named Raimondi, Charles Raimondi. The men who showed up were not DST, could not have been:”
Catherine glanced over at Pat to see his reaction to this information. If he was shocked, or even mildly surprised, he did not show it. The wearily grave cast of his handsome features seemed merely to intensify.
“And they think I will lead them to her?” Pat said.
“Or that you are in league with her and know where she is:”
“Unbelievable. I should have hit him again with the wrench last night. I should have killed the motherfucker.”
Catherine did not respond. She had fired her police pistol several times in the line of duty. Accurately and without fear. For her, using a firearm was not related to gender. But perhaps striking another human being with a fist or a blunt object like a wrench was. She herself had never done it. There was, she admitted, something exciting, viscerally exciting, about the visual of Pat Nolan swinging that wrench against the side of Ahmed bin-Shalib’s face. It set him apart from her. She flushed, though she did not know why, at this thought, keeping her eyes on the road ahead.
“What’s his name?” Pat asked.
“Ahmed bin-Shalib.”
“I’ve heard of him. The Pakistani:”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think your DST is involved?”
Catherine did not answer immediately. The enormity of what they were discussing had not escaped her, nor had it Nolan, she assumed from his startled what? and the fierceness in his voice as he recalled his encounter with bin-Shalib. But neither had it fully penetrated. It was too big, flowing around them like a torrent that they refused to admit might sweep them to their deaths.
“Have you told me everything, Patrick?” she asked finally.
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me about your daughter, her life, her values, her interests, her lovers?”
“It’s not a simple story, but yes, I’ll try.”
“She has an interesting array of people pursuing her.”
“I heard you on the phone at the apartment. Why did you take a leave of absence?”
“Because I may want to join the hunt in an unofficial capacity.”
“Why? What about the DST?
“I will tell you once we’re safely inside:”
The road was like any to be found in America or elsewhere in the world: paved, divided, shouldered, designed with safety, convenience, and even beauty in mind. The falling snow—rare but not unheard of in the usually temperate Paris winters—seemed to be keeping traffic to a minimum, making it easier for Catherine, using her rear and sideview mirrors, to do three-sixty scans as she drove at the highway’s speed limit. Off the A10, they took a secondary road through a heavily wooded landscape of tall live oaks and beeches. Every mile or so these thick woods were interrupted by gatherings of giant evergreens reaching to the gray sky and imposing themselves over the forest with the silent power of ancient stone monoliths. Driving in silence, the car hermetically sealed against the winter wet and cold, they were soon on a tertiary road that followed a sharply winding river—the Eure, Catherine said, noticing Pat gazing at the now-diminishing snow melting on the river’s slate-colored surface. After some braking and slowing, Catherine found a landmark she was looking for and turned down a dirt road that ended, after a hundred meters or so, at a small clearing, on the opposite end of which stood the house—a tired old stone-and-timber affair sitting on a naked spit of land that formed one of the Eure’s many bends.
Catherine turned the car off and began searching, head down, for the house keys in her bag. She stopped suddenly, a puzzled look on her face,and then, the puzzle solved, her head flew up at the sound of a car rushing up and coming to an abrupt stop behind her. She made an aborted attempt to replace the car key in the ignition, aborted because in an instant her car was
Catherine glanced over at Pat to see his reaction to this information. If he was shocked, or even mildly surprised, he did not show it. The wearily grave cast of his handsome features seemed merely to intensify.
“And they think I will lead them to her?” Pat said.
“Or that you are in league with her and know where she is:”
“Unbelievable. I should have hit him again with the wrench last night. I should have killed the motherfucker.”
Catherine did not respond. She had fired her police pistol several times in the line of duty. Accurately and without fear. For her, using a firearm was not related to gender. But perhaps striking another human being with a fist or a blunt object like a wrench was. She herself had never done it. There was, she admitted, something exciting, viscerally exciting, about the visual of Pat Nolan swinging that wrench against the side of Ahmed bin-Shalib’s face. It set him apart from her. She flushed, though she did not know why, at this thought, keeping her eyes on the road ahead.
“What’s his name?” Pat asked.
“Ahmed bin-Shalib.”
“I’ve heard of him. The Pakistani:”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think your DST is involved?”
Catherine did not answer immediately. The enormity of what they were discussing had not escaped her, nor had it Nolan, she assumed from his startled what? and the fierceness in his voice as he recalled his encounter with bin-Shalib. But neither had it fully penetrated. It was too big, flowing around them like a torrent that they refused to admit might sweep them to their deaths.
“Have you told me everything, Patrick?” she asked finally.
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me about your daughter, her life, her values, her interests, her lovers?”
“It’s not a simple story, but yes, I’ll try.”
“She has an interesting array of people pursuing her.”
“I heard you on the phone at the apartment. Why did you take a leave of absence?”
“Because I may want to join the hunt in an unofficial capacity.”
“Why? What about the DST?
“I will tell you once we’re safely inside:”
The road was like any to be found in America or elsewhere in the world: paved, divided, shouldered, designed with safety, convenience, and even beauty in mind. The falling snow—rare but not unheard of in the usually temperate Paris winters—seemed to be keeping traffic to a minimum, making it easier for Catherine, using her rear and sideview mirrors, to do three-sixty scans as she drove at the highway’s speed limit. Off the A10, they took a secondary road through a heavily wooded landscape of tall live oaks and beeches. Every mile or so these thick woods were interrupted by gatherings of giant evergreens reaching to the gray sky and imposing themselves over the forest with the silent power of ancient stone monoliths. Driving in silence, the car hermetically sealed against the winter wet and cold, they were soon on a tertiary road that followed a sharply winding river—the Eure, Catherine said, noticing Pat gazing at the now-diminishing snow melting on the river’s slate-colored surface. After some braking and slowing, Catherine found a landmark she was looking for and turned down a dirt road that ended, after a hundred meters or so, at a small clearing, on the opposite end of which stood the house—a tired old stone-and-timber affair sitting on a naked spit of land that formed one of the Eure’s many bends.
Catherine turned the car off and began searching, head down, for the house keys in her bag. She stopped suddenly, a puzzled look on her face,and then, the puzzle solved, her head flew up at the sound of a car rushing up and coming to an abrupt stop behind her. She made an aborted attempt to replace the car key in the ignition, aborted because in an instant her car was
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