Free The Thief Who Couldn't Sleep by Lawrence Block Page A

Evan?"
    "No."
    "A Protestant, then."
    "No. I don't have a religion exactly."
    "Then, if you wanted to, you could become a Catholic?"
    "If I wanted to."
    "Ah."
    "I thought of it once. A very good friend of mine, a priest, made a fairly heroic effort to convert me. It didn't take."
    "But that's not to say it couldn't some other time, is it?"
    "Well, I don't think—"
    She put her hand on mine. "You could come back to Ireland," she said slowly, earnestly. "Not saying that you will or won't, but you could. And you could turn Catholic, though not saying will or won't." Her cheeks were pink now, her eyes bluer than ever in the firelight. "It's a sin all the same, but not so serious, you know. And if Father Daly hears my confession, instead of Father O'Neill, he won't be so hard on me. Ah, Nora, hear yourself! Talking of the confession and penance before the sin itself, and isn't that a sin of another sort!"
    We kissed. She sighed gratefully and set her head on my chest. I ran a hand through her black hair. She raised her head and our eyes met.
    "Tell me lies, Evan."
    "Perhaps I'll come back to Ireland, and to Croom."
    "Ahhh!"
    "And perhaps, God willing, I'll find my faith."
    "You're the sweetest liar. Now one more lie. Who do you love?"
    "I love you, Nora."
    We crawled through the trapdoor to my little crow's nest between ceiling and roof. I retrieved the ladder and the panel and closed us in. No one would hear us, she assured me. Her father and brother slept like the dead, and sounds did not carry well in the cottage.
    She would not let me light the candle. She took off her robe in a corner of the room, then crept to my side and joined me under all the quilts and blankets. We told each other lies of love and made them come true in the darkness.
    There had, I found, been other liars before me, a discovery that filled me at once with sorrow and relief.
    Afterward she slept, but only for a few moments. I held her in my arms and drew the covers over us both. When she awoke she touched my face, and we kissed.
    "A tiny sin," she said, not very seriously this time.
    "Hardly a sin at all."
    "And if I'd been born to be perfect, they'd surely have put me away in a convent, and then who would care for Da?"
    She left me, found her robe, opened the trapdoor, and started down the ladder. "Now," she said, "now you'll sleep."

 
    C hapter 7
    I n the hours before breakfast I read a popular biography of Robert Emmet and several chapters from The Lives of the Saints. Around five-thirty I stepped outside the cottage. A mist was rising from the countryside and melting under the glow of false dawn. The air had a damp chill to it. It was not raining, but it felt as though it might start again at any moment.
    A few minutes past six Nora came down and started breakfast. She wore a skirt and sweater and looked quite radiant. Her father and brother followed a few minutes later. We ate sausages and eggs and toast and drank strong tea.
    Before long I was alone again. Tom had gone to return the bicycle and retrieve my suit and passport, Nora was off for church and then a round of shopping, and Dolan had left to join a crew mending a road south of the town. I sat down with a pad of notepaper and a handful of envelopes and began writing a group of cryptic letters. It would be well, I felt, to leave as soon as possible and it would probably not be a bad idea if some of my prospective hosts on the continent had a vague idea that they were about to have a clandestine house guest on their hands. I couldn't be sure what route I might take, what borders would be hard to cross or where I would be unwelcome, so I wrote more letters than I felt
    I could possibly need. The intended recipients ranged as far geographically as Spain and Latvia, as far politically as a Portuguese anarcho-syndicalist and a brother and sister in Roumania who hoped to restore the monarchy. I didn't expect to see a quarter of them, but one never knew.
    I made the letters as carefully vague as I