He took another breath, holding it, then pushed up on the knee, getting his other leg under him. It was numb and barely responsive but if he didn’t put too much weight on it, it might function. His head banged against the stone wall. It barely hurt. He used the wall for balance, stretching upright. Finally, he turned his back to the cabinet, grabbing the side that faced the wall with both hands. He moaned, pulling on it.
The toy guillotines rattled, their little blades clinking.
He leaned against the wall again, gathering his strength. The blood seemed to return to his limbs now, as he was upright. His blood still worked, he marveled, despite the lack of fluids. He counted to twenty, grasped the cabinet again, and again only managed to jostle the miniatures.
Pascal looked up at the cabinet’s rim. It was easily twelve feet tall. He needed to be higher if he was going to pull it down. He could open a low door and stand on a shelf. But when the cabinet toppled he would be pinned, or worse. No, there had to be something else. He looked around the dim room for something to use.
He stumbled over to the nearest guillotine. The blade was lowered for safety reasons, he supposed, but its size and heft was impressive. The rest of the apparatus was fixed. The only moving parts were the blade and the cross-bar it was attached to. He turned to the rest of the room.
The two other guillotines, slightly smaller, were similar and of no use. He squinted at something by the door. Shuffling closer, careful not to fall, he came close to the fireman’s box, set into the wall behind a glass door. Inside was a fire extinguisher and an axe.
The only way to get inside the box was to pull the fire alarm set in the frame at the top. He tried to reach it with his forehead but wasn’t quite tall enough. He stood on his toes, but no. He slumped against the wall, breathing hard from the effort.
He set his forehead on the glass door, his breath fogging it. He clenched his jaw. There was no choice. He stepped back then lunged at it with all his force, slamming his forehead into the window. It shattered, cutting his nose.
“Merde,” he gasped, feeling the blood run into his mouth. He flicked it off and backed up to the fireman’s box, feeling for the axe. In a moment he’d wrenched his shoulder— again— but clasped the wooden handle and pulled the axe free.
It was heavy with a large metal head. He dragged it across the floor to the cabinet. He struggled to lift it, to get it in the crack behind the cabinet but it was too heavy and too awkward from the back. It could work, if he wasn’t handcuffed.
One of the smaller guillotines was displayed with the blade halfway up. The apparatus was still large, at least as tall as the cabinet, maybe fifteen feet tall. The blade was fierce, heavy enough to sever a head from its shoulders in one whack. Pascal eased up the side of the guillotine, over the ropes that kept the curious back. The blade hung at seven feet, just over his head. At the receiving end was a curved wooden slotted stop to cradle the neck.
He turned so he could work the elaborate knot that held the rope that in turn held the blade. It took some time, working blind. He began to sweat. Finally, it was free. He tugged on it but nothing happened. The blade wiggled but stayed aloft.
There was, of course, a second rope on the other side. He clambered over the flat platform where the prisoner would lie prone before the execution and found the rope on the other side. He ducked under the blade and worked on the rope. Suddenly it was free and the blade fell with a metallic thud, deadly and swift. Pascal fell backwards in surprise, letting a few more curses fly. He bent over to catch his breath.
The second time the blade made its journey he was ready. He raised the blade then wrapped one end of the rope around his foot. He placed his handcuffs carefully with only the chain in the blade’s path, and jerked his foot free. Leaning forward, hands behind him, too weak to be terrified, Pascal closed his eyes and said a small prayer. He felt the blade whiz by. And heard the metallic crunch.
He pulled his hands from behind his back. It had worked. His hands were free.
He picked up the fireman’s axe, his arms burning with fatigue. He swung it over his head, catching the lip of cabinet. Stepping back, he jerked the axe handle once, twice. The cabinet rocked forward, hit the wall, rocked again. Then finally a third pull did it: the cabinet tipped forward, crashing to the floor.
Pascal found the water bottle wedged under the guillotine. He drank the water greedily then remembered to slow down and let his thirsty body adapt. He gagged but kept the fluid down. Leaning against the wall, he sat on the floor amidst all the glass and sipped.
Thirty-One
Merle set her notebook aside and checked the time. She’d been up early, in the dark, when Odette had called to her from deep inside her story. The tale was winding up, she felt it, and she was already mourning the loss of these characters. Was that normal, to feel sadness for imaginary people? It was so far from the nuts and bolts, the hard realities, of law. But it must be true.
She blinked, surprised to see the sun shining in the garden. It was later than she thought. She stretched and made herself an espresso, a ritual she could almost do in her sleep now. Cup in hand she grabbed her cell phone and stepped into the morning sunshine. It was chilly, reminding her that summer had passed. How was she going to stay warm until Christmas? She consulted her to-do list in her head and mentally moved “wood stove” to the top. She’d better get busy on her list.
At the hardware store in Sulliac, later that morning, she examined all the options: electric, wood, gas. Her house had no gas line so that was out. Maybe a couple small electric heaters would make-do until a more permanent solution reared its head.
As she handed over her credit card to the clerk she got a text from Francie.
Home safe and sound. Any word from Pascal? Maybe show people that old photo of Léo? can’t hurt. xo
It seemed hopeless. Nobody knew Léo Delage around here. Did they? She frowned, finding the photo on her phone. Oh, well, it can’t hurt, according to Francie.
“Excusez-moi,” she told the clerk, a young woman with pink hair. “I was wondering if you’ve seen this man around here lately?”
She hadn’t. But the task lit a fire under Merle. Her new mission. She’d been awake the night before, worrying about Pascal. Before she returned to her house with the electric heaters she stopped into two bars in Malcouziac, the gas station, and the little market where everything was overpriced. No one had seen Léo but nobody laughed at her either.
Back at her house Albert was still supervising Claudio, holding the ladder as he scrubbed the stone of her house with a big old-fashioned brush. It was messy work, intensive, and she was glad she wasn’t doing it herself. Progress had been made, at least a little. Enough to give her hope that the house’s facade might someday be clean.
“Bonjour, Albert,” she said, setting down the box of heaters. “Just a quick question. Have you by chance seen this man around here?” She showed him the photo.
“Dommage, non. Who is he?”
“His name is Léo Delage. He may know something about Pascal, where he is. Pascal arrested him years ago.”
“What has he done with Pascal?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t answer his phone. We talked to his sister and she hasn’t heard from him either.”
“Maybe he loses the phone?”
Of course it was possible, as everyone posited, that Pascal had simply dropped his phone in a river. But she didn’t believe it, and neither did Francie.
After lunch Merle showed the photograph of Léo Delage all over Malcouziac. If he was around it would probably get back to him. Maybe she would flush him out. She stopped in at the café on the central plaza, her favorite restaurant, Les Saveurs, the tiny library, the church, the tabac. She accosted a couple old ladies at La Poste, who were very kind. She asked Madame Suchet and her sister too.
No one recognized Léo Delage, or claimed to have seen him. Merle returned to her house, dragging her feet. Albert was sitting on a folding chair in the shade, looking as tir
ed as she felt. Claudio was headed down the ladder with the bucket in one hand. The job was more than half done. At least something was getting accomplished.
“Are you done for today?” Merle asked, pausing in front of the old man. “You look tired.”
“Oh, I’m fine. I’m not working, not really.” He looked at the phone in her hand. “Did anyone recognize him?”
“No. I guess Léo Delage hasn’t been to Malcouziac. It was a long shot.”
The loud clatter of the ladder coming down stopped the conversation. Claudio set it on the cobblestones and joined them. “Let me see,” he told Merle in French.
She raised her phone for him. “It’s an old photo. Before he went to prison.”
Claudio leaned in, squinting. “He doesn’t look like that anymore.”
Merle startled. “You— you know him?” She was so rattled she didn’t follow the rush of Claudio’s guttural French. “Comment? Albert, what is he saying?”
“Some nonsense.” Albert pushed himself up and grabbed Claudio’s arm. “Don’t play games,” he warned Claudio. The young man spoke rapidly back to him. “He says he knows this man. I don’t know if I trust him, Merle.”
“Tell me, Claudio,” she implored. “Tell the truth. Where did you meet him?”
“At the bistro, the one that stays open late, he says,” Albert interpreted. “Delage asked him to do something. Paid him money.”
“To do what?” Merle demanded.
Claudio looked up at the house and shrugged. “Not the first one, that was someone else. But after, yes. He gets the idea. He pays me to scare you off.”
Merle stared at him.
“I got that boy, the one who’s not right in the head, to buy the paint. I think, no one will find out it was me. No one knows this Delage.”
Albert sneered. “Someone always talks in this town.”
“And now it’s me,” Claudio said, unconcerned about betraying confidences. “He doesn’t pay after the second time, the one where I spray you and your sister. So— pffft. To hell with him.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In the parking lot. He pays me for the painting and tells me do more, to attack you with the paint.”
“And you just— ” Merle stared at him. “Did you enjoy it? Frightening us like that?” She bit her tongue to keep from calling him a name.
Claudio rolled his shoulders. He didn’t look the least bit ashamed. “He said he would pay.”
Albert spit out a few curses, surprising Merle. Claudio glanced at him, running a filthy hand through his hair. “He looks different. Not like that.”
Merle looked at the photo on her phone. “Like what then? His hair is gray?”
“No, madame. It is the scar,” Claudio said. He switched to English: “It is a big fucking scar.”
Thirty-Two
Merle stared at Claudio. The man had widened his eyes and traced a line from his left eye down his cheek to his chin. Albert gasped then chucked the man on the shoulder.
“Don’t lie, boy,” he repeated. “You want to go back to the jail?”
She swallowed hard and glanced up at the sky.
The man with the scar. She’d seen him, more than once. She’d used his disfigured face in her novel, appropriating his likeness for her own purposes. Could he be the one who— ?
She grabbed Claudio by the arm. “Tell me everything about him. Where does he live?”
“He didn’t say, madame.” Claudio squinted at the old priest. “Don’t lecture me, père. I am not your student. I know the truth. I have no love for the ugly man.”
“What kind of automobile did he have?” Merle demanded.
Claudio shrugged then said, “Green? Blue? It was dark.”
“Green?” Merle’s voice was going up an octave. “A green BMW sedan?”
“Who knows?”
Albert bumped him again. “Think, boy. This is important.”
“Is it? To who?” He glared at them both.
“To me,” Merle said, trying to modulate her voice. “He’s kidnapped someone I love. Someone who owns a green BMW. Do you know what a BMW looks like?”
“Bien sûr,” Claudio scoffed. “No, it was something cheap. A Fiat? A van sort of thing. Something small and rusty.”
“Did you see the license plate?”
“Non.”
“What else can you remember? Try to remember anything he said, a place, a name.”
“That’s it. Oh, your name, madame.” He made a gesture like spraying her with paint, and laughed.
“Don’t madame me,” she hissed under her breath.
Albert argued with Claudio for a few more minutes but they’d gotten what they could out of him. The younger man packed up his supplies, picked up the ladder, and carried it down the street on his shoulder.
Albert looked upset, almost as distraught as Merle felt. “You saw him, didn’t you? The man with the scar?”
She nodded. “Twice.”
“You couldn’t have known who he was.” Albert patted her arm. “Come. We will have a glass of wine and talk about it.”
“I— I have to make some phone calls, Albert. I’ll see you a little later. Or I’ll call.” Merle gave him two cheek kisses and unlocked her door. She watched as he waddled down the street to the corner, feeling unneighborly about putting him off. But the anxiety inside her was building. She had to call the Police nationale again. And this time she had to get through to someone.
Standing tall in the garden she gathered her wits as the line rang in Paris. When a man answered she asked for the Wine Fraud Division. It rang more at that end. Finally, someone picked up.
Slowly, carefully, in tortured French, Merle explained that the known criminal, Léo Delage, had been seen in the area and that their officer, Pascal d’Onscon, may be in danger. She tried not to overplay her hand or be the hysterical female. Just the facts, madame.
The officer listened idly until she got to the part about Pascal. Then he interrupted her and put her on hold. Finally, she thought, someone was listening.
A man with a baritone introduced himself as Etiénne Marcau. “You are American? Who am I speaking to?” he asked in English.
“My name is Merle Bennett. I am a friend of Pascal d’Onscon. I recently met someone in my village who was paid by Léo Delage to vandalize my home, to scare me away.”
“Is that so. You are sure it was Delage?”
“The vandal himself told me. He met Delage here in the village on at least one occasion.”
The policeman paused. “And when was the last time you saw Monsieur d’Onscon?”
“Two and a half, nearly three weeks ago. I haven’t heard from him. I can’t get through to him. Have you—” She stopped, biting back the worry. “Is it possible to report a policeman as a missing person?”
“Of course, madame. But first, let me make some inquiries. I have your phone number. You have called before, yes? Thank you for your call.”
“But— wait. Can’t you tell me anything?”
“I am sorry, madame. This is a police matter. Please allow us to do our jobs.”
Merle hung up, cursed, and threw her cell phone in the dirt. She was sick to death of being told to let somebody else handle it when obviously no one was.
Where was Pascal? Were they finally worried at headquarters? She tried to remember everything he’d said that last time he was here. Where had he seen Delage? Was it in the Sancerre? No, he said it wasn’t at the family vineyard but somewhere else. She sat on the green garden chair and put her head in her hands. Where?
They were in bed, she remembered that. Then it came to her: the Languedoc. A vast sea of vineyards on the flat plains that stretched to the Mediterranean.
Too many vineyards. He could be anywhere. Pascal mentioned a type of wine grape though. All she could remember was it started with a ‘B.’ She dusted off her phone and searched the Internet for types of grapes. A long name, unfamiliar to her. Was it Bourboulenc?
She said
it out loud in a whisper. “Bourboulenc.” It had sounded like ‘Bo-bo-link' when Pascal said it. That had to be it.
She searched again for vineyards in Languedoc with that type of grape. That went, well, all over the place. She tried again, adding ‘AOC’ to the search. The fancy appellations like Châteauneuf-du-Pape popped up. They put the bourboulenc in their wines apparently. She scanned the Wikipedia page and stopped on a name: Domaine Bourboulenc. Could it be this one? How could she tell?
She groaned and set her forehead on the garden table. This was endless, this searching. Yet what else could she do? Where else could he be? Where was Delage?
She was itchy, ready to get out of here, go somewhere, anywhere. She couldn’t sit here doing nothing. What was Pascal doing? Was he alive even? Her throat nearly closed. No, don’t go there. She felt the adrenaline in her veins, telling her this was ‘fight or flight’ time— or both?
When her cell phone rang she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Hello? Oui?”
“Madame Bennett? This is Director Marcau. We spoke a minute ago?”
“Yes?” Merle stood up, flashes of bad news crossing her mind. She shut her eyes.
“I want to tell you that we have found Monsieur d’Onscon’s vehicle. We haven’t found him yet but it is a sign.”
“That was quick.”
“It was registered as abandoned a week ago. Found in a small town. But we have only now looked at the records.”
“Where was it found?”
“A village near Beziers.” A rustling of papers then: “Champartier. Very small.”
“And—? What are you doing to find him?” To hell with voice modulation.
“We have a unit coming in from Narbonne.” He cleared his throat. “We will be in touch, madame.”
Merle stared at the screen of the phone. What could she do? She was going out of her mind. Was that a good state to drive in? But what else was there?
She took a deep breath to calm herself. First things first, she must find out where the village of Champartier was. She ran into the house and opened her laptop. In a moment she had a map of the region, far in the southern Languedoc-Rousillon region, along the Mediterranean. She looked at the statistics of Champartier. It was very small, as the policeman had said, perhaps a few hundred people. A winemaking village not unlike the one in the Sancerre where she and Francie had visited. Farms, goats, sheep, and grapes.
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