THE NOIREL SAGA

PROLOGUE

The Last Night of Henry Noirel

Henry Noirel left home on a cold Tuesday night in February, a little after ten, carrying only his dark coat, his car keys, and an explanation no one in that house fully believed.

A fine snow was falling over Oak Park. It was not a storm, not even one of those blizzards capable of bringing Chicago to a halt for days. It was a quiet snow, almost patient, gathering on the porch steps, on the bare branches of the trees, and on the hoods of the cars parked along the street.

Inside the house, the heater worked with a low murmur behind the walls. Eva Moreau Noirel had turned it up after dinner, though it was not cold enough to justify it. Perhaps it was habit. Perhaps it was instinct. Vincent would remember that detail for many years: the house had been too warm on the last night he saw his father.

Henry stood in the hall, before the narrow mirror beside the front door, trying to straighten a tie he had already loosened twice. To anyone else, it would have meant nothing. To Eva, it meant too much.

Vincent sat on the bottom step of the staircase, holding a small metal car between his hands. He was not playing with it. He simply held it there, turning one of its wheels with his thumb.

“It won’t take long,” Henry said.

Eva looked at him as if the sentence offended her more than a greater lie would have.

“You should choose your words more carefully when you don’t know whether you can keep them.”

Henry drew a slow breath.

“Eva…”

“No,” she said, without raising her voice. “Don’t say my name as if this were just another night.”

Vincent stopped turning the wheel of the toy car.

Henry looked at his son, and for an instant his face changed.

“Vince,” he called.

The boy looked up.

“Yes?”

“You shouldn’t be awake.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

Vincent shrugged.

“I’m not sleepy,” he said.

Henry smiled faintly.

“Children who say that always are.”

“Fathers who say ‘it won’t take long’ always take too long.”

The line produced an uncomfortable silence.

“You’re getting too clever.”

“Victor says that too.”

Victor’s name seemed to change the temperature in the hall.

Henry looked toward the door, then at Eva. The telephone, on the side table, remained silent, but everyone still seemed to hear the three rings that had interrupted dinner a few minutes earlier.

Henry had said little.

“I understand.”

Then silence.

“I’m on my way.”

And he had hung up.

He had not asked for an address. He had not asked for an explanation. He had shown no surprise. That absence of surprise had been the first real blow of the night.

Henry crossed the hall and knelt before his son.

“Take care of your mother while I’m gone,” Henry said.

Eva turned her face away. Not much. Enough.

Vincent noticed.

“Will you be long?”

Henry held the boy’s face between his hands. His palms were warm.

“No.”

It was a lie made to protect someone.

“Promise?”

Henry took too long to answer.

“I promise I’ll try,” he said.

Vincent frowned.

“That’s not promising.”

This time Henry truly smiled, but the smile was sad.

“No. I suppose it isn’t.”

Eva took a step forward.

“Then don’t go.”

Henry rose slowly.

“If I don’t go, someone will come here.”

Eva did not move, but the sentence struck her. Vincent did not fully understand. He understood only that, for the first time that night, the danger had an address.

“Who?” the boy asked.

Henry looked at Eva before answering. She understood his intention and was faster.

“No one you need to know.”

Henry picked up his gloves from the side table. One of them fell.

Eva noticed it too.

“You’re afraid,” she said.

Henry put on one glove.

“I’m late.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

He looked at her.

“I need to settle this away from here,” he said.

“You said that three weeks ago.”

“Because it was true.”

“And did you?”

He did not answer.

Eva released an almost imperceptible breath. Her answer was there.

Henry put on the second glove. Then he stepped closer and kissed his wife’s forehead.

“If Victor calls, answer,” Henry said, very softly.

Vincent heard him anyway.

Eva opened her eyes.

“Why would Victor call?”

Henry held her gaze, but did not answer.

“Henry…”

“Just answer.”

She removed her hand from his face.

“What have you done?”

The question was not an accusation. It was fear taking shape.

Henry looked toward the door.

“I tried to fix something,” Henry said.

“What?”

He opened the door.

The cold air came in at once.

“Don’t wait up,” he said at last.

Eva gave a joyless laugh.

“You still think I sleep?”

Henry lowered his eyes. Then he looked at Vincent.

“Go to bed, champ.”

“When you come back.”

Henry nodded, but did not repeat the promise.

He left.

The door closed.

At one twenty in the morning, the telephone rang.

Vincent sat up in bed.

One ring.

Two.

On the third, Eva answered.

He did not hear what was said. He heard only her voice, too low, then nothing.

A little later, he heard drawers opening in Henry’s study.

Eva was there.

She was not crying. She had an envelope in her hands, but seemed unable to open it. There were documents on the hall table: papers Vincent had never seen, a passport, perhaps two, and a photograph turned face down.

“Maman?” he called.

Eva closed her eyes.

“I told you to stay in your room.”

“The phone rang.”

“I know.”

“Was it Dad?”

She looked at the receiver, then at her son.

“No.”

“Who was it?”

“Your uncle.”

Victor.

The answer should have reassured him. It did not.

Then the doorbell did not ring.

The door simply opened.

Victor Noirel entered using his own key.

Too quickly.

Vincent saw fear.

Not surprise. Not concern. Fear.

Eva saw it too.

“Where is he?” Eva asked.

Victor closed the door behind him.

“Eva…”

“Where is Henry?”

Victor looked at Vincent.

“He shouldn’t be here.”

“This is his house,” Eva said.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Victor. Tonight, I no longer know what anyone means.”

“We need to get Vincent out of here.”

The boy stepped down another stair.

“Out of where?”

Neither of them answered.

Eva moved closer to Victor.

“Did you speak to him?”

“No.”

“Victor.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He drew a deep breath.

“I spoke to Henry tonight,” he said.

Eva went still.

“And you didn’t come?”

“I was coming.”

“Before he left?”

Victor did not answer.

Eva understood.

Vincent understood part of it too, though he did not know how to name it.

“What did he say?” Eva asked.

Victor looked at Vincent.

Eva did not look away.

“What did he say?”

“That if I hadn’t spoken to him by midnight, I was to come here.”

The sentence seemed to drain the air from the house.

“Midnight has passed.”

“I know.”

“And did you speak to him?”

Victor lowered his eyes.

To be continued in
The Noirel Saga — Volume I: The Shape Of Silence