The Hunter's Prayer (9 page)

Chapter Nine

I
t couldn’t be her. This girl had dark hair, but he sensed that she was going to the house, and sure enough she stopped and rang the bell—one of her friends, perhaps, a pretty girl.

He trained the lens on the door but the angle was no good, and whoever opened it stayed out of shot as the girl stepped inside. He was desperate to get in that house and see its domestic topography, Madeleine and their daughter, a husband perhaps, other kids.

He couldn’t imagine her parents still lived there. They’d probably made way for her, moved to the place in the country. Thinking of them made him nostalgic, remembering how much he’d liked them, more memories of Madeleine spilling in on the back of that thought.

He wanted to see her again, not with any hope of rekindling the past, just to tell her he’d finally changed, or retired at least. It probably wouldn’t mean anything to her, though, and maybe she’d be right not to care what he’d done with his life.

He wasn’t even certain how much he really had changed. He could think through his conversations with Ella Hatto and convince himself it was time for him to reconnect with the world, but maybe it was all just self-delusion.

After all, this was his idea of reconnecting with his former girlfriend and daughter, sitting in a car a hundred yards from their house with a camera and a telephoto lens. He was stalking his own daughter and could think of no other way to get close to her; that’s how far removed he was from normal life.

He was beginning to think he should just give up and go back to the hotel, or even back to Switzerland, when the door opened again. He trained the camera on it in time to see the girl with dark hair come out, then another girl, the familiarity of her appearance giving him a jolt of nervous excitement. His muscles weakened so suddenly that he had to lean on the wheel to stop the camera from shaking.

She was blonde, her hair quite short, whereas Madeleine had always worn hers long. Otherwise, it could have been Madeleine at fourteen. And that made him happy, because she had nothing of him about her; she was like her mother and she was beautiful.

They were walking away from him now and he felt a surge of panic. For a second, he wasn’t sure what to do, whether to sit and wait or to follow them. The indecision was only momentary, though, because he wasn’t staking out the house; he was there to see his daughter.

He put the camera on the floor deep in the passenger well, picked up his book and crossed the street. He walked quickly at first, but adopted a more casual gait once he was certain of not losing them.

He was close enough to hear their voices and their laughter, and occasionally they’d look at each other and he’d get a glimpse of her face and another jolt of nerves, fearing she’d turn and see him. A part of him wanted her to turn. He wanted her to throw a glance at the man far behind and then stop, snagged, knowing instinctively who it was.

He followed them to a cafe but didn’t go in, realizing that, even in Paris, sitting reading an English paperback might mark him out. He bought a copy of
Le Monde
, waited as long as he could, then walked into the cafe.

The place was busy but there were enough tables free for him to choose one that gave him a clear view of her face without being too close. A young waiter arrived at their table and they spoke to him with the haughty condescension of rich kids, borderline rude. That disappointed him; he wanted her to be more like Ella Hatto, someone who hadn’t known she was rich and who was balanced and polite.

Possibly they’d been play-acting, though. The waiter said something back to them and they both laughed loudly enough to draw the stares of other customers. Then they looked embarrassed that they’d attracted attention like that, and seemed more natural afterwards.

Lucas ordered a coffee from another waiter and watched as the girls got their drinks. They were chatty and friendly with their waiter now, maybe even knew him; it shouldn’t have mattered but Lucas was relieved all the same.

He got his own coffee and started his pretense of reading the newspaper, a token effort because neither she nor anyone else was looking in his direction. He took it for granted now, even resented it, but in the past his ability to be inconspicuous had amazed him. He’d done a hit in a crowded restaurant in Hamburg, and not one person had given an accurate description of him afterwards. They’d even disagreed—tall, short, blond hair, red hair, glasses, sunglasses, definitely not wearing glasses at all. It was like they’d all been hypnotized and told to forget him.

Lucas had been watching for ten minutes or so when they were joined by another girl and two boys. The girl and one of the boys were clearly brother and sister, the third the sister’s boyfriend. There was more banter with the waiter.

Maybe this was where they came to hang out. He thought briefly about doing the same each day, but in a cafe like that even his face would become familiar. He’d take it easy. When they left, he’d stroll back to the car, then go back to the hotel. And he’d go to the house again in the morning, hopeful of catching a glimpse of Madeleine herself.

Then he’d decide how to approach the girl: in person or by letter. Madeleine would intercept a letter, of course, but he could get around that. He’d wait until he saw her friend approaching and give her the letter, ask her to give it to—who? The least he had to do was find out her name.

He grew annoyed now that he was sitting so far away. Yet their voices were just audible and he strained to pick up one of them addressing her by name. He could hear only a jumble of French vocabulary, though, all vaguely familiar but meaningless. And as he watched he became mesmerized by her face, her expressions—smiles, thoughtful glances, a playfully knitted brow. It made him sad to think he hadn’t seen those expressions mapped out across her childhood.

Those years were lost, all the years when he might have read stories to her, seen her through the milestones: birthdays and swimming and riding bikes, the things he imagined fathers doing. But she’d done those things without him and he’d killed probably a hundred people during the blameless span of her life.

His eyes shifted briefly and he twitched nervously as he realized the brother was looking at him, a bemused look on his face. The kid leaned over to say something to the others and Lucas lifted his paper, just enough to obscure his face.

He couldn’t believe he’d been spotted looking at her like that, annoyed by the interpretation they were bound to put on it. His heart was lurching, knowing that they were probably looking across at him right now, trying to get a glimpse of his face.

Having seen the confident, proprietary air they’d had with the waiter, he couldn’t even be certain they wouldn’t come over. He laughed edgily, struck by the irony of his cowering behind a newspaper in fear of five smart-looking fourteen-year-olds. And he sat like that for five minutes or so before leaving, casually keeping his face turned away from them.

He still felt an adrenaline buzz as he walked back to the car. He’d seen her. She was beautiful, someone with nice friends, popular. And with the adrenaline came a longing, a consuming need for this to be a beginning, not an end.

It was selfish. He couldn’t imagine how she felt or if she even knew about him. For all he knew, her life was happy and full, and his appearance might be as shattering a blow as a death in the family. He was thinking only of himself, he knew that, but he had to find a way to her. Suddenly, with all the power of a spiritual revelation, he couldn’t see a reason for being alive otherwise.

After dinner that night he sat in the bar with his book, his newfound optimism making him want to be around other people, even if it didn’t stretch to actually wanting to talk to them. He hadn’t been there long when an elderly lady sat at the next table. Lucas pretended not to see her smile as she sat down.

He heard her order a Bellini, her accent Scottish, Edinburgh maybe, and was conscious of another brief exchange when the drink was delivered. He concentrated on his book and was surprised when he heard her speak a few minutes later.

‘Excuse me for intruding, but is it your first time?’ He looked up, assuming that someone else had sat down, and caught the full force of her smiling, inquisitive stare. He had no choice but to answer that most banal of travelers’ questions.

‘Not my first time in Paris. First time in this hotel.’

‘No, dear, that’s not what I meant at all.’ She smiled, pointing at the book. ‘I mean, is it your first time reading
Pride and Prejudice
?’

‘Oh, I see.’ He laughed. ‘Yes, it is. Someone recommended Jane Austen to me and I’m hooked.
Mansfield Park
,
Northanger Abbey
,
Persuasion
—that’s my favorite so far.’

‘It’s mine too. Quite a delightful book. It’s poignant too, of course, when one thinks of it in terms of Jane Austen’s own life, but life-affirming nevertheless. Don’t you think? It’s never too late to make amends for the wrongs of the past.’

He hadn’t given much thought to why he liked the book, but maybe it was that—the hope it offered for the future, no matter how blighted the past.

‘You really believe that, that it’s never too late?’

‘I do indeed. I’ve seen it, just as I’ve seen people live their lives full of regret, never dreaming there might still be time to do something about it. What a sad way to be going on.’

‘I suppose it is.’

She smiled. ‘And tell me, dear, are you on your own here? That’s a terrible shame.’

‘I’m used to traveling alone. It’s a business trip.’

‘Even so.’

He wasn’t sure she believed him and didn’t want to be pressed, so he deflected her concern by saying, ‘Are you not traveling alone yourself?’

‘Goodness, no. My husband’s taken an early night after rather overdoing it last night. And my son and his wife have taken a night cruise on the Seine. Maybe you’ll meet them; I’m expecting them back any time now.’

‘Actually, I’m turning in shortly. I have a busy day tomorrow.’ The conversation had been pleasant enough, but he didn’t much want to meet the next generation, people who might be more inclined to ask him what he did and whether he had a family, and wouldn’t he join them for a drink or dinner—it was all too much contact.

‘Oh. Well, never mind.’ Again she had that look about her as though she’d seen right through him. ‘Thank you for chatting anyway.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Thank Jane Austen.’ He smiled and took his leave, pleased to have concluded the conversation before they’d exchanged names.

He felt good about himself afterwards too. It would have been nothing to most people but to engage in any spontaneous social interaction was a departure for him. And he felt good about the things she’d said, filling him with a determination to follow the only logical course: to speak to Madeleine.

He’d changed in fifteen years and she would have, too. He’d always imagined her holding on to all that anger and bitterness, but time would have mollified her; it had to have. He’d talk to her and she’d see that he was someone she could deal with again.

The next morning he was less confident. He’d found a space a little closer to the house and watched as the sun slowly heated up the street. His aim was to wait until the girl went out, and then to go over and ring the bell.

That was the idea, but elderly ladies and the works of Jane Austen were one thing; walking back into his past was another. In the harsh morning light, he couldn’t help but think Madeleine would see his return as just another betrayal of trust, one that would bring back whatever memories she’d buried.

He didn’t know how he’d ever thought that renouncing his former life would be enough for her. And now he feared that if he walked over to that house it might be to have the door close in his face forever.

He’d arrived at about twenty past nine and he’d started to think they might all have gone out early or even left the city, but just after ten a woman in her twenties came out and walked up the street past his car.

She was carrying a folder under one arm and looked like a student. Without much to go on other than instinct and the way she looked, Lucas reckoned on her being a music teacher. And because of her age he came to the further unfounded conclusion that there were younger kids in the house.

Madeleine would have had their daughter learn an instrument—the piano, he hoped, like she had—but at fourteen, her tuition wouldn’t be entrusted to someone so young. If she was a music teacher, then some younger child of Madeleine’s had just spent an hour practicing the violin or piano, whatever.

Locked out of those details, he had an exile-driven curiosity. For the next half an hour, he built pictures of the life being lived behind that door, populating his memory of the grand house with various imagined families, all of them with Madeleine at the centre.

Then a car pulled up and sounded its horn. He trained the camera on the driver but couldn’t see beyond the reflection on the windshield. Shifting his aim toward the door, he caught the girl coming out, smiling, jumping into the back of the car.