Guilty Wives

by James Patterson

“WE’VE INITIATED PROTOCOL,” said LaFave, the captain of the prison’s elite Unité d’Intervention Tactique—the Tactical Response Unit—on the phone with Boulez as Boulez traveled back to the prison.

  “The prison is locked down?” Boulez said. “The bloodhounds are out?”

  “Yes, sir. But as I said, I don’t think she’s in the prison, and I don’t think she’s on foot.”

  “You think she drove Lucy’s car right out.”

  “Affirmative, sir.” It had taken everyone a few minutes, unfortunately, to sort through the confusion. When Luisa first discovered that bed 1 in the infirmary’s secured area contained not the prisoner but a drugged prison guard—Lucy—the initial reaction was that Abbie Elliot was somewhere still within the walls of the prison, carrying a Glock handgun. Lockdown procedures had been put in place and a search initiated. It took a few minutes before they realized the second, crucial piece of information—that while Lucy was lying in bed 1 in a drug-induced slumber, her car had been driven out of the prison, through the main gate, at 2:06 a.m.

  They had lost precious minutes. Luisa called for the lockdown at 2:12, and they didn’t realize that the prisoner had breached the perimeter until a minute ago—at 2:20 a.m.

  LaFave grudgingly smiled. Had to admire her brass. Abbie Elliot had driven right out of the damn prison.

  He looked at his watch, which was synced up to the official prison clock. It was 2:21. “So she’s had basically a fifteen-minute head start,” he said.

  “How far can she get in fifteen minutes?”

  Obviously, that answer varied. In LaFave’s experience, a desperate inmate will ride whatever has worked for her so far—in this case, Lucy’s car. Basic human nature says to keep running, as fast as you can; distance is the most important goal. Get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible.

  “Her options include the following, as I see it,” LaFave said. “She could get rid of the car and try to hide out in the countryside. There’s plenty of terrain around here. She could take the bus. She could take the train. Or she could just drive.”

  “Drive where?”

  LaFave sighed. “Anywhere, sir. The airport wouldn’t make sense, because she has no passport. But there are plenty of roads she could travel in all directions, sir, and then she could access our highways.”

  “Can we block the roads?”

  “Block the roads?” LaFave shook his head, even though he was talking on the phone. “It isn’t feasible. By the time we got up the manpower to do it, she’d have had an opportunity to go almost anywhere. The perimeter we’d have to draw would be—it would just be unworkable.”

  Boulez let out a string of expletives. LaFave held the phone away from his ear.

  “Sir,” he said, “in the time we’ve been on the phone, we’ve flashed her photo everywhere. The police have it. The toll collectors have it. And the police are being dispatched right now to the bus and train stations. That’s a good start. Understand, Elliot was hoping that her ruse would last a long time. She hoped that Luisa would never walk up to that secured room, that she’d be content to watch things on that monitor from the hallway. She figured Luisa wouldn’t be able to see Sabine, who was directly under the camera, and she wouldn’t realize that the person lying in bed 1 was Lucy. And Abbie put enough drugs in those women to keep them quiet for several hours.”

  “And why are you telling me this, LaFave?”

  “I’m saying,” he replied, “that Abbie probably thinks we don’t know she’s gone yet.”

  “Ah. Maybe so.”

  “She thinks she has a little breathing room, sir. She thinks she has the flexibility to make some decisions. Like getting rid of a car that, very soon, is going to be hot. I mean, she’s pretty smart, right? She seems to be.”

  Another set of expletives came over the phone line. Boulez wasn’t feeling complimentary toward Abbie Elliot at the moment.

  Boulez sighed through the phone. “She’s very smart,” he conceded. “So what’s this smart lady who thinks she has some time on her hands going to do, LaFave?”

  LaFave nodded to himself. “My bet?” he said. “If there’s a train any time soon, she takes it.”

  CHAPTER 106

  THOUGH THEY CAME from different directions, the three police cars descended on the Gare de Limoges-Bénédictins, the train station, almost simultaneously, pulling up abruptly at varying angles in the area typically reserved for taxis. The six officers drew their weapons and fanned out, four of them heading inside the station and two staying outside.

  The lead patrol officer, a man named Darrow, walked so briskly it was almost a jog, his gun down at his side, his other hand clutching his cell phone, which displayed a photograph of Abbie Elliot that the prison had just flashed over. Darrow watched as a handful of bleary-eyed passengers walked in his direction, toward the main exit. They were carrying overnight bags or pulling suitcases behind them.

  They’d just arrived.

  Right. The overnight train. These people had come from London, or Paris, and disembarked at Limoges.

  “Come on,” he shouted to his partner. They raced toward the train tracks. A few people were strolling in front of them but they quickly parted as they heard the urgent footsteps of the officers running.

  “Darrow,” his radio blared from his belt. It was one of the officers who had stayed outside, calling out to him in French. “The car is parked right outside. AA-243-AA.”

  “She’s on that train,” Darrow mumbled as he reached the staircase.

  Just as he heard the train pulling away.

  He took the stairs two at a time, hit the bottom, and, from the platform, watched the rear of the train as it rolled down the tracks.

  CHAPTER 107

  THE TRAIN HAD COME from London via Paris’s Gare d’Austerlitz, traveling at a speed of 125 miles per hour, with scheduled stops at Limoges, Brive-la-Gaillarde, Cahors, and, ultimately, Toulouse, at 6:44 a.m. The stop at Limoges had taken place at 2:24 a.m.

  The train rolled into the station at its next stop, Brive-la-Gaillarde, on schedule, sixty-four minutes later, at 3:28 a.m. The train passed under the bridge connecting the train terminal to the passenger platform. The platform was empty. A few minutes ago, there had been two people who were planning on getting on this train. Those people had been politely encouraged to leave.

  The train stopped next to a platform covered by a pitched roof. The doors to the train opened with a hiss. Only three passengers disembarked. A black male, a white, gray-haired female, and a white male, who appeared to be in his twenties.

  No big surprise that the number was small. Brive-la-Gaillarde was not full of tourist sites. The people disembarking were most likely residents. No, most people on this train were going all the way to the end, to Toulouse.

  The police hadn’t expected Abbie Elliot to disembark here. The smart money said she hoped to get to Toulouse, and from there to Barcelona, Spain. Getting out of the country would probably seem optimal to her, and besides, she spoke fluent Spanish.

  But they couldn’t count on that, obviously. They had to intercept her at the first stop after she got on at Limoges.

  “Approach,” said the operations commander from his perch, lying flat on top of the bridge under which the train had passed. Members of the RAID assault team, dressed in black, jumped down from their nearby posts and crept toward the train, holding their Beretta pistols out in front of them. Spotters at various points, using night-vision binoculars, monitored the inside of the train cars. No sign of Abbie Elliot in any of the passenger cars. No evidence that she had moved out of her sleeping car.

  Using a stolen Visa card, Abbie Elliot had purchased a ticket in the couchette that was fourth from the end. A porter had confirmed that a woman matching Abbie’s description, wearing a JRF guard’s uniform, had embarked at Limoges-Bénédictins.

  Three members of the assault team entered the couchette for which Abbie Elliot had purchased her ticket. Others entered the adjoining cars on either side, in th
e event the target tried to flee.

  The commandant waited, drumming his fingers on the bridge. They had no eyes in the couchette. All he could do was wait for word.

  It came surprisingly quickly.

  “She’s not in there,” came a voice through his earpiece.

  The commandant didn’t hesitate. “Take the train,” he said. “All forces, take the train.”

  In the blink of an eye, powerful lights splashed over the train, like something on a Hollywood movie set. A helicopter appeared from the south and hovered overhead. Twenty local police officers joined with the elite ten-man RAID unit as they invaded all cars of the train at once, armed with Berettas or HK MP5 submachine guns.

  They checked every seat. They checked baggage compartments. They checked bathrooms. They checked every sleeping car. They called out various status updates through their mikes and into the operation commander’s earpiece.

  When it was all done, twenty-three minutes had passed.

  And Abbie Elliot was nowhere to be found.

  CHAPTER 108

  BOULEZ WAS ON his third Scotch of the night—or, more appropriately, of the early morning. It was 4:00 a.m. on the button.

  He looked at the vanity wall in his office, which was now minus two framed photographs that he’d punched in anger over the last hour. His knuckles were bleeding. It was the least of his problems right now.

  “She got on the train,” said LaFave. “There doesn’t seem to be any doubt about that.”

  “But then she got off.” Boulez shook his head. The bitter golden liquid in his glass was numbing him, but it only halfway did the trick, like a Novocain shot that didn’t fully take. His stomach was doing gymnastics.

  “There’s still hope, sir. The trains are closed to her. The bus station is covered. She’s on foot, presumably—”

  “She planned this well.” Boulez waved a hand. “She had nothing but time to plot every step. She knew about the London train, and she made a big show of purchasing a ticket and probably even talking to that train porter. She wanted to make sure we thought she was on that train.” He eased himself out of his chair. “Leave me, LaFave.” He looked over at his special-unit commander. “And don’t stop until you find her.”

  When LaFave had left, Boulez opened his cell phone and found the number in his contacts list. It was a call he’d prayed he wouldn’t have to make.

  “This is Warden Antoine Boulez from L’Institution de Justice et Réforme pour les Femmes. I need to speak with Colonel Durand immediately. Yes, I am fully aware what time it is. What is the message? You want to know what you should tell him?”

  So apparently Durand hadn’t received word yet; he was sleeping, as any sane person would be at this hour. Boulez would have the privilege of delivering the news.

  He said, “Tell the colonel that Abbie Elliot has escaped.”

  CHAPTER 109

  I DROVE SLOWLY along the A85, following the MapQuest directions, gradually calming as I gained an increasing distance from Limoges.

  I was far from safe. I was driving a stolen car that wasn’t registered to me. If I was pulled over by the French police, I was toast.

  But I’d stopped worrying about roadblocks. I was too far away. They’d have no particular reason to know that I was heading north.

  The truth was, I had no idea what they knew, or how long they’d known it. For all I knew, the guard who replaced Sabine at 2:00 a.m. was still sitting at her station, thinking everything was hunky-dory.

  If they’d become aware, then presumably they would have looked at the train station and figured I took the overnight train to Toulouse. I’d left plenty of bread crumbs, all the way up to that porter, who sent me two cars down to the couchette. It allowed me to walk through the train cars and disembark from a different car—where the porter couldn’t see me get off—and then head for the exit by the back staircase.

  Did it work? Did they chase me south while I drove north? Well, I was still on the run. So I guess it did.

  I surely didn’t condone the criminal pasts of my friend Linette and her fiancé, Giorgio. But if they were going to commit crimes, it sure was handy that they became car thieves.

  The Audi sedan—the one parked by the train station, with the teddy bear in the back window—drove very nicely indeed. The stuffed animal for the signal had been Giorgio’s idea, a touching salute to Linette.

  I stretched my arms, releasing nervous energy. I’d done a good job of thinking this through, but the truth was, I was in way over my head. I had no idea what kind of resources they could employ to find me.

  Thanks to Giorgio, I had two hundred euros, two changes of clothes, a box of granola bars, two liters of Vittel water, MapQuest directions to where I was going, and a sleeping bag. The money was awfully generous of Giorgio—more than I’d requested, and tough on him, I knew—but it really didn’t amount to a whole lot. It would run out soon.

  All these worries aside, I wouldn’t be denied a small measure of euphoria, a buzz of electricity coursing through me. I had the window down and let the thick air lick my cheek and brush my hair. I was free. I didn’t know for how long, but I was free.

  I only knew one thing for sure: between the money running out and the relentless pursuit of me that was forthcoming, I only had a small window of time to figure out what I needed to figure out, and to prove it.

  Make that two things I knew. After two and a half hours outside the prison walls, I knew with absolute certainty that I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t live in that soul-killing hellhole for another minute.

  I was either going to solve this puzzle or I was going to die trying.

  BOOK FOUR

  September 2011

  CHAPTER 110

  THE TOWN OF ONZAIN, France, is unknown even to some French natives; I recall getting a blank stare from Linette when I’d recommended it as a honeymoon destination. Onzain is in the Loire region, about two hours southwest of Paris, tucked between Blois and Amboise, just off the A10 on the way to Tours.

  Jeffrey and I had come here in 1998, back when Richie was only two years old. We’d left him with Jeff’s parents in Connecticut and spent a week in France. First in Paris, then in the Loire Valley, touring the glorious castles and the vineyards, marveling at the majestic countryside, and getting tipsy on unbelievable wine, including a Sancerre that became my favorite thereafter, mostly because it reminded me of that brief window of time when Jeffrey Elliot and I were insatiably in love.

  The MapQuest directions got me as far as the exit for Blois, which is not to say that the directions stopped there, but rather that they stopped making sense at that point. No matter. Once I was through Blois I was navigating tiny roads clustered within a town—maybe that town was Blois, maybe not; it had been thirteen years, after all—and I just kept looking for the large rectangular signs that said LE DOMAINE in their elaborate font until I made it through to a narrow, two-lane road that paralleled the Loire River.

  It was dawn, that gorgeous interval when the countryside was awakening, when the air still had that slightly crisp feel, even with the extended summer this year. I drove in complete solitude the final twelve miles until I saw the open gates on the right.

  Le Domaine was an old thirty-acre feudal estate, complete with an ivy-covered castle and neighboring mansion, which later became a hunting lodge before it settled into its current form, a series of rental cottages. Though the owners had succumbed to modernity and put in tennis courts and an Olympic-size pool, which I could have done without, its true appeal lay in the acres of manicured gardens, the tranquil pond, and the vast swath of untouched forest. It was, as I remembered it more than a dozen years ago, the most romantic place on earth.

  The Audi’s tires crunched over the gravel as I made my way through the entrance to the parking area. I tucked the Audi in the farthest corner of the lot, against a row of hedges. I got out and stretched my arms and legs and inhaled the clean air.

  “Well, girl, you made it this far,” I said.

/>   I was dressed well. Giorgio had packed one of Linette’s nicest outfits for me, presumably so I wouldn’t look out of place driving an expensive foreign car as I made my way across central France. I was wearing a navy jacket, white blouse, and gray skirt. I pulled my hair out of the rubber band in which I had gathered it; most of it had already fallen loose, anyway, as my dirty locks were barely shoulder length.

  Directly in front of me was the castle, which housed the reception area and restaurant. It was bordered with manicured shrubs, its walls covered in leaves that had turned gorgeous shades of auburn and yellow. I could see through the windows that preparations had already begun for room service and housekeeping for the cottages. To my right were the rows of cottages. The fifth from the end was where we stayed, a standard room with exposed wooden beams and flowered wallpaper and rustic furniture. It was where Jeffrey and I spent the better part of three days. It was where we conceived Elena.

  I shuddered and snapped into focus. I got into the backseat and changed into the running outfit Giorgio had given me. My wardrobe request had been twofold: first, something nice, so I could walk into pretty much anyplace looking like a relatively normal person; and, in addition, running clothes, which served a dual purpose—I could blend in anywhere, and if it ever became necessary, I could run like hell.

  I strolled the gardens in my running clothes, passing a couple members of the waitstaff pushing carts along the stone path from one of the service cottages. My role was simple enough: a tourist staying here who had gone for a morning run and was cooling off with a stroll. I acted as though I were out of breath and smiled at them. They pleasantly said, “Bonjour,” and I pleasantly replied, “Buenos dias.” I’d come to learn that my dark hair and slightly olive complexion, thanks to an Italian grandparent, allowed me to pass for a Spaniard or Italian, and if anyone were ever trying to place me later, it would be better if they didn’t remember me as that American.