondering what in the world he had gotten himself into and what was going to happen next. He sat down in the armchair facing her. Catherine could feel the tension between them ease a bit. He poured himself another cognac and drank half of it down. The traditionally oversized glass looked small as he rested it in his grip on the chair’s wide arm.
“One of us has to start telling the truth,” he said.
“You have just made a start:”
“As have you:”
“Was that your daughter in the morgue?”
“No.”
“Why did you say it was?”
“It wasn’t something I thought through at the time:”
“Yes, but afterward you continued the deception:”
Pat finished his cognac, then looked down into the empty glass. The light from a nearby lamp cast a soft glow on his face, a somber face that, as it tilted downward in reflection, Catherine admitted was quite beautiful, with its thickly lashed, soft eyes and strong masculine features. Looking up, he said, “It was her note. She wanted to be dead to the world, but not to me:”
“Why dead to the world?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you guess?”
“She must be in danger.”
“Perhaps she committed a crime:”
Pat did not respond immediately. He tilted his snifter, seeming to concentrate on a last drop of cognac edging slowly toward the rim.
“I doubt it,” he said finally.
“Why?”
“Do you know that Megan’s mother died giving birth to her?”
“Yes. I read it in Inspector LeGrand’s report:”
Pat nodded and looked away for a second and then directly at Catherine. “I’ll tell you something, Detective Laurence.”
“Catherine.”
“Catherine. It’s something I”ve never told anybody. Megan’s life these past twelve years has been one long act of revenge against me. I was twenty-one when she was born, left with a four-pound baby and no wife. It took me five years to start being a father to her, but I never fully got there. She doesn’t need to commit a crime to hurt me anymore:”
“She hates you?”
“She tolerates me, which is worse:”
Catherine saw no anguish on Pat’s face, no sign of emotion at all. Only the same quiet countenance with which he took all things in, assessed them, and stored them away in a heart that seemed remote and lonely.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to pry.”
“You’re trying to help. I can see that:”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about those Arabs. What are you going to do with those prints?”
“I am going to see if they match anyone in our data bank. When I get an answer, I will tell you more. In the meantime, you must trust me. What did the first man say to you?”
“He wanted me to go me with him. He stuck a gun in my ribs:”
“Exactly what did he say?”
“‘Be silent, Mr. Patrick Nolan, and come with me or I will shoot you through the heart.’”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. Then I hit him with the wrench and you showed up:”
“He knew who you were:”
“Yes.”
“Who knows you are in France?”
“My brother. I suppose he told his wife. That’s it. I got a phone call and the
“You are now presentable;” she said, unable to suppress a brief, wry smile. He returned her quasi-smile, shaking his head slowly. Was he blushing slightly? Or was it just the cold night air that had brought the color to his face? Catherine could not tell. But the smile and quizzical head shake were genuine. A man in his position would be wondering what in the world he had gotten himself into and what was going to happen next. He sat down in the armchair facing her. Catherine could feel the tension between them ease a bit. He poured himself another cognac and drank half of it down. The traditionally oversized glass looked small as he rested it in his grip on the chair’s wide arm.
“One of us has to start telling the truth,” he said.
“You have just made a start:”
“As have you:”
“Was that your daughter in the morgue?”
“No.”
“Why did you say it was?”
“It wasn’t something I thought through at the time:”
“Yes, but afterward you continued the deception:”
Pat finished his cognac, then looked down into the empty glass. The light from a nearby lamp cast a soft glow on his face, a somber face that, as it tilted downward in reflection, Catherine admitted was quite beautiful, with its thickly lashed, soft eyes and strong masculine features. Looking up, he said, “It was her note. She wanted to be dead to the world, but not to me:”
“Why dead to the world?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you guess?”
“She must be in danger.”
“Perhaps she committed a crime:”
Pat did not respond immediately. He tilted his snifter, seeming to concentrate on a last drop of cognac edging slowly toward the rim.
“I doubt it,” he said finally.
“Why?”
“Do you know that Megan’s mother died giving birth to her?”
“Yes. I read it in Inspector LeGrand’s report:”
Pat nodded and looked away for a second and then directly at Catherine. “I’ll tell you something, Detective Laurence.”
“Catherine.”
“Catherine. It’s something I”ve never told anybody. Megan’s life these past twelve years has been one long act of revenge against me. I was twenty-one when she was born, left with a four-pound baby and no wife. It took me five years to start being a father to her, but I never fully got there. She doesn’t need to commit a crime to hurt me anymore:”
“She hates you?”
“She tolerates me, which is worse:”
Catherine saw no anguish on Pat’s face, no sign of emotion at all. Only the same quiet countenance with which he took all things in, assessed them, and stored them away in a heart that seemed remote and lonely.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to pry.”
“You’re trying to help. I can see that:”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about those Arabs. What are you going to do with those prints?”
“I am going to see if they match anyone in our data bank. When I get an answer, I will tell you more. In the meantime, you must trust me. What did the first man say to you?”
“He wanted me to go me with him. He stuck a gun in my ribs:”
“Exactly what did he say?”
“‘Be silent, Mr. Patrick Nolan, and come with me or I will shoot you through the heart.’”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. Then I hit him with the wrench and you showed up:”
“He knew who you were:”
“Yes.”
“Who knows you are in France?”
“My brother. I suppose he told his wife. That’s it. I got a phone call and the
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