The Bricklayer. Noah Boyd
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in getting your name in the papers.’
‘And less important?’
‘You had a certain reputation in Detroit.’
‘For?’
‘Hunting men.’
‘So you want me to find someone without anyone knowing that the FBI’s looking for him.’
‘It’s a little more complicated than that, but those are the main concerns.’
‘Other than getting to polish my neglected self-esteem, what’s in this for me?’
‘It’s completely negotiable.’
‘Are you saying that as a deputy assistant director or as a woman?’ As her face reddened slightly, the scar on her cheekbone started to glow white. He smiled. ‘That’s enough of an answer for now. When?’
‘I came in a Bureau plane. It’s waiting at Midway.’
Vail picked up a ten-gallon bucket and started shoveling the unused mortar into it. ‘Give me a half hour to clean up.’
Vail’s pickup pulled up in front of his apartment with Kate’s Bureau car close behind. He walked back to her as she opened the door. ‘I’ll make it as quick as I can.’
She got out. ‘Can I use your phone?’
‘You don’t have a cell?’
‘I’d rather use a hard line.’
‘I wasn’t expecting company.’
Kate wondered how bad it was up there. She found herself intrigued at the prospect of peeking into Vail’s personal life. ‘I’ll keep my eyes closed.’
Vail opened the door and let Kate walk in ahead of him. The small apartment was not what she expected. It seemed newer, better constructed than the rest of the building. The walls were unpainted Sheetrock. The taped seams were visible but had been smoothed with the expert touch of a trowel. In stark contrast, the dark hardwood floors looked like they had been recently refinished and were buffed to a high sheen. The furniture was sparse, and the few tables and shelves scattered around held a couple dozen different sizes and types of sculpture, mostly the kind that were found at garage or estate sales or dusty way-out-of-the-way antique shops. Strangely, all the human figures were of the headless variety and had apparently been purchased for the detail of the torsos. She wondered if there was another reason. ‘I’m still working on the walls, but I guess that’s obvious.’
On a worktable at the front window, to take advantage of the natural light, was an almost complete sculpture of a male torso formed by hundreds of thumb-size smudges of clay. ‘You live here alone?’
‘If you’re asking if it’s mine, the answer is yes. And yes to living alone.’
She walked over to the two-foot-high figure and examined it more closely. The upper portion appeared completed and was heavily muscled. She glanced around at the other works in the apartment to see if any matched the style. ‘None of the others are mine if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘Do you sell them or give them away?’
‘Actually, I throw them out when I’m done, or break them down so the material can be reused.’
‘Have you ever tried to sell them?’
‘They’re not good enough yet.’
‘Really, this seems like it has potential.’
He pulled off his T-shirt. ‘That’s probably why you’re not working at the Guggenheim, and I’m a bricklayer. Beer?’
‘Sure.’
‘Glass?’
‘Please.’
Her voice had an odd quality about it that Vail was drawn to. It was lilting, but at the same time gracefully incomplete, making him want to hear it again. ‘Not trying to be one of the guys drinking out of the bottle – refreshing.’ He handed her a glass and twisted the cap off. After opening his, he took a long swallow from the bottle.
She glanced at each of the sculptures again. ‘What’s with the no-heads?’
He took another swallow of beer. For the first time that day, she sensed a reluctance to answer a question, an evasion of the blunt answers that seemed to come naturally to him. ‘I find faces distracting. I’m always trying to figure out what the models were thinking about at the time, even what language they might be thinking in. Probably studying Russian and reading Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky all those years has scarred me for life. Besides, I’ve tried faces. They all wind up looking like they’re from Middle Earth.’
The explanation seemed superficially dismissive, one that he never quite believed himself. Remembering Detroit now, she wondered if there was a natural distance he preferred. Back then everyone assumed it was some sort of extension of his inexplicable modesty. Armed with this new insight, she looked around and could find no television or magazines or personal photos. Apparently not even pictures of faces were allowed. The real question, she supposed, was what had made him like that. ‘Even though you didn’t say yes right away, I’m surprised getting you to come back to Washington wasn’t more difficult.’
‘As you can see, my sculpting business isn’t going that well. And the job I just finished was the only one I had scheduled.’
Again, she detected a slightly hollow ring to his reasons. ‘You know, if you’re interested in getting your job back permanently, that could be arranged.’
‘I’m not looking for permanent right now, just different.’
She smiled and nodded, deciding to lighten the conversation. ‘I think I can pretty much guarantee that this is going to be different.’
‘Give me fifteen minutes. The phone’s over there.’
Kate sipped at her beer absentmindedly as she listened to the shower. She stood over the unfinished sculpture, admiring its virility. The shoulder and upper arm muscles seemed too large to be realistic, but it gave off a kind of primitive indestructibility. Then, closing her hand, she let her fingertips massage her palm, recalling the callused strength of Vail’s handshake. She let the tip of her finger run lightly down the curve of the figure’s spine like a drop of warm water.
As they were boarding the plane, Kate thought she might have a chance to find out more about Vail. That he had recognized her on sight had made her curious, even flattered. As far as she recalled, their eyes had never met in the year and a half they were in Detroit together. Now seemed like a good opportunity to find out why he remembered her.
Vail took the window seat without asking her preference, and by the time she got settled, he was sound asleep. He didn’t wake up until the plane’s tires chirped onto the tarmac at Dulles International. ‘Why are you looking at me like that, was I snoring?’
She smiled. ‘No, in fact for the first time today, you were perfect company.’
‘Is that how you like your men, unconscious?’
‘My men? You make it sound like I collect scalps.’
‘Human beings are collectors by nature. Ownership, control. Breaching someone else’s defenses. In one form or another, we all do it. It’s part of the chase.’
‘Chase? What are we chasing?’
‘That’s what men – excuse me – men and women since Pythagoras have been trying to figure out.’
‘Pythagoras?’
‘Yes, there were Greek philosophers before Socrates.’
‘The