AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Bernadette,” I said.
He nodded. “Of course. Bernadette.”
Boniface smiled, like a proud parent remembering how their kid scored the winning goal for the state championship. “Bernadette,” he said again, softer, and he looked down. Not really looking at the book that rested on his knee, just pointing his eyes down, away from me, so he could remember better. “You must understand that Bernadette has always been different,” he said.
I thought that was probably an understatement, but it didn’t seem really smart to say so.
“Always. She was born with . . . gifts,” he said, and the smile was gone now. “Talents that are . . . what? Perhaps I should say, challenging, for a woman.” He took a large sip from his glass. “She is freakishly strong, stronger than most men. More physically gifted than any other human I have ever seen. And her reflexes, her movements. She is so fast—” He shook his head. “As I say, these things are not truly appreciated in a woman. I’m sure she had a quite unhappy childhood. Which may have—”
Boniface shook his head again. “Feh. We all had unhappy childhoods, eh? Why do so many fools seem to think childhood is a wonderful, magical time? If true, it is a very dark magic, mon ami. And even without early trauma, Bernadette was always— She has a . . . a what—a flair? She truly enjoys to—she actually craves . . .”
Boniface paused, still looking down. He seemed to see his glass for the first time, and drained it. He poured it half full again, sipped. “This is perhaps Bernadette’s greatest gift,” he said. He locked eyes with me. “I think the two of us, we have sometimes had to cause pain to other people? And even death?”
He waited for me to answer. So I did. “I guess that’s part of the life we live,” I said. Really clever answer, cribbed straight from The Godfather. Like I said, that Armagnac was good.
It seemed to satisfy Boniface. He nodded. “Just so. But it is not pleasant, hm? It leaves a bad taste. Most people find it difficult, even impossible.”
“Not Bernadette,” I said. I couldn’t help it.
“Not Bernadette,” he repeated. “I called her my angel? In truth, she is Azrael, the angel of death. Killing people is like the food her spirit needs. And if she can, she kills them slowly. With great imagination. Very useful in my business, but . . .”
Boniface made a slight hissing sound and took a large sip. He took a long breath and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever she is, she is mine. For what she is, useful, yes—but more, for what she did. For when she came for me in prison,” he said, “of course there were guards. She went through them as though they were papier-mâché. She set me free. And so I will never abandon her.”
That answered at least one question. And the next one—what the hell happened to her face—I was not about to ask. That kind of brass balls would take a lot more than a couple of bottles of Armagnac.
“In any case,” Boniface said. “The Liberation of St. Peter sustained me through a difficult time. It taught me an important course of lessons. It became my . . . my talisman, if you will. And so?” He shrugged, using both hands, the very first extremely French gesture I’d seen from him. “I vowed that someday, if ever I had the means, I would own that fresco. As a monument to my faith.” He sipped and looked at me over the rim of his glass. “And then you came to my attention, and I thought, eh bien, why not? What do you think?”
I don’t remember what I said. I assume it was something agreeable. Because the story as Boniface told it was just plain nuts, filled with megalomania, murder, and madness, and all kinds of other words that start with M. He really should have been under a doctor’s care—except for one thing. He was making it all come true.
Or anyway, I was. And I didn’t have his faith.
Other than that, it was a great vacation. I made it through three weeks without major trauma. My finger even healed up. Boniface had some kind of doctor there, a guy who’d obviously had experience with what to do in an ER on a Saturday night in Detroit. He set the finger, splinted it, got the swelling down, and altogether set me right.
And at the start of the fourth week, Boniface called me into his office. He sat behind a massive desk, and Bernadette stood behind him, like before. I sat across from him, and her, and waited for the shoe to drop.
“I hope you have enjoyed your visit,” Boniface said as I settled into my chair.
Which meant it was coming to an end. “Delightful,” I said.
“I have not pressed you for your plan to get my fresco,” he said. A good thing, since I didn’t have a plan. I was still pretty sure there wasn’t one. “I am trusti
ng you to do the job, in your own way.”
“That’s how I work,” I said.
“And I will not stoop to reminding you of the consequences for failure,” he said. Which was, of course, a truly classy way of reminding me of the consequences for failure.
“Thanks,” I said, glancing at Bernadette. She glanced back.
“So,” he said, putting both hands on the desktop, palms down, “I expect to hear from you soon—if not to report success, then to inform me of your progress.” He gave me the tiny smile. “Just so we both know there is, in fact, progress.”
“I’m sure there will be,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure at all.
He looked at me without blinking. “Good,” he said at last. He pushed a fat manila envelope across the desk for me. “This will help you in your travels.” Then he gave a kind of see-you-go-away-now wave. “Étienne has arrived with the boat to take you back. Good luck, Mr. Wolfe.” The tiny smile again. “Riley.”
I stood up, took the envelope, and left. I know when I’ve been dismissed.
A guard took me down to the dock. Just one guard this time. I was one of the gang now. “Étienne” turned out to be the same cheerful French guy who’d delivered me. He was behind the wheel of what looked like the same boat. He watched me climb on board without a word. Just that same happy sneer. I sneered back and sat on the bench to the right of the pilot’s seat. I had no gear to stow. I had the clothes I was wearing, and no more. They’d given me a jacket against the cold, and the envelope, but that was it.
