RENNES-LE-CHATEAU
9:30 PM
STEPHANIE WANDERED AROUNDHER DEAD HUSBAND'S HOUSE.
The look was typical for the region. Sturdy timber floors, beam ceilings, stone fireplace, simple pine furniture. Not much space, but enough with two bedrooms, a den, a bath, kitchen, and a workshop. Lars had loved wood turning and earlier she'd noticed that his lathes, skews, chisels, and gouges were all still there, each tool hanging from a Peg-Board and frosted with a thin layer of dust. He'd been talented with the lathe. She still possessed bowls, boxes, and candlesticks he'd crafted from the local trees.
During their marriage she'd visited only a few times. She and Mark lived in Washington, then Atlanta. Lars stayed mainly in Europe, the last decade here in Rennes. Neither of them ever violated the other's space without permission. Though they may not have agreed on most things, they were always civil. Maybe too much so, she'd many times thought.
She'd always believed Lars had bought the house with royalties earned from his first book, but now she knew that Henrik Thorvaldsen had aided in the purchase. Which was so like Lars. He'd possessed little regard for money, spending all of what he earned on travel and his obsessions, the task of making sure the family bills were paid left to her. She'd only recently satisfied a loan used to finance Mark's college and graduate school. Her son had several times offered to assume the debt, especially once they were estranged, but she'd always refused. A parent's job was to educate their child, and she took her job seriously. Perhaps too much, she'd come to believe.
She and Lars had not spoken at all in the months before his death. Their last encounter was a bad one, another argument about money, responsibility, family. Her attempt at defending him yesterday with Henrik Thorvaldsen had sounded hollow, but she never realized that anyone knew the truth about her marital estrangement. Apparently, though, Thorvaldsen did. Perhaps he and Lars had been close. Unfortunately, she'd never know. That was the thing about suicide--ending one person's suffering only prolonged the agony of those left behind. She so wished to be rid of the sick feeling rooted in the pit of her stomach. The pain of failure, a writer once called it. And she agreed.
She finished her tour and entered the den, taking a seat across from Malone, who'd had been reading Lars's journal since dinner.
"Your husband was a meticulous researcher," he said.
"A lot of it is cryptic--much like the man."
He seemed to catch her frustration. "You want to tell me why you feel responsible for his suicide?"
She decided to allow his intrusion. She needed to talk about it. "I don't feel responsible, I just feel part of it. Both of us were proud. Stubborn, too. I was with Justice, Mark was grown, and there was talk of giving me my own division, so I focused on what I thought was important. Lars did the same. Unfortunately, neither one of us appreciated the other."
"Easy to see that now, years later. Impossible to know then."
"But that's the problem, Cotton. I'm here. He's not." She was ill at ease talking about herself, but things needed to be said. "Lars was a gifted writer and a good researcher. All that stuff I told you earlier about Sauniere and this town? How interesting it is? If I had paid it any mind while he was alive, maybe he'd still be here." She hesitated. "He was such a calm man. Never raised his voice. Never a bad word. Silence was his weapon. He could go weeks and never say a word. It infuriated me."
"Now, that I understand." And he added a smile.
"I know. My quick temper. Lars could never deal with it, either. Finally he and I decided that the best thing was for him to live his life and me mine. Neither of us wanted to divorce."
"Which says a lot about what he thought of you. Deep down."
"I never saw that. All I saw was Mark in the middle. He was drawn to Lars. I have a hard time with emotion. Lars wasn't like that. And Mark possessed his father's religious curiosity. They were so much alike. My son chose his father over me, but I forced that choice. Thorvaldsen was right. For someone so careful with work, I was inept at handling my own life. Before Mark was killed, I hadn't spoken to him in three years." The pain from that reality rocked her soul. "Can you imagine, Cotton? My son and I went three years without saying a word."
"What caused the split?"
"He took his father's side, so I went my way and they went theirs. Mark lived here in France. I stayed in America. After a while it became easy to ignore him. Don't ever let that happen to you and Gary. Do whatever you have to, but never let that happen."
"I just moved four thousand miles away."
"But your son adores you. Those miles mean little."
"I've wondered plenty if I did the right thing."
"You have to live your life, Cotton. Your way. Your son seems to respect that, even though he's young. Mine was much older and far tougher on me."
He glanced at his watch. "Sun's been down twenty minutes. Almost time."
"When did you first notice we were being tailed?"
"Right after we arrived. Two men. Both similar to those from the cathedral. They followed us to the cemetery, then around town. They're outside, right now."
"No danger they'll come in?"
He shook his head. "They're here to watch."
"I understand now why you got out of the Billet. The anxiety. It's tough. You can never let your guard down. You were right back in Copenhagen. I'm no field agent."
"The trouble for me came when I started to like the rush. That's what'll get you killed."
"We all live a relatively safe existence. But to have people tracing your every move, intent on killing you? I can see how that would wear on you. Eventually, you have to escape from it."