Chapter 80
In the attic room, Louis shifted position to keep both Sturgis and the image of the angel in his line of sight.
Only recently, after so many years, had Brightwell returned to mind, in the company of Epstein and Liat in New York.
It occurred to Louis that by remembering him, he might somehow have reconjured Brightwell into existence.
But had Brightwell ever truly ceased to exist?
He had disappeared, yes, but he had not died.
What was it Epstein said? None but an angel may destroy an angel.
And there had to be a particularity to it: a hand, a blade …
“I can see by your expression that you believe me,” said Sturgis. “You know that name, just as he knows yours. The angel is sage and mighty.” Sturgis grimaced. “Of course, the angel is also insane.”
“And what does he get from this arrangement?” Louis asked.
“An end to his pain. Forgiveness. He and I have that aspiration in common.”
“Where is he?”
Sturgis waved a hand at the night, at the north.
“Far from here, but his reach exceeds his grasp, or to paraphrase the poet, what’s a hell for?” His shoulders sagged. “I’m not going to be saved, am I?”
“I wouldn’t depend on it.”
“It’s not fair. I declined to fall on my sword at the Colonial because those who condemned me were guilty of crimes at least as appalling as mine. I wanted to be the mirror of their guilt. I wanted them to confront their own hypocrisy. But they defenestrated me with a letter.”
“And who might they be, these hypocrites?”
Sturgis tapped the side of his nose with his right index finger.
“Wouldn’t you like to know? And wouldn’t your friend Mr Parker? What will you offer, my life in return for their names?”
“Would you trust me?” Louis replied. “Would I trust you?”
“‘No’ is the answer to both questions,” said Sturgis. “I’ll give you this for free: The one you should most be concerned about remains close. He’s very determined.”
“I could hurt you,” said Louis. “I can make it last until you give up the name.”
“And I’d tell lies to make it stop,” said Sturgis, “which puts us at an impasse. But if I stay silent, hell may be more forgiving than heaven.”
He picked up his glass and raised it to his lips.
“I’d like to finish this, please,” he said. “It will be my last.”
But Louis killed him before the first drop could touch his lips.
Later that night, Epstein—who, in common with the dying, no longer slept well—received a call.
“He gave me a name,” said Louis.
“What name?”
“Brightwell.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I did.”
“What will you do now?” Epstein asked.
“To be honest,” said Louis, “I have no idea.”