Wham! She hit a solid object and screamed. She turned her head and stared up into the face of the man from the café.
“You!” she said, equally frightened and angry, stepping back and away from him.
He said nothing but only watched her. His face seemed thinner than before; he looked a little starved. He was a lot taller and larger than Carol remembered.
She regained her equilibrium quickly. “Who the hell do you think you are, following me? I should report you to the police.”
His lips curled into a humorless grin but he still said nothing.
Carol, furious, tried to elbow past but he caught her arm.
“Let me go or I’ll scream!” she warned.
“Go ahead, if you like sound effects. I do. But don’t fool yourself anyone will hear. And if they hear you they won’t help.”
She swung out with her shoulder bag and, at the same time, tried to knee him in the groin. He grinned, eyes glowing with amusement, obviously enjoying her helplessness and fear. His mouth opened briefly, long enough for her subconscious to record seeing something strange. A warning flooded her body as a wave of fear broke over her.
“Qu’y a-t-il?” The male voice was close by.
“Help! Help me!” she cried.
Suddenly her assailant shoved her away from him. She tripped and twisted, landing face down on the path.
She held her breath, expecting to be attacked, but instead she heard struggling and, when she turned, saw an older man, at least sixty, trying to fight off her molester.
She jumped up, screaming, waving frantically, hoping to attract attention from the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the bridge above. But the harbor was too poorly lit to be seen and the noise from the vehicles drowned out her cries.
The older man was no match for the younger, taller one. She had to help him. She pounded on the back of the attacker and bludgeoned him over the head with her shoulder bag. As the three struggled, she heard the old man cry out once then watched him go limp.
Carol froze. She backed away a few steps. In the chilling silence, the man who had identified himself as André positioned the old man so that his head was bent and his throat exposed. André’s face, pale, intense, seemed to emerge from the darkness. When he opened his mouth, a flash of light glinted off sharp-looking incisors.
Suddenly his lips met the exposed flesh in a kiss that seemed almost erotic. At the same moment, his eyes locked onto Carol’s. It was as if a laser beam connected them. She couldn’t look away.
Instinctively she squeezed her eyes shut, but she was mesmerized by the sucking sounds and so horrified that she still couldn’t move. A survival instinct must have surfaced because she was aware of edging back. The further she got, the less hooked she felt.
When she was far enough away to feel relatively safe, she turned and ran screaming towards the street.
“Mademoiselle Robins, describe your attacker again, if you please,” Inspector LePage asked, flipping to a clean sheet of paper with a well-practised movement. In the two hours since the murder, lights had been set up, the body examined and photographed from all possible angles, the area flooded with policemen, reporters and curious onlookers and Carol had answered this question ten times. She had vacillated between fear and sadness before slipping into depression. Finally emotional numbness settled in.
“Look, I’ve already told you what he looked like. And I’ve told you what happened. Can’t I go back to my hotel? I’m exhausted.”
“Once more, Mademoiselle.”
Carol sighed. Her nerves were frazzled. It wasn’t just her own brush with death that bothered her. The old man was dead and she was still living because he had died. She sensed that guilt would lock onto the image of the grisly murder and stay imbedded in her mind for a long time to come. But now she just wanted to get back to her room to be alone.
“He was tall—five ten or eleven, kind of an athletic build. Black hair, white at the temples, grey eyes. Pale skin. Large teeth. He was wearing a dark jacket and pants—leather. And a dark shirt and shoes—expensive. You know, one of those trendy mismatched outfits. He looked about ten years older than me, maybe thirty-five, thirty-seven, and spoke both French and good English. He told me his name was André.”
“Distinguishing facial features?”
“I’ve already said I wasn’t paying much attention to him.”
“But you sat with him for fifteen minutes in a café?”
“More like five minutes. And I told you, I was reading. I only let him sit there because there weren’t any other seats.”
The short, stocky detective in the rumpled brown jacket continued taking notes and chain smoking. Carol had a sense that he was totally uninterested, routinely jotting down the information because he was expected to fill his notebook. She also got the uneasy feeling he wasn’t taking her seriously.
“And why were you out walking alone so late?”
“I couldn’t sleep. It was a nice night.”
“Do you often walk alone at night?”
“Sometimes.”
“Along dangerous harbors?”
“I didn’t know it was dangerous. This is supposed to be a safe city. That’s what the tour guide said.”
LePage snorted. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Robins, why are you in Bordeaux?”
Carol shifted. She had no intention of exposing her life story to this man. “I’m on vacation.”
“At this time of year? Most tourists visit in the summer, when the weather is pleasant, or the autumn, when the grapes ripen.”
“I’m not crazy about new wine.”
LePage sighed. “You stated that this man named André assaulted the carpenter.”
“Yes. I told you all this before. He leaned over the old man, bent him backwards a little, and maybe broke his back or his neck and then—”
“You realize, Mademoiselle, the enormous strength required to break the spine of a man with the bare hands.”
“I realize. It was dark. I’m just telling you what I remember.”
“Continue.”
“And then the man, the carpenter as you call him, was quiet.”
“He was vocal until just prior to being bent backwards?”
“No. I’m not sure. It all happened so fast. I think he was already dead.”
“And if I told you that the carpenter, his neck and spine, they are not broken?”
Carol stared at him blankly for the space of two heartbeats, then said, “I didn’t say they were. I said maybe.”
The policeman sighed and ran a hand through his greying hair as she continued. “Then the murderer opened his mouth and bit the carpenter’s neck, like an animal, watching me the whole time.” She shivered involuntarily at the memory.
The detective lowered his notebook. “Tell me, Mademoiselle, have you recently been to the cinéma?”
“What are you getting at, Inspector?”
“I am only wondering if lately you have viewed any films. Cinéma Fantastique, for example.”
“Look, I know this sounds like Dracula, but it’s what I saw. I can’t pretend it was something else. I saw him bite the old man. That I’m sure of. I don’t know if he took his blood or what, I just know what I’m telling you.”
Inspector LePage sighed again, slipped his notes inside his jacket pocket then lit a fresh cigarette before dropping his butt and crushing it underfoot. Almost wearily he took her by the arm. “Very well, Mademoiselle. One of my officers will accompany you to your hotel. You will, of course, not leave the city just yet. You will need to come to headquarters to sign your statement. And I may have further questions.”
He led her across the pavement to a police car and opened the rear door. As she got in he said, “A warning. Since the assailant knows your appearance, you may be in danger. A man will be stationed nearby.”
“You mean you’re going to keep me under surveillance.”
“For your protection. And, please, Mademoiselle, do not go for any more walks alone at night
.”
He slammed the door shut and the driver sped off.
Chapter Two
The following day the police questioned Carol again at her hotel both in person and several times on the phone to clarify details. Inspector LePage, in particular, seemed more and more skeptical as though the sooner time passed, the faster he could forget this case. He was keeping her in the dark, asking most of the questions, answering few. All he admitted was that the autopsy report was incomplete and there were no suspects in custody. Other than the police, she talked with no one.
The murder had left her shaken. Carol dreamed of a large wolf with the face of her attacker, ready to pounce, blood dripping from its gaping, fanged mouth. She jolted awake, body coated with sweat, heart banging hard in her chest. It wasn’t until nearly ten o’clock at night that she had the nerve to even venture out of the hotel.
“I need a taxi,” she told the Royal Medoc’s doorman. While waiting, she glanced around. A short man smoking a cigar stood halfway down the street leaning against an ornate street lamp. He looked in her direction yet tried to appear as though he did not notice her. Obviously he’s the police guard, she thought, and a lousy one at that.
Once inside the cab she instructed the driver, with considerable language difficulties, to take her to the St. James, a small restaurant across the Garonne in nearby Bouliac. She had eaten there her first night in Bordeaux. The food was good, expensive but prix fixe, and the place charming. And she felt the need to get away from the hotel, if only for a meal. Going by taxi seemed safe enough. And she’d take one back, too, so there shouldn’t be any problems.
A waiter seated Carol near the fireplace, in front of a window. Only two other tables were occupied, both with couples. The suburban restaurant at the top of a low hill looked out over the flat city. Lights twinkled from the houses spread out before her as did strings of red and amber lights along the main arteries through downtown. Inside, quiet incandescent bulbs enriched the walnut furniture and violet linen. The flickering fire gave off a comforting glow and warmed her a little—overnight the weather had turned unexpectedly cold.
She ate slowly, savoring the food and the chance to be in different surroundings. But her thoughts were troubled, drifting back first to the horrible murder and then further back in time until, oddly, she began remembering how she and Rob had met.
I was so different then, she thought. Younger, although it was just a few years ago, but definitely more naive. Rob had been the kind of guy she had always been attracted to—blonde, boyish good looks, brilliant smile, suntanned, athletic, successful career. She remembered thinking, he looks like he just stepped off the pages of GQ.
Both of them came from a middle-class, middle America background. They’d met at the opening night party of an amateur theater in Philadelphia when he was a senior editor with a slick city magazine and she was struggling to finish law school at the University of Pennsylvania. He was so easy to fall in love with, she thought. Too easy.
The waiter stopped to refill her water glass. He smiled at her and she looked down at her coq au vin.
The wedding was three months later. They bought a townhouse in the City of Brotherly Love, the fashionable Society Hill area downtown. Carol managed to find a position as a law clerk in a small legal firm until she could take the bar exams. Rob’s position and expense account allowed them to share an enviable lifestyle. They travelled out of the country often on vacations, were busy many nights with friends at parties or cultural events. Rob bought a Mac and devoted his spare time to writing “the great American screenplay,” as he liked to joke. Carol continued doing costumes and props and generally helping out at the theater and took a series of acting classes—it was the first time since college that she could get back to doing what she loved best—acting. Things had seemed perfect, until she found the letter.
She knew he’d hidden it but there was always the suspicion that maybe, subconsciously, he’d wanted her to find it. The letter was addressed to Phillip, Rob’s best friend, her oldest friend in the city. Rob had told her he’d been bisexual, before their marriage. She could accept that. He was different now. But the way he’d written about his feelings, it was obvious that not only had the affair with Phillip been going on since long before he’d met Carol, but also, throughout the marriage, there had been endless other men, and women. Rob swore to Phillip he was being faithful now—to him. He asked Phillip to be patient, he was trying to tell Carol he wanted a divorce. He was looking for the least hurtful way.
And then the accusations, the tears, the arguments, her recriminations, his apologies, mutual pleadings and hurtful rejections. And finally the horrifying truth—Rob had contracted the HIV virus from a woman who wrote for the magazine, one of his many affairs. He’d passed it to Phillip. Phillip tested positive for the virus three times; both were carriers. He’d only found out recently.
Carol had been devastated. In a stupor, she forced herself to go for a test. It was negative. Then a second test. Negative. But those results felt like some divine come on. She was terrified to take the test a third time. What’s the use? she thought. Eventually I’ll show up positive. The clinic had assured her that was not a given. She might not have been infected. But she was good at research and read up on the virus; Rob likely infected everybody he had sex with more than once; the hopeful words of the staff at the hospital did not put her mind at ease. It wasn’t in her makeup to face a positive result; she knew she wouldn’t be able to live with that kind of knowledge.
Even though the divorce had been simple, it was still an ordeal. A lawyer from her firm handled the paperwork, getting her out of the marriage quickly. And she had wanted out fast. Torn by a spectrum of emotions, she longed for the misery to end.
Her plate was cleared away. She decided against dessert but had coffee and a liqueur. Only one other table was occupied now.
For a year she had lived alone in their townhouse, eating frozen gourmet meals, watching a lot of TV, working as an office temp and doing nothing else. She failed the bar exam—twice. She kept missing the acting classes and eased out of the theater. Her friends drifted away and she let them. She quickly got used to being alone, even preferred it. And the few times people had tried to play matchmaker, she always made excuses.
The pain had dulled, replaced by a fragile layer of welcomed numbness that eventually solidified. She had no intention of disturbing that palliative.
As she sipped the liqueur, the waiter brought the check.
Carefully she counted out the correct number of francs. Unsure if the bill had a tip already included, she added one on.
It was spur of the moment, really, that she had quit her job. Rob settled more than reasonably. She sold the house, her car and everything else and decided to travel. The money would last maybe two or three years, if she was careful. She had no idea what she would do after that but it didn’t really matter. She just wanted to go far away and see if she could recover some reason for living, something that inspired her, because she now knew that it wasn’t just the divorce and his betrayal. She had betrayed herself. The marriage, in retrospect, was an illusion. They had both played their parts well, but not well enough, not from the heart, and now she was living with the consequences. And that made her question everything. It’s funny, she thought, I’ve always tried to be fair and honest, do things the right way. So why does it feel as though my life’s been wasted?
She had read that even if she did test positive—which so far she hadn’t—being a carrier didn’t necessarily mean the virus would ever activate. But the percentages were continually increasing. She had no symptoms still, there was always that chance. And just before leaving Philly Rob called—he was diagnosed with Kaposi’s sarcoma. She had been terrified by the news, furious, depressed and filled with grief for herself, for Phillip, for all the people that connected to this terrible chain with Rob as the central link. This was a living nightmare without end. She felt no regrets that her old life had ended, but there was no ne
w life to replace it with. And in her mind there didn’t seem to be much in the way of possibilities.
The meal was finished and the bill paid. She emptied the glass of Cointreau. She was the last customer left in the restaurant. There was no reason to linger.
Outside a cold wind blew around her legs. Carol pulled her beige spring coat closer. This street had few cars and none of them were taxis. She thought about going back inside and phoning for one, but then the lights of the restaurant went out and when she peered through the lace curtains she couldn’t see anyone inside.
A main street’s only a block away and, no doubt, my police protection is still lurking, she assured herself.
She turned into the wind, heading down the low hill towards the brighter lights. Even before reaching the corner, she heard a car behind. It was a taxi. She waved and the driver slowed.
“The Royal Medoc,” she told him, closing the door.
He pulled away immediately.
A little drunk from most of a litre of wine and the liqueur, Carol rested her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. Instantly a vision of the attacker appeared on her eyelids. She opened her eyes briefly but then closed them again.
The police had not taken her seriously, at least the part where she’d seen him bite the old man. She didn’t even believe it herself. It was like something out of a horror movie. It didn’t make sense and if somebody had told her they’d seen a man murdered like that, she would think they were either joking or crazy.
The strong odor of cigar smoke interrupted her thoughts. She stared at the back of the driver’s head wondering if he was the police guard.
The streets she saw out the taxi window looked unfamiliar.
He was taking a different route, less direct, to the hotel. She checked the meter. Already it read sixteen francs and the whole ride had only cost eighteen on the way over. Obviously he was going the long way around to get more money out of her.
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