The Girl with the Pearl Herring. Part 9 (The End)

In the woods, on the road out of the warehouse, they waited.  Time passed, neither man moved.  A stolen ten year old Toyota 4 runner was parked across the road, making a triangle. Lincoln was on the north side of the road, the truck was in the road and Jaques was to the south of the road, both men alert, still, and invisible.  The sound of gears came before they could see the headlights, but those came down the road eventually, moving at a sedate pace as the hour and rain dictated.  Lincoln let out a soft owl noise, and Jaques gave a low quiet whistle in response.

The truck, upon seeing the 4Runner stopped. The truck blew its horn and flashed the lights, no response.  Both Lincoln and Jaques moved to opposite sides of the truck and crouched behind the cab doors.  The doors opened with a torrent of angry French invective as the driver and passenger got out.  Lincoln surprised the driver with a hard right cross behind his ear, he fell like a poleaxed ox.   On the other side of the truck, Jaques bunching his right hand into a fist and using every bit of ‘Angry Gutter Swan’ he could muster, hit the passenger on the side of his neck, just below the skull. The passenger’s eyes rolled back into his head, his brain shut down. When his legs got the message the man slumped straight down, breathing, but not moving.

As Jaques moved the 4Runner out of the way, letting it roll into the ditch on the side of the road, Lincoln, the designated driver, climbed up behind the wheel of the truck. He was trying to shift the unfamiliar gearbox into second gear as Jaques lifted himself up on the running board, and then into the passenger seat.  They were done, they had the truck full of gold and they were on their way to return it to the Du Puis’.  Not all was tidy, they had the truck but there were two bodies on the road and the “big boss” of the operation was not gone, however their role in the local drama was over.  Jaques and Lincoln were going to have to leave town, quickly. There would be no Herring festival for them this year, discretion, the better part of valor, dictated it. Following his training Lincoln did not turn on the blinker until he was almost past his exit. When he pulled into the warehouse Jacob Du Puis, out of the hospital, was waiting with his young daughter Harriot.  Lincoln and Jaques knew they would have to leave their luggage and toiletries in their motel room. All of it, from razor to ascots, would be lost. That was their cheap price of an unscathed escape they both thought. There were rumored to be good stores in England, Jaques still wanted to see Hadrian's wall and Stonehenge and Lincoln, with the exception of escargot at La Jacobine, had nothing to do.

Mah Cherie said Lincoln to the little girl. When it came out ‘my char-reeee,’ JAQUES cringed and saw Lincoln take a deep breath. Lincoln was clearly trying to find the French words for something, but the way he was waving his hands even Jaques couldn’t tell what it was.

“She speaks English Lincoln,” Jaques whispered, “why don't you go with that?”

“Oh thank god,” said Lincoln as he exhaled, “Lil miss, my friend and I need to go far away now. We, sadly, cannot bring the dog. I see the way you look at this one and I was wondering if you could give him a good home?”

There was dampness around the young girl's eyes. “Of course sir,” she said in her incongruous Basque accent, “I would be delighted.”

“Well, thank you young lady,” said JAQUES “we are truly in your debt. One small issue though, this dog has no name.”

As she took the lead she squatted down and looked intently into the dog's face. Half a minute later she stood up and beamed.

“I shall call him….”

“Chien!” shouted Lincoln. “French for dog is chien.”

Everybody looked at him in disbelief.

“Yeah man!” Cheered JAQUES, “yeah, it is chien.”

Some months later, Jaques was returning his dory oars to the boathouse when his phone pinged. Putting his bag of scallops, and the banded lobsters he had harvested for breakfast in a wheelbarrow, he picked up his phone.  The message icon had a 1 in the upper right hand corner.  When he finally opened the text message it was a picture of a stunning dining room, sumptuous view of Paris, a bottle of wine, and a plate of escargot.  The text read simply “I hate snails.”