by Michelle Wan
Julian groaned and rolled over on his side. She was already out of bed and heading for the bathroom.
“What did you say?”
40
EARLY SATURDAY MORNING, 29 MAY
Maybe you should slow down.”
Mara ignored him. The headlights of the Renault did not cut through the swirling mist so much as bounce back at them as a diffuse and eerie light. Black forest rose up on either side. Every now and then a pothole sent them flying. To save his head, Julian braced both hands against the car roof. They were coming to a bend in the road that he vaguely remembered. Mara took it too fast. The car went into a gouging skid. Julian shut his eyes as they slid sideways toward an immense pine. She regained control of the car just in time to avoid it.
“For Christ’s sake, Mara!”
To his relief, she slowed to a crawl. He thought the close call had made her cautious. Then he realized that she was merely getting her bearings.
“I thought it was around here somewhere,” she said.
“Farther ahead, I think. There.” Julian pointed to a slip trail running off to the right.
Mara eased the car onto it, and they bounced along for fifteen meters or so. When the trail ended in a wall of heavy brush, she cut the engine. They got out. Julian played a flashlight in a wide arc around them. The beam swept across low-hanging branches and mottled tree trunks before hitting a flash of metal. They scrambled through the undergrowth toward it. The gray car, well hidden, had been parked and reparked several times, judging from the numerous tracks and expanse of broken ferns around it.
“It’s the one we saw before,” said Mara. “The one you thought was Géraud’s.”
“Well, it can’t be his. The man loves orchids, but he wouldn’t be hunting them in the dark. You think it’s Christophe’s?”
“Whose else could it be?”
“Cunning bastard. I wonder if he’s been there all the time.”
They left Mara’s Renault on the roadside near the trailhead and trekked through the trees up the back side of Aurillac Ridge, the beam of Julian’s flashlight cutting like a blade through the blackness. The forest at night presented itself as a palpable obscurity made up of large, unseen things and ghostly mist that twined silently about their legs. The bottoms of Mara’s jeans became quickly soaked as they pushed through wet bracken. In the silence, their muffled footfalls sounded heavy. Julian called out occasional warnings: “Watch it. Bloody great hole here.”
Gradually, Mara became aware of another sound. Not a small animal scurrying for safety. Something larger, she sensed, accompanying them, quietly, patiently. Then, as a breeze struck her face, she smelled it, a feral odor that aroused in her an atavistic surge of fear. She pulled Julian to a halt.
“Julian. There’s something out there.”
He did not argue. He had been hearing it for some minutes: the soft rustle of foliage, keeping pace with them, somewhere off to their left. He trained the flashlight in that direction. It served only to bring to life the trunks of trees that soared above them into a vast, cathedral gloom. Then he, too, caught its scent, riding on the damp air.
“Come on.” He pushed Mara sharply forward.
“This was stupid,” she said as she trotted rapidly beside him.
“Damned right. We should have brought a gun.”
“I don’t have a gun. I don’t like them.”
“Neither do I.”
She was falling behind. He seized her hand and dragged her along with him.
They broke with relief into a clearing. Julian turned to sweep the flashlight beam behind them in a wide arc, as if its rays had some power of protection. It picked up gray forms that lumbered off into the misty darkness. The feral odor was replaced by the comforting, familiar smell of wool fat on the wind.
“Whatever it was, it’s gone,” said Julian, more confidently than he felt.
They were in the southernmost meadow that they had searched three weeks previously. Since that time, sheep had been moved into it. They hurried on through the wet grass, through low-lying, drifting patches of mist. Then they were into cover again as they plunged into the woods at the top of the ridge. After some stumbling about, they picked out another path, twisting away among the trees. Mara thought it might have been the one she had come down with Didier. Even while her mind dwelled on what had been tracking them, she wondered how the morels were doing and if some enterprising poacher had discovered the gardener’s private crop. When they came out of the trees again, Aurillac Manor rose up as a black mass above them against a predawn sky.
They approached the back of the house by way of the garden. Julian guided them along one of many gravel paths running between the geometric configurations of boxwood hedges. Ahead, they heard the dreary splash of water. Then their light caught the stone dolphin, forever mid-leap. Suddenly Julian stopped, snatched at Mara’s arm, and shoved her behind him. Something in the shadows behind the fountain had moved. He was sure of it. He played the flashlight in that direction. His only thought, as a long shape detached itself slowly from the shadows, was that the thing, with frightening intelligence, had gone ahead to lie in wait for them.
“Arrêtez,” said a deep voice. “Stop right there.”
A man stood in the wedge of light, holding a rifle level with Julian’s chest.
“Nom de dieu!” Julian cried out in relief. “Point that thing somewhere else, will you?”
The man considered this briefly before allowing the nose of the rifle to droop a little. “Who’s with you?”
Julian answered, “Mara Dunn.” He said to Mara over his shoulder, “Antoine de Bonfond.”
“La canadienne,” the winegrower grunted. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for Christophe,” Mara answered before Julian could stop her. “We think he’s been hiding out in the house all along. You know he’s wanted by the police.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.” Antoine’s voice had an edge to it.
Julian said, “We might ask you the same question. Why are you here?” He pointed to the weapon. “With that.”
Antoine took his time answering. “Maybe for the same reason.” Typically, the man was sparing with his words, giving little away. He jerked his head. “Allons.” He led them to a door giving access to the south wing of the house. “Light,” he commanded Julian as he bent to insert a key into the lock. “If he’s in there, he’ll be asleep. Better to take him unawares.”
So, Mara thought, Antoine had figured it out, too. She followed the two men into the still, dark house. The viticulturist flipped a switch, illuminating a long corridor. He stopped before a door—Mara recognized it as the one Christophe had hidden behind during her last, peculiar conversation with him—and turned the handle. The door swung silently inward.
Another switch brought the room to life: old-fashioned furniture, heavy curtains drawn across the windows. Antoine strode to the bed and jabbed the muzzle of his rifle into the middle of it. A lumpy form stirred, uttered a sharp cry, and sat up.
“Quoi? Qui? Ah! C’est toi, Antoine.”
“And us.” Mara stepped forward, pulling Julian with her.
A low moan issued from the bed. Christophe, clutching the covers to his chin, stared back at them, like a hedgehog caught in a sweep of high beams. “How did you know?”
“We saw your car in the woods.”
“Oh.” The little man sighed. “Well, I suppose that’s that.” He gave them a defiant glare.
“The police are looking for you,” Mara said. “And I’ve been looking for this.” She snatched her cell phone from the top of a little cabinet beside the bed. “You took it from Jean-Claude’s terrace. After you killed him.”
“I did no such thing,” Christophe denied, but whether he was referring to the phone or to the genealogist was unclear.
“You’ve been hiding out here all the time.”
“Not at all. Only on and off.”
“You made nasty, threatening, dead-air phone ca
lls to me—”
“I couldn’t have you spreading lies. Anyway, I never threatened you. Quite frankly, I didn’t know what to say. I’m not in the habit of warning people off—”
“You also frightened Thérèse with your impersonation of the Wailing Ghost to get her out of the house, and tried to scare me off the night I was in the library.”
Now he giggled. “All I had to do was moan into the heating ducts. The sound carries quite a way. I used to do it as a boy.”
“Very funny. And clever. Aurillac is so big no one knew you were here, as long as you kept out of sight. Until, of course, Didier saw you. Is that why you had to shoot him? And me, into the bargain?”
Christophe looked genuinely shocked. “It wasn’t me! It was those damned hunters. Antoine said he saw them hanging around when the ambulance took you away.”
“Wait.” Julian turned to the winegrower. “You were here that day?”
“Of course he was,” said Christophe. “He also gave me the phone. He said he needed a way of keeping in touch with me. How was I to know it was yours?” The little man bristled at Mara.
“That’s enough,” Antoine snapped. He waved the rifle at Christophe. “Get up. Get dressed.”
Christophe blinked doubtfully at his cousin. “Why? Where are we going?”
“Just hurry it up. You two”—the rifle swung around on Mara and Julian—“against the wall.”
“What’s going on?” Mara demanded uneasily.
Julian said, “Do what he said.” Step by step they retreated to the wall.
“Antoine, I swear to you, this is all some dreadful mistake,” Christophe babbled as he got out of bed. His round, soft body was clad only in a pair of candy-green boxer shorts. “You surely don’t believe this nonsense. For heaven’s sake. Tell her.” He hopped into his trousers. “Didier was born on the estate. And his father and grandfather before him.” He pulled a shirt on, buttoning it awry. “I didn’t want him talking, but why would I have shot him? Or her, for that matter?”
Julian took a deep breath. “You didn’t.”
“If not him, then who?” Mara turned to Julian.
“Antoine.”
Mara’s astonishment at Julian’s reply was mirrored in Christophe’s face. The little man gaped at his cousin. “You? But why?”
“Shut up,” the viticulturist barked. “Get your shoes on.”
Julian said, “Because Didier saw what he did to Guillaume Verdier.”
“Guillaume?” Christophe squeaked, pulling on his sandals. “What’s he got to do with it?”
“Guillaume was the maquisard sans tête. He escaped from the Germans and made it back to the valley—to safety, he thought.” Julian addressed Antoine. “You came across him in the woods, didn’t you? You were only—what?—thirteen? fourteen? But old enough to know what was at stake. How did you do it? Bash him on the head with a rock?”
“Why would I kill Guillaume Verdier?” Antoine sneered. “He was a hero of the Resistance.”
“Land,” said Julian. “With you people, it always comes down to that—land or money. Yours was the only family in the valley that stood to lose if Guillaume resurfaced. And you were the only one who had a reason to cut off his head. If Guillaume’s body had been identified, the survivorship of the tontine would have been reversed. Christophe said you and Didier brought the body out of the woods together. Did Didier see you do it? Or maybe he just suspected you had. And he’s undoubtedly held his tongue all these years because you are a de Bonfond.”
Antoine’s harsh laugh rang out. “Good luck proving it. Even if you could, the statute of limitations is well past. So why would I want to shoot Didier for something the law can’t get me for?”
“Two reasons. First, the law may not be able to get you, but the people of Sigoulane can. As you said, Guillaume Verdier was a hero of the Resistance. You think you have labor problems now. If Didier talked, if Guy Verdier got hold of this information, you’d never get another person in the Dordogne, let alone the valley, to work for you again. You’d be shut out of every restaurant in the region. That’s sixty-five percent of your sales right there. You’d be ruined. And, second, Didier was a danger to you because he could link you to a much more recent crime, one that will get you life. Jean-Claude Fournier.”
“Jean-Claude?” Christophe cried. “Mon dieu!” He broke off to appeal to Mara and Julian. “Antoine said he’d take care of it. I never expected him to kill the man. In fact, he said you did it.” He waved a hand at Mara.
“Tais-toi, imbécile!” Antoine roared.
But Christophe was irrepressible. “Although I don’t say that crapaud didn’t deserve what he got. The lies he manufactured about that damned baby! And he actually tried to demand money of me. Fifty thousand euros to hold his tongue. Naturally, I told Antoine about it. After all, he’s a de Bonfond, too.”
“Antoine didn’t kill Jean-Claude to help you out,” Julian assured Christophe. “He did it to protect himself. You just provided the cover. After all, you’ve just admitted Jean-Claude was trying to blackmail you about Baby Blue—”
“Which gives him”—Antoine jerked his head in Christophe’s direction—“the perfect motive for silencing him.”
Julian turned to the winegrower. “Which was a godsend to you because Jean-Claude had you over a barrel. Let me tell you what I think happened. Christophe hired Jean-Claude to put together the de Bonfond family history. Despite everything, the man was a good genealogical researcher. It bothered him that he couldn’t verify a lot of the claims—”
“He was a rank amateur,” declared Christophe, his face pink with annoyance. “You should have heard some of the things he came up with.”
“So he did what any conscientious genealogist would do. He searched out alternative sources of information on the family, one of which was the Verdier archives. And that was when he saw the photograph of Guillaume Verdier. Guy told him the story of the tontine, of course. Jean-Claude had just published his book on the Resistance—”
“I kick myself,” Christophe cried. “I gave that crook a thousand-euro advance.”
“Enough,” bellowed Antoine. “Shut it.”
But Julian persisted. “He matched up the photo in his book with the Verdiers’ photo of Guillaume and concluded that Guillaume had indeed survived your father. But he needed corroboration. He went to see Didier and somehow ferreted out the truth, or enough of it to realize that he’d just stumbled on a lifelong line of credit with Coteaux de Bonfond.” Julian turned to address Antoine directly. “And that’s when Jean-Claude put the squeeze on you.”
“What if he did? I didn’t pay up. That’s what counts.”
“No. You eliminated him. Then you went for Didier because he was a weak link. Mara, too, because she was asking awkward questions. And I expect you came tonight to dispose of another weak link.”
“You!” Christophe rounded on his cousin. “You told me to lie low. You said you’d take care of everything. I should never have listened to you.”
“Don’t waste my time,” Antoine snarled. “Get over there with them.” He gave Christophe a shove that sent him reeling across the room. He ordered Julian: “The flashlight. On the floor. Slowly.”
Julian did not put the flashlight down. He whipped it—backhand—as hard as he could, aiming for the viticulturist’s head. It clipped him on the eyebrow. The rifle went off, bringing down a rain of plaster from the ceiling. With a flying tackle, Julian was on the other man. The rifle spun across the floor. Mara flung herself at it. Antoine, with surprising strength and agility for a man of his age, threw Julian over, scrambled free, scooped up the flashlight, and raced from the room. They heard his footsteps pounding down the corridor.
Julian grabbed the rifle from Mara and went in pursuit. Mara and Christophe ran after him. The chase took them down to the end of the wing and into the main part of the house. With the shutters closed, the darkness there was complete.
“Wait,” gasped Christophe. He fumbled along a
wall and activated a bank of switches, lighting the entire progression of rooms. Ahead of them they heard Antoine’s feet clattering on the stone steps leading down into the kitchen.
“Careful,” Christophe panted from the rear. “There—are—meat-cleavers and things in there.”
“Terrific,” Julian murmured, hoping Antoine was not adept at knife-throwing. He descended the three shallow steps, pressing himself tightly to the wall. Cold air flowed in through the window he had broken the day before. Groping along the inside wall, he found another bank of electrical switches and flipped them on. The space, suddenly illuminated, was empty of any human occupant.
“The cellar!” hissed Christophe, pointing to a door at the back of the room.
More stone steps, these narrow and steep. The way was weakly lit by naked bulbs, dangling by their wires from the ceiling. Julian went part of the way down and stopped. The cellar, he saw, was vast and poorly illuminated. From where he stood, he made out alcoves filled with bottles, venerable with dust. A progression of low arches trailed off to a vanishing point of darkness. Even with the advantage of a gun, he did not fancy flushing Antoine out in such conditions. Then he realized he didn’t have to. The cellar was a true cave. The man was trapped down there. He turned back.
“Call the gendarmes, Christophe. He’s stuck down there. We have him.”
“No, we don’t,” said Christophe. “The tunnel.” He pointed to a low door, partly ajar, set into the far-side cellar wall. “He’s gone for the tunnel.”
Julian laughed. “It’s blocked off. We saw it ourselves a couple of weeks ago. There’s no way he can get out.”
“You don’t understand,” Christophe shrilled. “The tunnel branches. About fifty meters down. The right fork leads to another opening in a field below the house. It—it’s how I’ve been coming and going.”
“Merde!” Julian clattered down the steps. “Mara,” he yelled over his shoulder, “stay here. Get on to Compagnon.”
“In a pig’s eye,” she shouted.
Christophe snatched a battery lantern from a hook at the top of the stairwell and clattered after them. “You’ll need this. I’ll—I’ll show you the way.”