Fear and Loathing

by Hilary Norman

  Lucky if he had a job to come back to.

  To hell with that.

  He had a daughter in danger.

  Gabe had not intended to do it this way.

  But when it came down to it, it just made sense.

  To at least find that house.

  Near the camping site called Les Cigales, which Gabe had now confirmed was located on avenue de la Mer just outside Mandelieu-La Napoule – a stone’s throw from Cannes.

  He’d stopped a mile back, had found a text from Cathy’s father, telling him his ETA – more than twelve hours away, for crying out loud – and then he’d taken a look at his photo of the house. Nothing significant to help identify it, especially before dawn, so Gabe had put away the phone and made his way to Les Cigales.

  He found the sign. A few caravans visible from the road. No signs of life at five a.m. – not that a tourist would be able to help anyway – and his TomTom was confirming how hard it would be trying to pinpoint a single house.

  Except he couldn’t give up now, not when he might be so close, and Sam had told him not to do this, but if he kept the bike’s growl low …

  Bottom line, he was here and Sam was not, so he started looking, rode with lights off, up and down every residential road in a square kilometer from the campsite, and if darkness was keeping the houses under wraps, it had to be doing the same for him.

  They all looked the same, and if the cops were involved, they might be able to track Cathy’s phone – if Chauvin had let her keep it, though anyway, her phone had been almost out of juice and Gabe didn’t know if they could track phones with dead batteries.

  He didn’t even register what he’d seen until he was about twenty meters past. He took the next left turn, pulled over.

  Thought about it.

  A girl he’d dated a couple of years ago. Nice time, nothing intense. But she’d come from Strasbourg. Same as this creep.

  Her Renault Clio had been her great passion, and during a boring conversation about French license plates, she’d explained her own car’s number, saying that ‘67’ was the number of the département Bas-Rhin in the préfecture of Strasbourg, and Gabe had yawned, and the relationship hadn’t survived long past that.

  He thanked God for her now.

  And for the street light that had illuminated the license plate of a white Peugeot in the small driveway he’d just passed.

  Strasbourg registered.

  Not conclusive, for sure. But the crooked angle of the car had made it look as if it had been parked by a drunk or learner.

  Or maybe by a man about to move an unwilling woman from his car to the front door as quickly as possible.

  Gabe killed the engine, took out his phone, checked out the house in Chauvin’s photograph again.

  His heartbeat stepped up.

  If Cathy was in there, in Christ knew what kind of trouble …

  Her dad had told him not to do this.

  Gabe got off the bike. He’d take a closer look, then decide his next move, but just in case …

  He’d left the biggest of his tire irons at Le Rêve, too busy breaking in to think about returning it to his toolbox, counting on having his uncle’s shotguns. But there was a second iron, and a screwdriver, and he didn’t plan on going in, though if he saw a real chance of getting Cathy out …

  And even when Sam did arrive, it wouldn’t get dark again till way after nine, and that was unthinkable.

  He scrabbled for commonsense, knew he needed to let Luc know where he was.

  He tucked the two lousy weapons in his belt, walked to the corner, checked the street sign. Rue Saint Vincent de Paul. Took a photo of the sign and attached a swift message: ‘Think I found it.’

  Then he walked slowly back toward the house, looking for a name or number, found none, counted houses from the corner, typed that information for Luc to pass on.

  And finally, moving in closer, he added the clincher: the Peugeot’s license details.

  Sent the message and turned the phone off.

  He regarded the house from the other side of the road: windows shuttered, no signs of life – and maybe this wasn’t it, maybe innocent strangers were asleep inside.

  He crossed the road, stepped into the driveway, bent to look through the Peugeot’s windows, and it was too dark, but he could just see … A pizza carton.

  Cathy had gone out for pizza. Half the world went out for pizza most nights, yet he knew it meant something. He straightened up. The door was just feet away.

  Time to make a decision.

  He could go back to the bike, wait, keep watch from the corner, call Luc or Nic …

  He heard a muffled cry from inside.

  Cathy.

  Gabe eased the screwdriver from his belt, scanned the shuttered windows.

  ‘Come on in, Ryan.’

  Male voice, French accent.

  Chauvin.

  Gabe stared at the front door, saw it was ajar. The scumbag had opened the fucking door.

  Realization slammed home. The light in his phone – the bastard had seen him coming.

  ‘Come and join us,’ Chauvin said.

  Gabe heard Cathy cry out again, stood still, took a breath.

  Kicked the door open with a bellow of anger.

  The light inside flickered, candles everywhere.

  Cathy was tied to a chair, Chauvin’s left hand covering her mouth, his right hand holding a knife to her throat, her frightened eyes staring at Gabe.

  Chauvin was bare-chested, wearing jeans and sneakers. Taller and leaner than he’d appeared in the photo and, as Luc had said, shorter hair, no glasses.

  Gabe wanted to kill him, but the blade was right up against Cathy’s skin.

  ‘Saying “drop the screwdriver” sounds ridiculous,’ Chauvin said. ‘But humor me and drop it anyway.’

  Gabe hesitated.

  ‘You want me to cut her?’ Chauvin said. ‘I don’t want to, but I will.’

  The screwdriver clattered on the tiles.

  ‘And that other little thing too,’ Chauvin said. ‘In your belt.’

  Gabe withdrew the tire iron and dropped it. ‘If you’ve hurt her …’

  ‘You were right, Catherine.’ Chauvin kept his eyes on Gabe. ‘It is like a shitty movie.’

  He removed his hand from her mouth and Cathy gulped in air.

  ‘He said he’d done something to you and Luc, that if I didn’t come …’ Tears flooded her eyes. ‘I didn’t know what to believe.’

  ‘He locked Luc in the wine cellar,’ Gabe said. ‘He’s OK.’

  ‘Kick your weapons over to me,’ Chauvin said.

  Gabe kicked them and the tire iron spun before coming to a rest.

  ‘Merci,’ Chauvin said. ‘Now sit there.’

  He indicated a second chair about five feet from Cathy’s.

  Gabe glanced at the chair, then spotted what looked like meters of cord resting on the couch. ‘I’ll pass.’

  Chauvin transferred the kitchen knife to his left hand, returned it to Cathy’s neck, then, with his right hand, unbuckled his belt, deftly made a loop and passed it over Cathy’s head.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Gabe said.

  Cathy’s face was ashen.

  ‘A trick I once learned, but never thought I’d need.’ He pulled something from his pocket. ‘Very still now, Catherine.’

  Another knife.

  ‘This is a Falcon folding knife.’ Chauvin opened it, then swiftly, smoothly, tucked its handle inside the belt around Cathy’s neck. ‘I need both hands for a moment – but I wouldn’t risk anything, Ryan, not now.’

  ‘Thomas, what are you doing?’ Cathy was rigid with terror.

  ‘Be still.’ He tightened the belt a little more. ‘Can you breathe?’

  ‘No,’ she gasped.

  ‘Clearly you can.’ He arranged the knife so that its tip touched her throat. ‘This is so I can use my hands to take care of the waiter, Catherine. If you move, or if he fights me and we knock against you, then the bl
ade …’ He shrugged.

  ‘Strange kind of love,’ she managed.

  ‘Don’t talk or move. As for love, I guess you killed it.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Gabe said.

  ‘Sit down, Ryan,’ Chauvin ordered him.

  Gabe kept his eyes on the knife at Cathy’s throat.

  ‘If you do anything, I will kick her and she will be cut, or maybe worse. It’s a tactical knife, very sharp.’

  Gabe sat on the chair.

  Sam had told him to wait, but he’d known better …

  His eyes left the blade for an instant, saw Chauvin moving, coming at him, cord in one hand, kitchen knife in the other, knew he’d only get one chance.

  He sagged back against the chair.

  Chauvin paused, making a noose.

  Now.

  Gabe launched forward, headbutted Chauvin, heard his grunt, and they both went down, Cathy crying out, and Gabe brought his right arm back and swung, caught the other man on the side of his head, rolled sideways—

  Felt fire as the blade stabbed his right shoulder.

  ‘Salaud!’ Chauvin spat at him, pulled the knife out, dragged at his arm. Gabe yelled with pain, and Chauvin kicked him hard, then rolled him onto his stomach, knelt on his back, yanked his arms behind him, got the noose around his wrists, pulled hard and sank back on his haunches.

  ‘OK,’ he said, gasping.

  And then he looked over his shoulder at Cathy.

  ‘So much for your waiter,’ he said.

  Nic and Jeanne arrived at Le Rêve with the sunrise.

  Luc filled them in, starting at the end, with Gabe’s text.

  ‘It’s unbelievable,’ Jeanne said when he’d finished, after he’d shown them Chauvin’s hiding place and the letter.

  ‘Nothing from Gabe since then?’ Nic asked.

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘So he may have gone in.’

  ‘But he knew Cathy’s father wanted him to stay away,’ Jeanne said.

  ‘Let’s hope he hasn’t made things worse,’ Nic said.

  ‘At least she won’t be alone any more,’ Luc said.

  ‘OK.’ Nic motioned to them to follow and headed back into his office, where he opened a cabinet behind his desk, exposing a floor safe, crouched to key in a combination and took something out.

  ‘God,’ Luc said softly.

  Nic laid the gun on the desk. ‘It’s a Glock 22.’

  ‘Nic, this is not a good idea,’ Jeanne said.

  ‘It’s a damned good idea,’ he said. ‘Unless Becket’s arranged to meet someone on arrival, he won’t be armed. This is for him.’

  ‘It doesn’t look real,’ Luc said, mesmerized.

  ‘Believe me,’ Nic said. ‘It’s very real.’

  ‘So what now?’ Jeanne asked.

  ‘I make a call,’ Nic said.

  Chauvin had stuck three-inch sticky tape over Gabe’s mouth, but he had not done that to Cathy, and he’d removed the looped belt and tactical knife from around her neck, so maybe he still cared about her.

  His behavior had become increasingly erratic since taking Gabe prisoner, pulling on and taking off a black T-shirt, beginning Qi Gong exercises, then stopping abruptly, pacing, muttering in French, abstracted.

  ‘How’s your shoulder?’ Cathy had whispered.

  Gabe had nodded, his eyes reassuring.

  ‘Arrête.’ Chauvin’s voice, like a whipcrack. ‘Talk to him and I’ll separate you, and just remember I have this.’ He took out the folding knife, held it close to Cathy’s face, then Gabe’s.

  ‘I won’t talk to him,’ Cathy had said.

  Chauvin had turned away again, back in some whacked-out zone, and Cathy had wondered if he’d taken something, and if so, when might it wear off, and then what?

  Now, threads of daylight filtering through the shutters, he was still intermittently pacing, exercising, rambling, and Cathy longed to ask Gabe who else knew he’d come here.

  ‘Beauty, the great deceiver,’ Chauvin said abruptly, and sank onto the couch.

  Tired, Cathy hoped, maybe enough to fall asleep …

  ‘When I first saw your mother, I almost believed she was alive again, and then there was you. And Sam.’ He looked at Cathy. ‘I think I long for his approval more than anything. Even more than your love.’

  She heard the words but had no idea what to say, was not equipped for this.

  He got up, then sat down on the floor again, crosslegged.

  ‘Grace-mère scares me a little, which is mad, because Sam should be far more frightening. But Grace can see inside my head, and I don’t like that.’

  Gabe coughed suddenly, and Cathy glanced at him anxiously.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Take the tape off his mouth.’

  Gabe coughed again, his eyes watering.

  ‘Thomas, he might choke. You don’t want him to choke.’

  ‘Not especially,’ Chauvin said.

  ‘You bastard,’ Cathy said.

  Chauvin shrugged. ‘Your fault,’ he said.

  At eleven-thirty, British Summer Time, Sam called Martinez from Heathrow.

  ‘Hey.’ Six-thirty in Miami Beach, and Martinez sounded fuzzy. ‘You in London already?’

  ‘For three damned hours, and Cathy’s boyfriend isn’t answering his phone. I’ll call Meyer soon, but I wanted to check in with you first, talk about the case.’

  ‘You don’t need to think about that now.’

  ‘It’s the only thing keeping me sane,’ Sam said. ‘Cezary’s security system, for instance, and the fact that I’m betting there’s someone else involved in all this.’

  ‘We’ll be finding out who installed the system.’

  ‘Cezary’s probably way smart enough to have organized the Rosemont surveillance, but we still don’t know how she knew the Gomez family’s travel plans – and OK, Lorna and Jay’s trip to Sarasota was publicized, but the Burton barbecue wasn’t a special occasion, so it seems to me we got someone maybe eavesdropping on the victims, and I’m thinking we should go back to Mo Li Burton’s and Dr Gomez’s offices, check for listening devices.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Martinez said.

  ‘Probably too late.’ Sam looked around at the glitzy shops and bars, figured he needed to stoke up on carbohydrates. ‘Whoever installed them would have gotten them out already.’

  ‘Might not,’ Martinez said. ‘Kellerman’s coming in again later.’

  ‘Good. I don’t buy her not knowing about the security cameras.’ Sam paused. ‘Has someone checked to see if Cezary could have seen the Bodine and Blazek arrests? She certainly couldn’t have seen López being picked up in the bar.’

  ‘She’ll have known he didn’t show up for work,’ Martinez said. ‘And yes, she could have seen the other arrests.’

  ‘We need to know why she shot Copani. Just because she knew it was all over, so what the hell? Or maybe he had more on her than the others. Otherwise, why kill the one man who might have helped her when she knew we were coming up?’

  ‘We don’t have much on Copani yet,’ Martinez said. ‘But Duval’s on it.’

  ‘Good.’ Sam yawned. ‘I’m going to make a couple more calls, get some breakfast, then try and get my head down while I can.’

  ‘Keep me posted, man.’

  ‘Count on it,’ Sam said.

  Gabe Ryan’s phone was still on voicemail, so he called Luc Meyer.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for your call,’ Luc said, and filled him in.

  ‘I told him to stay away,’ Sam said. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I know.’ Luc paused. ‘Nic says he’ll meet your flight along with a trusted friend, a PI named Jac Noël – like Christmas.’

  ‘Last I spoke to Gabe, he was going to his uncle’s place to pick something up.’

  ‘I don’t know if he did that,’ Luc said, ‘but Nic says not to worry on that score.’

  Sam thanked Meyer, checked his watch and called Grace.

  She picked up after two rings.

  ‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ he
said. ‘Don’t wake up. Just wanted to tell you I’m safe in London, waiting for my connection.’

  ‘No news?’ Wide awake, tension already back.

  ‘Only that I’ll have plenty of help when I get to Nice, so try not to worry too much.’

  ‘You should have let me come, Sam.’

  He heard her anger, knew it came from fear and frustration. ‘How’s our son?’

  ‘Sleeping. Didn’t even wake up when I started baking in the night.’

  Sam conjured up a picture of Grace in their kitchen, flour in her hair. He’d never actually seen her stress-baking because, more often than not, the stress had been exacerbated by his absence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gracie,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever may be wrong with that man, Cathy’s not trained to deal with any of it.’

  ‘Our daughter’s smart, and she’s been through worse.’

  ‘Even before she came to us,’ Grace said. ‘Too much.’

  Sam heard tears in her voice.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You be strong, Gracie.’

  ‘You just get Cathy away from him. And you stay safe too, please. Don’t underestimate Chauvin. He’s not as naïve as you thought when you kicked him out of Miami.’

  Blaming him, Sam registered, which was not surprising, since he’d been doing the same thing himself.

  ‘I’ll text from Nice,’ he said. ‘I’ll be running soon as my feet touch the ground.’

  It never ceased to amaze Connie Cezary how easy it was to persuade people to do terrible things. Threats and inducements, and you had them.

  There were, of course, some ‘decent’ human beings you couldn’t buy with money or menace. The art lay in recognizing those you could, then assessing and consolidating their vulnerability.

  She’d known that her reign of terror would be limited, had actively risked curtailing it by addressing the messages to Becket, knowing it would galvanize him.

  It had thrown her, hearing that he’d gone on vacation.

  She doubted now if it was true, though she would learn the truth presently.

  For now, she would simply remain silent, let her lawyer speak for her.

  She’d been looking forward to speaking with Detective Becket, to needling him about his marriage, their family, their little boy, but for now that seemed to be on hold.