“Right, that’s because they don’t think the same way, not the same kind of cognition. Thinking is hard and we conserve our energy, that’s all. So, where do we find Father Bousquet?”

“We could start with his house.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Father Bousquet lived on a quiet street of houses cloistered behind walls. From the road we could see the top floor and the roof. Looked big. Nazari parked out front. She didn’t bother with knocking, just opened the gate and we stepped through to a scrappy yard.

The house was big and ugly, not built to please, built to house. There were kids running around, little ones, a couple of chickens and a white cat. The cat was rolling in the grass while the chickens pecked.

I looked at Nazari. “Wouldn’t have thought that a cat can get along with chickens.”

“No, me either. Weird.”

“Maybe the cat’s a Christian.”

A woman was sitting at an old garden table. She was around thirty, her head wrapped in a twist of bright yellow cotton with some kind of orange motif. A phone was tucked into the head wrap. She was speaking rapidly into it while smoking a cigarette. The woman waved at us pleasantly and continued her conversation in what I figured was an African language with tongue clicks. A chicken squawked. I looked for the cat, who was up on the garden wall stretching. Nazari pushed at the door and a bell tinkled.

It was close to dinner time and smells were coming from the back, which I assumed was the kitchen. Two men and a teenage boy were shucking peas. Nazari asked about Bousquet. The guys said we’d find the father upstairs in his study.

We found Father Bousquet sitting at a large and messy desk in the corner of a large and messy room. He was staring into an ancient computer monitor and stabbing at an old keyboard, the plastic yellowed with age. He noticed us and swiveled ninety degrees. He pushed back in the chair.

“Mister Tom Keeler and Mademoiselle Cecile Nazari. Same time, same place.” He said the word mister in English with an exaggerated French accent. Meester. He turned back to Nazari and wagged his eyebrows. “Interesting.” Then turned back to me. “And you. Still here.” His eyes looked up as he counted something. “Four days, by my reckoning. A regular Alencourt citizen by now.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir. Something like that.”

Bousquet looked again from one to the other. “Looks like serious business.” He pointed to a set of arm chairs either side of a coffee table. “Come, sit, talk.”

We sat down. Father Bousquet wheeled his office chair over to us.

“It’s close to dinner time. My life is in danger if I’m late, so you’ll have to be brief, or come back after.”

I said, “We can do both. Remember that thing with the police?”

“I do.”