Fear and Loathing

by Hilary Norman

  ‘And he’s happy to wait for me to get there – the longer the better. Which probably makes you want to kill him, but you are not going to do one single thing to increase the danger to Cathy, do you understand me?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I’m about to walk out on my case, and as soon as I know my ETA, I’ll call you. Meantime, your number one job is to make sure no one calls the cops and no one goes looking for that house.’ Sam paused. ‘Gabe, listen, I won’t be armed. I can’t take a weapon on a plane, and I’m coming as a private individual, not a cop.’

  ‘I already thought of that. My uncle has two shotguns at his place in the country.’

  ‘I’m assuming it’s illegal for you to think of taking those, Gabe.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Gabe said.

  ‘Do not do anything crazy,’ Sam said, ‘and I repeat, do not try finding Cathy till I’m with you. Don’t even go near the neighborhood. I know you ride a Ducati, so I’m sure Chauvin knows that too, might recognize its sound. We can’t risk a kneejerk reaction.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Gabe said.

  ‘If we play this right,’ Sam said, ‘we’ll get her back safe and sound.’

  ‘Just get here, please,’ Gabe said.

  ‘You look tired,’ Chauvin said to Cathy. ‘It’s almost two a.m.’

  ‘I’m tired of this,’ she said. ‘Time has nothing to do with it.’

  She’d run out of ways to procrastinate, had drunk two cappuccinos, even feigned interest in his career, his home life in Strasbourg.

  ‘You’ll come there with me some day,’ he’d said, ‘and you’ll love it.’

  ‘I have till next spring in Cannes. Then I’ll be going home.’

  ‘Our home could be anywhere,’ Chauvin had said.

  She’d wanted to slap him for actually seeming to believe that, but there was still a long night ahead, and what she needed was to get his keys, and then she’d do whatever she had to, hit him over his idiot head with the casserole dish if need be and get away.

  He’d gone upstairs a while ago, and Cathy had swiftly, quietly, unhooked the interior shutters and tried the windows – all locked – and then she’d heard a lavatory flush and had returned to the couch.

  ‘I really need some air,’ she said now.

  ‘You should have eaten. I could find you something now.’

  ‘I’m not hungry. Being kept prisoner kills the appetite.’

  ‘Then I guess it’s time for bed.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ Cathy said.

  ‘I’ve told you, you don’t need to be afraid. I won’t force myself on you.’

  ‘Because you’re such a gentleman.’

  ‘I hope I am.’

  Cathy’s laugh was brief, harsh.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me.’ His eyes were suddenly sad. ‘Please, go upstairs. I’ve bought you something to change into.’

  ‘Don’t you see how weird this is?’ Cathy said.

  ‘Can’t you see that I’m only asking you to give me a chance?’

  ‘But this isn’t the way,’ she said, weary again.

  ‘Just go upstairs,’ Chauvin said. ‘I’ll show you what I bought, and then I’ll leave you to get changed, and you can sleep for a few hours, and then it’ll be dawn, and everything will seem better.’

  She thought of the keys.

  If she didn’t go up and put on whatever flimsy negligee she supposed he’d bought, then he wouldn’t take off his damned jeans either, and he had to be getting tired too, and maybe, if she seemed to be caving in, he might relax his guard …

  ‘How can I sleep if I don’t know that Gabe and Luc are safe?’ she said.

  ‘They’re safe,’ he said. ‘I’m a man of my word, Catherine.’

  She sighed, and stood up.

  ‘You win,’ she said.

  Candles everywhere, lit when he’d gone up earlier.

  ‘God, Thomas, this is beyond cliché.’

  She stared around, saw several doctored photographs of herself with Chauvin beside her, and felt sick again. Saw a small double bed made up with silk sheets, a white cardboard box on top, an ice bucket on a stand near the window – and closed shutters here too.

  ‘You need to let me out of here,’ she said, struggling against panic.

  ‘You need to understand what I’m offering you. We’ll go to Strasbourg. My parents will adore you. We’ll have a fine home, and my photographs of you will sell – you’ll become famous, Catherine.’

  She looked into his face, saw that he believed it.

  Knew she had to play along.

  He picked up the box, opened it, removed something tissue-wrapped. ‘For you.’

  Not a negligee, at least. Black silky pajamas with a camisole and long-sleeved top.

  She took a look. Elle Macpherson. If Gabe had bought them for her …

  ‘I wanted to find something you might have chosen yourself.’ He nodded at a door beside the stairs. ‘You can change in there.’

  Cathy picked up the pajamas, forced herself to step into the tiny shower room.

  No lock, just a flimsy, easily breakable bolt, but she slid it shut, turned and stared at her face in the mirror, saw anger and fear. And even now, most of the fear was for Gabe and Luc, not really for herself, because this man was still Sam’s ‘dope’, wasn’t he? Not a real threat, still just Chauvin-the-jerk …

  Get undressed.

  She took off her jeans, used the lavatory, washed with Coco Mademoiselle soap, opened the sealed toothbrush and toothpaste – neither her own brand, thankfully, because that would just have been too creepy for words.

  Like this wasn’t?

  The pajamas fitted perfectly, so maybe he’d been in her place, looking at …

  Don’t.

  She took a breath, emerged, saw him by the shuttered windows.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  ‘So now you go downstairs,’ Cathy said.

  ‘Now we go to bed,’ he said.

  Her flesh crawled. ‘No way.’

  ‘Just to sleep. We both need rest.’ He sat on the side of the bed, took off his sneakers.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d undress in the bathroom.’

  ‘I’m not undressing. You get under the covers; I’ll stretch out on top.’

  Not getting naked, thank Christ.

  No access to the keys either.

  She pulled back the covers, got under them, considered asking him to blow out the candles, except then they’d be in the dark …

  ‘First light,’ she said, ‘I’m out of here.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she said, and shut her eyes.

  She felt him lie down.

  ‘If you so much as touch me,’ she said, ‘I’ll scratch your eyes out.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he said.

  Boulder-heavy weariness invaded her. If she wasn’t careful, she’d fall asleep.

  Got to stay awake.

  No chance.

  ‘I’m going to head up to my uncle’s now,’ Gabe said.

  ‘I think you should wait till morning.’ Luc, feet up on a chair, hated himself for craving sleep when Cathy was in such trouble. ‘Sam won’t be here till God knows when.’

  ‘I’m not waiting for Nic or Jeanne to stop me,’ Gabe said.

  ‘You’ll come straight back here, right?’

  ‘Sure.’ Gabe fished for the black Ducati key he always kept apart from the irreplaceable red key needed to program the bike’s electronic control unit.

  ‘Don’t do anything crazy,’ Luc said.

  ‘Nothing crazier than coming back here with two shotguns.’

  ‘You still think I should wait till five to call Jeanne?’

  ‘No earlier. And make sure they don’t call the cops.’

  ‘Nic’s never called them before,’ Luc pointed out.

  Gabe headed for the kitchen. ‘Cathy was never abducted before.’

  ‘I’ll lock up after you.’ Luc followed. ‘Call when yo
u’re back so I can let you in. Call any time so I know you’re OK.’

  ‘Get some sleep.’

  ‘You haven’t slept,’ Luc said.

  ‘Sleep’s not what I need,’ Gabe said.

  June 18

  The only flight leaving Miami Tuesday night was the British Airways to London; impossible, except that Martinez – covering for Sam until he was en route – had a contact at MIA who’d promised to do his best to get Sam on board, and skulking off during an investigation did not sit well with Sam, but he was out of options.

  As it was, he’d told Grace – home to pick up his passport and bare essentials – he’d be traveling, including the Heathrow wait, for upward of fourteen agonizing hours.

  ‘I want to come,’ Grace had said, following him around.

  ‘Can’t be done. Even if I knew what I was heading into—’

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

  Sam had kissed her frantic face, blown a second kiss at their sleeping son from the doorway and sprinted down and out to his waiting cab.

  At MIA, running again, scooping coins out of his pockets at security, leaving them – no time – he’d called Martinez.

  ‘How’d they take it?’

  ‘Lotta grim faces,’ Martinez said quietly. ‘I told them family emergency, and I’m guessing you’ll have a shitload of trouble when you get back, and I’m also guessing that right now you don’t give a damn.’

  ‘Who’s going to interview Cezary?’ Sam asked.

  ‘As it stands, me and Duval.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Sam said. ‘Gotta run, Al.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want me to call my pal at Interpol?’

  ‘No officials, no cops. Get Cathy to safety, then get the hell back is what I’m hoping.’

  ‘I hear you, man. Fly safe.’

  Sam’s flight had been in the air for about fifteen minutes when, in an interview room at 1100 Washington Avenue, Constance Cezary was informed by Duval that Detective Becket was unavailable.

  ‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Not available is what it means,’ Martinez said.

  The look she cast his way was ice-cold.

  Martinez smiled back at her.

  She turned her attention back to Duval. ‘If I were you,’ she said, ‘I’d get Becket back here. That is, if you want me answering questions any time soon.’

  ‘Not possible,’ Duval said.

  ‘We know how much you like writing to him,’ Martinez said. ‘But it’s us or nothing.’

  He was glad, briefly, that Sam wasn’t here. Anything that pissed off this bitch had to be good news. Pissed not the word for how she looked right now. The murderous old broad looked ready to pop, fury sizzling in her eyes.

  If she stroked out here and now, Martinez thought, he might just get on the next flight to France to help Sam, even if it meant losing his job.

  Cezary wasn’t ready to die. ‘You have half an hour to get Becket here.’

  ‘Detective Becket won’t be here in half an hour or any time soon,’ Duval said.

  For a moment, the rage was replaced by interest. ‘I hope he hasn’t gotten himself in trouble for screwing up,’ she said. ‘Looking for the wrong old lady, for instance.’

  ‘Detective Becket is on vacation,’ Martinez said.

  The anger sparked again, turned to ice.

  ‘I’ll have my lawyer now. Until then, I’m exercising my right to remain silent.’

  June 19

  Weird sounds woke Cathy.

  Only two candles still alight, flickering palely near the window.

  Enough light to confirm that Chauvin was not beside her.

  She sat up, listening.

  The sounds were human, from downstairs.

  She took a moment, then climbed quietly out of bed, checked that the shower room was empty, then crept to the window, picked up a candle, held it up to her watch.

  Three thirty-four.

  She put down the candle, touched the edge of a shutter. A hinge squeaked and she backed off, waiting to see if he’d heard, but the sounds went on – and even if she did open the shutter, the window would be locked. She had to go down, see what was going on.

  Silent on the stairs, she stopped two-thirds down, seeing him.

  He’d lit more candles around the room, was in front of the dead fireplace, wearing only a thong, working through some kind of exercise, chanting. Qi Gong, she supposed, his absorption appearing total. She looked around, saw his jeans, folded on a kitchen worktop.

  Chauvin was still immersed, his movements smooth, flowing.

  She made it soundlessly to the foot of the stairs, padded over to the worktop, peered at the jeans.

  Only one chance. The slightest jangle, her chance was gone.

  She slid a hand into a pocket. No keys. Not even her SIM card. All pockets empty.

  She turned to the drawers from which he’d taken cutlery earlier, snuck a glance at the crazy man still going through his paces. Opened a drawer. No knives, not even a fork. She moved to another drawer, holding her breath, started to open it.

  ‘Which of these were you hoping to find?’ he said behind her.

  She turned around, her heart hammering.

  Keys in his left hand. A knife in his right.

  A medium-sized chopping knife, sharp enough to be lethal.

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ Chauvin said. ‘But I’m very disappointed.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ Cathy said. ‘I was looking for—’

  ‘Escape,’ he said.

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t read his eyes.

  ‘Time,’ he said. ‘That’s all I was asking for.’

  He leaned past her, still holding the knife, put down the keys, retrieved his jeans, stepped into them, pulled them up, zipped them one-handed, put the keys back in his pocket and gripped her right arm.

  ‘Viens.’ He steered her to the table, drew out a chair. ‘Sit.’

  She obeyed, and he moved back into the kitchen.

  She stood up.

  ‘Sit down.’

  She sat, turned to watch as he took something from beneath the sink.

  Narrow cord, plenty of it.

  ‘Three strand polypropylene, very strong,’ he said.

  ‘You have a very strange idea of romance,’ Cathy said.

  ‘I hoped I wouldn’t need it.’ Chauvin cut off a length with the knife. ‘Put your hands behind your back, around the chair.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this.’ Her heart was pounding harder. ‘I don’t have the keys, so I can’t leave.’

  ‘But I can’t trust you anymore.’ He tied her wrists together, then wound a long length of cord around her waist.

  ‘Screw you,’ Cathy said, and kicked him.

  ‘Temper.’ He knelt on her thighs. ‘I’m strong, Catherine. Much more so than when you met me in Miami. It’s surprisingly easy to strengthen your body.’ He finished winding the cord, tied it tightly behind her. ‘The mind, too.’ He cut more line, moved around the chair. ‘Don’t try kicking again. I don’t want to hurt you.’ He knelt, tied her ankles together, then attached the cord to the chair legs. ‘It’s interesting, in a way.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Sam’s working on a case right now where the victims have been tied up before dying. They were hogtied, then gassed in their cars.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ For the first time, real, hard fear gripped her.

  ‘I keep a close eye on your papa. Père-noir, as I think of him.’ Chauvin sat on the floor in front of her, legs crossed, resting the knife on his right thigh. ‘Easy to do these days.’

  ‘So you’re obsessed by us all,’ Cathy said. ‘Not just me.’

  ‘I don’t like that word,’ Chauvin said. ‘I prefer love.’

  ‘Love doesn’t work like this,’ Cathy said.

  ‘Your doing, not mine,’ he said.

  Gabe’s arrival at the farm just after four a.m. was acknowledged with no more
than a wagging tail by his uncle’s elderly German Shepherd.

  If Yves Rémy had made it to bed, he might have locked up and turned out the lights, but as it was, there’d been no need for Gabe to use his keys or grope his way around, because his uncle was snoring in an ancient armchair in the sitting room, three empty wine bottles giving Gabe more than enough confidence to go to the gun room – never locked – and help himself without fear of argument.

  The gun room was empty.

  Gabe swore softly, searched the kitchen and scullery, then the bedroom, in case his uncle had gotten it into his addled brain to stash them in a closet or under his bed.

  No guns, and for all he knew they’d been stolen, or Yves might have given them away or left them in a field or an outhouse.

  No way he was going to find them now, since he doubted if his uncle would make any sense this side of noon.

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ Gabe said softly, leaving.

  He bent to pat the dog’s head, closed the big front door quietly behind him.

  And was on his way.

  Somewhere over the Atlantic, in the sleepy twilight of the BA jumbo, Sam gave up on sleep and forced his mind away from Cathy back to the case.

  Constance Cezary’s preparedness for their entry had bugged him. The theatrically timed shooting of Anthony Copani – how had she put it?

  ‘For the avoidance of doubt.’

  Sick bitch.

  They’d found her CCTV setup, three monitors, one in an alcove, one in a closet and one that doubled as a TV. No shortage of funds, clearly, but still, quite a setup.

  Which someone else had surely helped organize – and maybe a security firm had installed the system, but it was the mind behind it – whether Cezary’s or someone else’s – that intrigued Sam now.

  One of the four, perhaps, but he doubted it. Certainly not López, and interrogation would tell them something about Blazek or Bodine: a male nurse or orderly, capable of moonlighting as coldblooded killers, might feasibly have a technical mindset, but he doubted that too, though perhaps Copani …

  Constance Cezary, with those sharp, ice-blue eyes, might be capable of just about anything, but someone else had to be involved in the organization.

  Barbara Kellerman, perhaps, her unflappable manager.

  Someone.

  If he’d stayed in Miami, he’d be chewing this over with Martinez and Duval, Sam thought, staring past silent flickering screens and blanket-covered bodies; though by now they’d probably both have been told that he was off the case. Lead investigator no more.