I went back to the house.
Despite my efforts, the living room remained, most literally, a bloody mess, so I tore a couple of flaps off a cardboard carton and tried to scrape up as much of the gore as I could. Then I spread a lot of newspapers around; after that, short of a mop and pail, there wasn't much more I could do. It was now after ten. While I'd been working, I'd heard the shower running, but now it was off and I tiptoed into the kitchen, assuming that Berri was trying to sleep. After a moment, though, I thought I heard him moving around in the back of the house and I called out to him.
A pause, long enough to be awkward, stretched out, before he called back, "I'll be there in a minute."
I looked around the kitchen. It was old and shabby, reminding me a little of Grainger's clinic: the lino was loose and wavy, the old cupboards bore innumerable coats of chipped white paint, and there was an ancient stove with big heavy knobs. I poked around in the cupboards, looking for coffee but finding tins of Campbell's soup, Chef Boyardee, Cordon Bleu Irish Stew, and a great deal of tea: Red Rose in bags, four small tins °f Twining's — Irish Breakfast, Earl Grey, Russian Caravan, Darjeeling. Given this indication of his taste, I filled a kettle and put it on the old stove, then set cups and saucers on a table at the far end of the room. Here, pinned up in the corner, was the kitchen's sole decorative touch: a 1941 calendar, issued by the Hudson's Bay Company, which showed a brawny, ill-painted Indian carrying a canoe up a portage. While the kettle boiled, I sat down beneath it and tried to put together a picture of the man who lived in this place. He was lonely, I guessed, a solitary; a bachelor — certainly no woman had any claims in this kitchen; and there was a combination of clues (the homemade aspect to the house and its furnishings, the very location of the place, and the foxes themselves) that made me think of one of those self-educated, self-sufficient workingmen who take night courses, harbor pet obsessions and projects, but who are practical enough to bring them into cranky, quirky reality. As a guess, this turned out pretty well. When he stepped into the room a moment later, it was clear that Berri was a very definite character: a wiry old fellow with gray hair worn in a bristly brush cut and a trace of white stubble over hollow, leathery cheeks. He'd changed into a rough gray sweater and a pair of old wool trousers, but his feet were bare and this made him seem all the more vigorous. Inevitably, covered in vomit and blood, he'd looked rather pitiful, but now that feeling was entirely dispelled. An old sailor, you might have thought. Or a tough old jockey — except he was a bit bigger than that. He hesitated a second, as if embarrassed, then managed a brief, flickering smile. "I should thank you, I guess."
"That's okay, Mr. Berri."
"Nick," he said. "Nick Berri."
"Robert Thorne."
He nodded, tried out his smile again. "Guess it was just lucky you came passing by."
I poured out the tea, lifting the pot and trying to look cheerful. "I thought you could use some…"
He nodded, crossing the room. I realized I was sitting in his regular place and began to get up, but he waved me down and pulled out a chair. He took a sip of his tea, a fussy, noisy, old man's sip, and as he did so, I was able to put my finger on something I'd missed before. Except for some mugs, all the china I'd found in the cupboard was of the same pattern: a heavy glazed pottery in an earthy yellow color. The cups were broad and very shallow, the saucers almost flat. They were rather elegant, in comparison to the rest of the place, and now I recognized them. They were "Russel Wright ware," a style that had been popular in the forties; my parents had had some, the last few pieces ending their days at the cottage.
As he set his cup down, I said, "Are you sure you're all right, Mr. Bern?"
"I'm all right."
"I've got a car. If you want, I could take you to a doctor."
"No." He shook his head. "Like I say, I'm all right."
The defensiveness in his voice was just this side of hostile. I tried to stay neutral. "That was quite an ordeal you went through. I guess what you really need is a good rest."
"I'm fine. I thank you again for all you did, but I'm fine now. Really I am."
I smiled. "And I guess you'd like me to get the hell out."
His mouth drew back in a deep, frowning crease up his cheeks. "Sorry it sounded like that. Like I say, I ought to be grateful and I truly am. But I'm okay now. It's late, and if you want to stay, you're welcome, but don't do it on my account. Those men got what they came for; they won't be back."
Got what? I wondered. But I asked, "Do you know who they were?"
He shook his head. "Never saw them before in my life."
"You mean they just came in—"
"Yes."
"What did they want?"
"I've no idea."
"But you said—"
"Listen, Mr. Thome, what happened tonight… that would be hard to explain and I'm not sure there's much of a point. But it wasn't as bad as it looked."
I hesitated. A moment passed. The foxes were still barking out in the yard, and Berri's eyes moved to the window. His chair creaked as he shifted his weight. It was obvious that he had no wish to talk about what had happened to him, despite the gratitude he felt for his rescue; and certainly, if he'd wanted to wait till the morning, I wouldn't have blamed him. Indeed, I would have preferred it. But I also knew it was important for him to understand that he was going to have to talk, so, as easily as I could, I said, "I'm a friend of Harry's, Mr. Berri. I think I said that."
He nodded. "I guess you did."
"Do you know he's dead?"
"They said… they said he was."
"Yes. He died a couple of weeks ago in Detroit. The police think it's suicide, and maybe it was, but those men drove him to it. You're lucky to be alive, Mr. Berri."
He squinted at me. "How come you know all this?"
I shrugged. "I wasn't just passing by. I've been following those men for days. As you say, the reasons why would be hard to explain, and I'm not sure there's much point. I'm a friend. I'm on your side. That's what you have to remember."
"Harry had a lot of friends. But some things even his best friends didn't know."
"Listen, Mr. Berri. No matter what you say, no matter what anyone says, nothing can hurt Harry now. But other people can be hurt. You can be hurt—"
"/ don't give a damn!" His voice was suddenly vehement. "Tonight, that's what I thought. Why should I? After all these years? Those sons of bitches deserve all they get." He smiled then, a quick, rueful grimace. "That's how come I'm alive, Mr. Thorne. No luck at all. No thanks to you. I just told those bastards what they wanted to know. Who the hell cares anymore?"