René and Martine would shoot her. Why wouldn’t she let herself go? Merde! Why did it have to be so difficult?
Her head swam. All she knew was that she felt she was in way over her head.
“Look, Etienne, I’m a disaster with relationships. Like Latin in the lycée, those ancient intricate verb tenses elude me. So do relationships. It’s some complicated thing I can watch but not duplicate.” She shook her head. What a loser she was. “Sorry for whining.”
“Making excuses is more like it,” he said. His citrus scent had transferred itself to her skin. Bad. But she didn’t want to rub it off.
And then she wondered if it mattered how she’d screw up this time … he certainly was walking in with his eyes open. Tiens, he was of age, a consenting adult.
“You’re a funny woman … wild and innocent all at once!”
Georges had described her mother like that.
She pushed his hair behind his ears and knew she was headed for trouble.
“Tempus fugit,” he mumbled in her ear.
“What does that mean?”
“Time flies … your first Latin lesson,” he breathed on her hair, pulling her close. “Not difficult, is it?”
Friday Evening
STEFAN STOOD IN THE shadowy courtyard outside Action-Réaction’s window. He’d seen Jules Bourdon case the building an hour ago, then go inside. Even after all these years, his moves were classic. The same. Should he confront Jules? Ask Jules why he had killed Jutta and Romain Figeac and tried to shoot him?
Grow up, he told himself. For once. Stand up. After all these years of hiding, now he was being hunted by the con man who had recruited him. The big talker, the mastermind of the disaster-ridden Laborde kidnapping.
Strange to say, the Brigade Criminelle and the gendarmes had been the ones who’d actually killed Laborde. He’d seen it in the papers later. All the gunshot wounds resulted from the police rifle attacks on the farm before they firebombed it.
Was Jules ransacking the office, looking for twenty-year-old loot? He couldn’t be that stupid. Especially if he’d survived as a mercenary in Africa. Jules had a cultivated nose for money. So he’d be sniffing after whatever he thought Beate and Jutta had hidden.
Silence. He peered in, his head up against the yellowed lace curtain. No one. A door was open. The door to the cellar.
Stefan crept inside the Action-Réaction office. Beams from a flashlight shone in the darkness below. He moved toward the cellar, then stopped. The wooden floor creaked behind him. A whiff of patchouli wafted in his direction. The scent from the commune. Ulrike’s scent.
He turned, saw the gun, and stiffened, his baffled look replaced by fear.
Friday Night
SOMETHING CHIRPED NEAR AIMÉE’S ear. Groggy, she reached out. Warm skin. Crisp sheets. She blinked in the darkness. Now she remembered where she was. And the glow she’d felt afterward. Still felt.
She reached for her cell phone and Etienne’s citrus scent rose from the skin of her hand. Too late. She’d missed the call but there was a voice message. Her Tintin watch said ten o’clock.
She rolled from the bed and tiptoed over the sisal rug, down the long hall, toward the kitchen. They’d never made it in here for dinner.
She was starving and thirsty. Where were her clothes? She found the cat suit in a heap on the floor, her bag and shoes under a chair. She’d check her messages, drink some water. Then get some for Etienne and crawl back in with him.
She couldn’t find a glass in the dim kitchen or drinking water, but did find a bottle of champagne. A nice, frosty Veuve Cliquot. Leaving it on the counter, she searched for glasses. She stumbled through café -style louvered swinging doors into a pantry.
The pantry counter was loaded with stacks of dishes, a polished silver coffee set, and an answering machine. She found glasses in a cupboard. Beside her, the machine clicked on without ringing. Odd. But she knew you could bypass ringing if you just wanted to leave a message.
“You’re late, Jules!” said a raspy voice.
She froze.
Jules? Jules Bourdon?
“The café off Place Ste-Foy. Bring Figeac’s son. And hurry …Nessim’s with me.”
Click.
Footsteps came from the kitchen. Was Christian here?
“Tonton?” asked Etienne. “Are you back?”
She was about to answer.
And she went rigid with fear. With a sickening certainty she realized who Etienne’s tonton, his uncle, was. Jules.
She crouched down in the dark pantry and put her finger on the erase button. A quick whoosh and the message was gone. She half-crouched below the swinging door.
She saw Etienne’s rumpled hair silhouetted against the backlit stove, the gleaming of the champagne bottle in his hand.
Had she misunderstood. Was she wrong—all wrong?
Ready to rush into his arms, she saw the barrel of a .357 reflected in the silver surface of the coffee pot.
Through the slats in the shutters, she saw him staring at her bare feet, the gun aimed right at her as he shoved the door open.
She slammed the door closed on his hand. He yelped, the gun flew away, and the champagne bottle clattered to the floor.
She rushed out.
“Salope!” he yelled, grabbing for the gun with his other hand.
She clubbed him with the champagne. A loud crack and he slid to the floor. She heard a yelp, then he grabbed her ankle. Twisted it. Pulling her off balance and slamming her into the cabinet.
She righted herself and kicked him hard in the head.
Panting, and terrified that Jules would return before she could find Christian, she grabbed dish towels and bound Etienne’s wrists and ankles with them. Then she stood back, wondering how she could have slept with him. But she had.
Another smart relationship choice! She pulled him to the laundry porch by the ankles, shoved him out there, and locked the door.
As she picked up the .357 she wondered if it had killed Jutta and Romain Figeac. She struggled into her PVC cat suit, and in the hallway found a red leather zip-up jacket. She pulled on the jacket, stuck the gun inside her leather backpack, and slipped into her shoes.
Then she went to look for Christian.
The long hallway led to a series of old offices, closed off by glass partitions.
A low moaning came from the fourth one.
She saw a needle in an aluminum kidney-shaped tray and Christian standing beside it. His eyes rolled up in his head and she was just in time to catch him before he fell to the floor.
Just her luck! They’d been giving him dope. Etienne had probably kept Christian here since she’d last seen him, the liar.
Christian was tall and heavy-boned for such a thin person.
“Don’t check out on me, Christian. Move. You have to walk.”
She hooked her arm under his and tried to help him. At the same time, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 18 for the paramedic-trained pompiers. “My friend’s OD’d, what do I do?” she asked.
“Keep him walking until we get there.”
She gave them the address.
“We’ll meet you on Boulevard de Sébastopol.”
She prayed Christian could hold out and that they’d make it to the street before Jules came looking for him. She made him walk.
He kept nodding out, his breathing stopping then slowly starting.