"You can come too," the young man told the French chauffeur.
"I will not ride with a paid laborer," Samantha screeched.
"It'll be all right," the young man said soothingly. "He can ride in the front seat with us. And the trip will be over in no time at all."
Number 134.
Miles Patterson sat in the airport bar sipping a martini, his well-worn leather bag at his feet. He had been flying internationally for twenty-five years and he had found that a couple of stiff drinks immediately after a long flight helped eliminate jet lag. Let others scurry through corridors dragging their bundles and bags and kiddies and then wait interminably at the baggage claim and then again for a cab ride. Miles Patterson prefered to blot up two martinis in silent ecstasy, until Paris looked like a warm and friendly place.
"Do you mind if I sit next to you?" a young pretty girl asked as Miles was nearing the end of his second martini. She was less than twenty years old and had Brooke Shields's hair and melon breasts. Paris had never before seemed so warm and friendly.
He shook his head and the girl asked shyly, "Are you visiting?"
Miles stared, stupefied for a moment, before dragging himself back to reality. "Uh, no. Business. I'm a jewelry merchant. I make this trip six, eight times a year. "
"Goodness," the girl said, looking down at the leather bag. "If those are your samples, you'd better be really careful."
"No, no," Patterson said, smiling. "The samples are on me. Big security risk, you know. I have a hell of a time getting through customs."
The girl laughed as if he'd said the funniest words ever uttered. "It's so nice to meet another American," she gushed. "Sometimes I get so . . . I don't know, hungry ... for men like you."
"Hungry?" Miles Patterson said, feeling the olives from the martinis tumbling around inside his stomach.
"Um," the girl said. She licked her lips.
"Where are you staying?" he asked quickly.
The girl leaned close and whispered. "Very near here," she said. "We can walk there. Right through a field of deep grass." Her chest rose and fell.
"What a coincidence," he said. "I've just been thinking that what I need most right now is a good brisk walk." He tried to laugh. She brushed her breasts against him as she stood up. A yellow handkerchief dangled from her belt.
"You lead the way," he said.
"Oh, I will," the girl said. "I will." As they left the airport, she took the handkerchief from her belt and stretched it taut between her hands.
Mrs. Evelyn Baynes was not wearing a sari. Not today. Not in Paris. She was wearing the latest Karl Lagerfeld walking suit in mauve and her hair had been done by Cinandre in New York. She was wearing the most uncomfortable Charles Jourdan shoes that money could buy and she felt terrific for the first time in weeks.
"Hurry up," she said, prodding her two children toward the portly couple waiting at the baggage claim area. "Joshua, take Kimberly's hand. And smile. This is the first time we've been out of that pit in God knows how long."
"The ashram is not a pit," Joshua said hotly.
"And I don't like Mrs. Palmer," Kimberly balked. "She always tries to kiss me. Can I kill her, Joshua?"
"Sure, kid," the boy said. "Just wait for me to give you the signal,"
Evelyn Baynes beamed. "That's using psychology, Joshua," she said. "You'll be a fine leader someday."
"Someday I will be chief phansigar," the boy said.
"Now, I don't want to hear another word about that god-awful place. We've got a whole week in Paris to be civilized again." She squealed as she embraced Mrs. Palmer. "My, Emmie, the extra weight agrees with you," she said.
"You've simply withered away to nothing, dear," Mrs. Palmer cooed back. "Have you been ill? Oh, no. That's right. You've been living with some religious cultists or something, haven't you?"
"Now, Emmie," Herb Palmer broke in.
"Well, it is the talk of the neighborhood, dear, The Madisons have already moved out."
"Emmie . . ."
"It's all right," Mrs. Baynes said, flushing violently, "Actually, the ashram's the latest. All the rage among the 'in' Europeans."
"You called it a pit, Mommy," Kimberly Baynes said.
"Where's the car?" shouted Mrs. Baynes.
"Coming around the corner."
The black driver smiled and touched his fingers to his cap as they climbed into the car. Joshua helped Mrs. Palmer and his mother and sister inside. He started to get in, then hesitated. "I have to go to the bathroom," he said.
"Oh, Joshua. Not now. It's not far to the city," his mother said.
"I said I have to go. Now."
Mrs. Baynes sighed. "All right. I'll go with you."
"I want him to take me." He pointed to the black driver.
"No problem," Herb Palmer said. "Go ahead. I'll just drive around the block and wait for you both." When he had circumnavigated the block twice, Joshua was waiting at the curb alone. "Your driver quit," he said as he got into the car.
"What?"
"He met some woman inside the airport. They told me to get lost and then they went away together. They said they'd never be back."
"Well, I never . . ." Mrs. Palmer said.
"We'll see what the company has to say about that," Palmer said through clenched teeth.
"You poor brave little boy," Mrs. Baynes said, clutching Joshua to her breast.
They drove away before the body of the black man was discovered in the men's room and the screaming began. Number 135.
Numbers 136, 137, and 138.
"We want to go to the Bois de Boulogne, Mother," Joshua said.
"Don't be silly, dear. We're going straight to the Georges Cinq."
"But it's special," chimed in Kimberly.
"Yes. Special. We read about a special place in a book. Kimmy and I wrote a special poem to recite to you there. The three of you. It has to be now."
"Hey, why not?" Herb Palmer said. "We're all on vacation. Forget schedules."
"Such sweet children, Evelyn," said Mrs. Palmer. They stopped by a swamp on the northern end of a swan lake.
"But don't you think it's nicer over there, children?" Mrs. Baynes suggested. "Near the birds, where the people are?"
"No. It has to be here," Joshua said stubbornly. "Oh, very well. Let's hear your poem, darlings."
"Outside," Herb Palmer said. "Poetry needs sun and sky and water and fresh air."
The adults all moved out and sat on the bank that ran down to the brackish water and looked out at the swans far away.
"The poem," Herb Palmer said. "Let's hear the poem."
Joshua smiled. Kimberly smiled. They pulled yellow handkerchiefs from their pockets.
Mrs. Baynes said, "Those look familiar. Did you bring them from that ... that place?"
"Yes, Mother," Kimberly said. "You all three have to wear them."
"No," Mr. Palmer said laughingly. "The poem first."
"For luck," Joshua insisted.
"Please," Kimberly pleaded. "Josh even has an extra one for you, Mother."
The children slipped the kerchiefs around the necks of the three adults.
"And now the poem," Joshua announced to the backs of the three adults.
"Is that the signal?" Kimberly whispered to him.
"That's the signal."
She jumped up behind Mr. Palmer, and as they chanted, "Kill for Kali, Kill for Kali," they pulled the yellow rumals around the Palmers' necks.
"Kill for Kali. She loves it. Kill, kill, kill."
Mrs. Baynes was watching the swans. Without turning, she said, "That's a strange poem. It doesn't even rhyme. Is that what they call free verse? Or blank verse?"
"Kill, kill, kill."
The Palmers' eyes bulged. Mrs. Palmer's tongue lolled out of her mouth, violet and swollen. Herb Palmer struggled to free himself but the metal clasp on the rumal around his fleshy neck held tight.
"I don't think the Palmers are enjoying your poem, children," Mrs. Baynes said acidly, still without turning.