by Anne Stuart
“You’d be surprised,” Malgreave said, tapping his pencil thoughtfully. “Anybody remember the old people? Were they locals?”
“People old enough to remember have been pretty close-mouthed about the whole thing. As far as we can tell, the victims weren’t well liked, either of them. It sounds as if the investigation into the fire was dropped for lack of interest, not evidence.”
“Interesting. What about Bonnard?”
“No one by the name of Marc Bonnard was in residence here at the time of the fire.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Vidal laughed on the other end. “I should mention that a young boy named Marc de Salles arrived about a year before the fire. A very handsome boy, younger than the others, with a talent for theatrics and a particularly winning way with the locals.”
“It should be easy enough to check. The boys would have been sent to other institutions, farmed out to foster homes. Probably our young friend de Salles was taken in by a family named Bonnard.”
“Chief Inspector, the boy was ten years old when the place burned. Surely you don’t think he could have been involved?”
“I’m convinced they all were involved, and they may have had a damned good motive. When you finish up there see what you can find about the gardener and Estelle Marti. Whether they had any criminal record, any history of child abuse, of sexual deviations. It would explain a great deal.”
“Yes, sir.”
Malgreave replaced the phone, a faint expression of amusement momentarily lightening his features. Josef would have to watch himself with that one. Vidal was an eager beaver if ever there was one. It must have killed Josef to let him make that call, but Josef was ever conscientious, putting a case ahead of his wife’s ambitions. Malgreave would have to make sure Josef felt appreciated.
He heard the phone ring in the outer office. He reached for the receiver again, but Gauge was ahead of him, his broad face creased in concentration as he took studious notes, and Malgreave pulled his hand back, reaching for a cigarette instead. He could hear the voice on the other end through a lull in the office noise, some hysterical woman babbling in what sounded like English. Another crazy, Malgreave thought, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep, appreciative pull on it. Thank God he could count on Gauge to deal with it.
It all came together in an instant of pure, disbelieving horror. She knew, the moment she heard Nicole scream, she knew. She didn’t need Marc’s voice, the sudden, rasping, giggly sound of Marc’s voice breaking in, speaking to her at last, to confirm what she’d never wanted to face.
“I am going to kill her, chérie,” he said, his voice high, breathless. “I only like to kill old women, grandmothers like Harriette, but in Nicole’s case I’ll make an exception. She saw me last night with her grandmother, and she’s always suspected about her mother. If it weren’t for Nicole you would have loved me.”
“Marc …”
“She’s trying to hide from me, Claire. She’s running, but she’s so drugged that she won’t be able to get far. I won’t kill her right away once I catch her. I like little girls. I like to touch them. I’ll make it last, chérie. I’ll make it last a long, long time.”
There was no background noise beyond Marc’s eerie voice. Maybe she had gotten away, maybe if she could just keep him on the phone long enough Nicole could run for help. Claire took a deep, struggling breath, only dimly aware of Tom’s arm around her hunched shoulders. “Marc,” she said, and stopped, momentarily astonished at how calm her voice was. “Marc,” she said again. “You don’t want to hurt anyone …”
“Au contraire, chérie, I do. I want to hurt Nicole, I want to hurt you, I want to hurt the old women that watch me, that tease and torture me, I want to hurt them all. I want …” His ranting changed swiftly from English to French, his voice rising to an almost incomprehensible shriek. Tom jerked the phone away from her, listening with growing horror, and Claire thanked God she couldn’t understand French.
And then the line went dead. Silence once more, but not the listening, waiting silence. A few seconds later an impartial buzz informed them that Marc had hung up the phone. That now he could search for Nicole.
Nicole sat huddled against the wall in the hallway, the scream of terror still caught in her throat as she stared at Marc. Nothing seemed to be working, not her legs, not her arms, not her voice, certainly not her brain. She’d felt like this before, the time she’d fallen into a swimming pool, going down, down, deep under the water, fighting through the heaviness that pulled and tugged at her, drowning her. Her mother had saved her, jumped in and pulled her to the surface, where she could struggle and breathe again, scream and cry in terror and life.
But her mother was dead, killed by the monster in front of her, and there was no one to save her. No way she could struggle out of the heavy folds of death that were wrapping around her. Claire had deserted her. Claire who had promised to take care of her, Claire had left her to Marc.
He’d forgotten her for the moment. He was laughing into the telephone, and his eyes were bright with joy and malice. He was telling Claire what he would do to her, what he could do to both of them. Summoning her last ounce of strength, Nicole began to scuttle backward like a crab, along the side of the wall.
Marc stood between her and the front door. She could make it to the back door, but he might catch her, and there were knives in the kitchen, too many long, sharp knives. There was a chance, one chance that he might not know about. Claire would come. Claire had abandoned her, but Claire would come. If she could just find a place to hide, long enough for Claire to get there, she’d be safe.
She must have banged against the wall. Marc turned, looking at her, and his mouth curved in cheerful anticipation before turning his attention back to the phone. He knew she was too weak to walk. She wouldn’t have the strength to go far enough to get away from him.
But pray God he didn’t know about the old heating duct in her closet. She’d pulled the grate off years ago, and sometimes she used to crawl in there and hide, curled up in her own misery, missing her father, hating the interloper who smiled too much and watched her in her bath. She was bigger now, and it might be a tight squeeze, but she could pull the grate after her, hide back there, and he might not find her.
She could hear his voice, getting higher, louder, saying things she couldn’t understand and didn’t want to. Her legs were getting stronger, finally beginning to respond to her brain’s orders, and she scrambled into her bedroom, across the rug, and into the closet.
For a moment the grate stuck, and she panicked. Someone must have found it was loose, must have put new screws in. But then it moved, and she yanked it open, crawling into the narrow chute.
Her numb fingers could barely lift the heavy grate. It made a loud, clanging noise as she pulled it into place, and the silence from the hallway told her Marc had finished with Claire. Had he seen where she went? Had he heard the sound and recognized it? Was he just behind her, watching her, about to reach for her with those long, cruel fingers?
She let go of the grate and tried to scramble backward into the narrow tunnel, but the heavy iron began to fall forward, and she caught it just in time. She had no choice. She would have to sit at the end of the tunnel, holding the grate in place, hoping Marc wouldn’t be able to see her pale fingers through the hatches, wouldn’t yank the grate open and grab her before she could edge away into the narrow ductwork.
And if she was able to get away, into the maze of tunnels, what would happen? What if she got stuck, and no one ever found her? She’d starve to death, stuck in the heating vent, trapped, unable to break free.
She heard a whimper of terror, and knew it was her own. And then, in her room, close, too close, came the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps. The footsteps of a man used to silence.
She stopped breathing. He made no sound, the madly cheerful voice stilled. She heard the rustle of bedclothes, the creak of an old floorboard. He was looking beneath her bed, in the corner
, behind the curtains. She could sense him moving closer, toward the closet, and she knew if he opened the door he would see her pale white fingers against the gray iron of the grate. She had no choice, she would have to release the grate and scuttle back into the tunnel.
Light flooded the end of the duct just as she released her death grip. She held still, waiting for the heavy iron to fall, exposing her hiding place. She held still, waiting for death.
The hangers rattled overhead. The neatly polished shoes in front of the grate were kicked by a slippered foot. And the grate, held by an uncertain gravity and her terrified prayers, stayed in place.
The closet door remained open, but the footsteps edged away. She leaned forward, watching his shadowed figure as it moved toward the hallway, and as she did so her forehead brushed the iron grate, sending it tumbling toward the wooden floor.
She caught it, inches from the floor, clenching the heavy piece of iron in impossibly weak hands, half in, half out of the vent, not daring to move, waiting, waiting for Marc to come back and find her.
But he’d already gone, moving into the hallway, intent on his own hunt, dismissing her room as a possible haven.
Slowly, silently, she sat back, pulling the heavy grate with her. Her fingers were clutched so tightly around the iron that she found she couldn’t release them. She no longer cared. She leaned back against the cold metal sides of the vent and shut her eyes. She would wait until someone found her. If it was Marc, so be it.
Claire didn’t wait to see if Tom was following her. She raced down the flights of stairs, holding on to the railing to keep herself from falling in her unthinking panic. The late-morning streets were crowded on the first sunny day in ages, and she careened into passersby, bouncing off them without so much as a mumbled apology.
She didn’t bother to look for a taxi—with the traffic it would take less time to run. And run she did, numbly aware of Tom’s long-legged figure keeping pace with her, numbly aware of the burning pain in her heart as she gasped for breath. And all the time she prayed, a silent litany begging a heretofore unfriendly God to keep Nicole safe. She promised everything in a tumbling flurry of rash thoughts. She’d become a nun, she’d die herself, she’d go back to the States and face charges, she’d never go near another man again. But please, dear God, let Nicole escape from that madman.
She half expected the street outside Marc’s apartment to be jammed with police cars and ambulances. As she stormed into the ancient brick building she had a split second to marvel at the ordinary charm of the day, the tourists crowding the streets, the elegant Parisians taking the infrequent sunshine to heart.
Tom caught her halfway up the broad marble stairs, jerking her to a halt, and for a moment all she could do was lean against the walls and stare at him as she struggled for breath.
If Tom wasn’t equally winded it was probably due to his six flights of stairs. Even so, it took him a moment to be able to speak.
“We can’t just … storm in there,” he said. “It might push him over the edge.”
“He is over the edge, damn it! Didn’t you hear what he said? He’s going to kill Nicole.”
“I heard him. I heard what he said in French, too, and it was far worse than what he was threatening in English. He told us exactly what he was planning to do to Nicole, and then what he’d do to you when he caught you.” Tom’s face was pale beneath the sweat, and Claire shivered.
“I don’t care. We can’t wait …”
“We have one advantage,” Tom said ruthlessly, holding her still when she tried to break free. “He only uses a knife. That’s what he was talking about, that’s what the papers have said. So he’ll have to get fairly close to either of us to hurt us.”
“The papers,” she said numbly. “Do you really think he’s the one who’s been killing these old women?”
“Do you really think there’s a chance he isn’t?”
“God,” Claire moaned. “What sort of monster have I been living with?”
“I don’t know. But I think we’re about to find out. Carefully now. Stay behind me. It’s you he wants to hurt. He seems to want to prey on women. Maybe he’ll think twice about hurting me.”
“Bullshit.” She pushed herself away from the wall. “You heard him. I don’t think he’s capable of thinking about it one way or the other. He’ll go through you to get to me. And I don’t give a damn. Anything to get him away from Nicole.” She yanked herself out of his grip and started back up the stairs, moving swiftly, dreading what she knew she’d find in the apartment.
Tom gave up arguing and came with her. The heavy green door stood open into the deserted hallway. There was no sign, no sound, of a living human being anywhere near the apartment.
Claire started forward, and once more Tom caught her arm. “He might be lying in wait for you,” he warned.
She shook her head impatiently. “He’s gone,” she said with great certainty, moving into the apartment with Tom beside her, slowly, carefully, listening for any unexpected sounds, watching for movement out of the corner of her eyes.
She half expected, half dreaded to see blood stains on the floor. There were none. No sign of a struggle. No sign of Marc. No sign of Nicole. The apartment was deserted.
“I’m calling the police.”
Claire barely heard him. “She’s still here.”
“No one’s here, Claire,” Tom said impatiently. “Marc’s taken her somewhere, and the sooner we get help the better.”
“Go ahead and call them. I’m going to keep looking.” She headed back toward the bedrooms, and with a sigh Tom replaced the telephone and followed her. “I thought you were going to call the police.”
“In a minute. If Nicole is here I don’t want you to have to find her alone.”
Claire shivered. “She’s not dead.”
“If you say so.”
“God damn it, Tom, I’d know …”
The sound was very faint. If every nerve in Claire’s body hadn’t been tuned in, waiting for it, she might never have heard it. Just a whisper of noise, calling her name.
“Nicole?” She kept her voice calm, as hope and panic threatened to swamp her. “Nicole, honey, where are you?”
The call came again, so softly she could scarcely hear it. She knew the voice, but the words were distant, incomprehensible.
“Nicole, where are you?”
The voice was louder as they ran toward the bedroom, and clearly in muffled French. Tom shook his head. “I don’t understand what she’s saying. She says she’s in something, but I don’t know the word.”
As they reached her bedroom they were greeted by a loud clang that shook the bedroom floor. Moments later Nicole crawled out of a hole in the bedroom closet, her sallow face pale, her dark hair hanging limply, her eyes still dilated and glassy. She looked up at Claire, murmured something in French, and collapsed on the floor, crying.
Within seconds Claire was on the floor beside her, pulling her into her lap, cradling her, murmuring ridiculous, comforting phrases as she pushed her damp hair out of her face. She rocked her, back and forth, for long, soothing moments, until Nicole’s tears shuddered to a halt, turning into occasional whimpers of fear as she clung to Claire, until she’d drifted back into an exhausted, semi-drugged sleep.
Claire turned and looked up at Tom. “Lock the doors,” she said. “We have to make sure he can’t get in.” And her arms tightened protectively around Nicole’s shivering figure as she jerked in fear.
Tom nodded, heading for the door, when her voice called him back.
“What did Nicole say when she saw me?”
A semblance of a smile lit Tom’s face. “She said she knew you’d come. She knew you’d save her.”
Claire managed the ghost of a smile in response. “I hope she’s right.”
“You’re the last person I expected to see.” Hubert’s voice was chilly with high-pitched disdain as he looked up into Rocco’s face. The old man was wearing mourning—a beautifully cut black su
it with a single white rose in the lapel. Mourning the old bitch, Rocco thought with a sneer he didn’t let show.
“I’m in trouble, Hubert.”
“And? You expect something from me?”
Rocco shrugged. “Information, perhaps. I’ve been useful to you in the past. It might be in your best interests to keep me around in case I could prove useful in the future.”
“It could be that you’ve outlived your usefulness. Things become dangerous when you start enjoying your job, Rocco. You were always such a professional. When you start killing for pleasure you run into trouble. Things are bound to catch up with you.”
Rocco veiled the hatred in his opaque black eyes. “We all have to have some sort of hobby, Hubert.”
“When you’re in a dangerous line of work you ought to find a discreet hobby, not one that will call more attention to yourself. Malgreave is after you, isn’t he?”
Rocco wasn’t surprised at Hubert’s knowledge. Little escaped the old man. “Malgreave has always been after me.”
“But he’s beginning to put things together. Your friend Bonnard is in deep trouble, and he’s going to drag you down with him.”
“Where is he?”
“Is that what this is about?” Hubert sniffed. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Don’t give me that shit. You know everything. Where the hell is Bonnard?”
“Out looking for his girlfriend, I expect. Not to mention her lover and Bonnard’s stepchild. You find them, you’ll find Bonnard.” Hubert took a black silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his pursed mouth. “Come to think of it, you might be able to assist me after all. And in the end, you’ll assist both Bonnard and yourself.”
“Name it.”
Hubert smiled. “You really have gotten the wind up, haven’t you, my boy? I never thought to see the day you’d be so thoroughly spooked. It’s very simple. Find the Américaine and her lover and kill them. Bring the child to me. I’ll be grateful, and you know I’m capable of astonishing things in my gratitude. Malgreave could be forced to take an early retirement. Or given a promotion to a police department in Lyon or somewhere equally distant.”