The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1)

by Chris O'Neill

  And then she was falling.

  Chapter Forty Three

  Lara kicked the access door wide open, had the pistol in her hands and moved out on to the roof, searching for her target, moving with trained precision. Jason was right behind her. They were on the lower level of the roof and it seemed there were lots of places to hide. They heard what sounded like glass breaking from somewhere close by.

  “Beth!!” Jason shouted and they raced up the steps to the upper level.

  Jason was now up ahead of her and Lara cursed him under her breath, angry he might get hurt and angrier with herself she hadn’t pulled him back. He made it to the top of the steps, scanning the roof and saw a man running to the fire escape on the other side of the building.

  “Lara!” Jason pointed after the fleeing man.

  They took off after him, seeing him drop down, out of sight, to the fire escape. They passed the edge of the sunken skylight and saw that it was mangled and a sick feeling seeped in to Jason’s gut like poison. He stopped, looking down over the edge at the ballroom below. Chaos had blown through the room like a hurricane, people were screaming and yelling, looking up at him and the damage. The entire glass skylight had rained down on them, people were stumbling with injuries, bleeding, crying. The glass had rained down on the unsuspecting guests and now the entire place was in turmoil and confusion. One of the tables had been destroyed by something that had clearly fallen through the skylight, covering the table in glass and debris. Laying to the side of it, half covered by a table cloth was Beth, bleeding and completely still. Jason took a step back in shock and realized what must have happened. The bastard had thrown her off the roof. People were around her, trying to help, so much activity down there it was really just a blur to him. Then rage filled him and he took off after Lara to the fire escape to get the man who did this while they had the chance. He ran to the fire escape and started climbing down, seeing Lara one level below.

  The man they were chasing was three floors down already and moving fast. Jason burned with anger and felt adrenaline surge through him, fuelling him to go on. The man dropped from the fire escape in to the alley below and sprinted around the corner out of sight. Lara almost there but Paris Police vehicles were pulling up at the other end of the alley, outside the hotel, their lights flashing and sirens screeching through the chill night air. It was beginning to rain and the lights seemed cold and threatening. Lara hit the alley running and Jason saw Police personnel coming in from the other end. They didn’t know what was going on and might try to stop him and Lara. The best thing he thought he could do right now was distract them, give her the opportunity to continue the chase.

  “Aidez moi! Aidez moi!” he shouted, calling for help as he jumped down to the alley. The Police already had their guns drawn and trained on him. He put his hands up and decided to play dumb. He was right about having to distract them- they might have shot Lara McBride by accident.

  An ambulance was pulling up out front of the hotel and more Police vehicles were arriving. The scene was frenzied but he saw Lara had managed to get to the other end of the alley and disappear around the corner. He wished he could follow.

  Chapter Forty Four

  Guillotine had missed the Police Officers by mere seconds. What a simple twist of fate that the Police arrived and had their attention focused on his pursuers and not him. The scene in the ballroom would almost certainly provide enough of a chaotic distraction to give him the precious minutes he needed to slip out of the area. He stopped behind a street billboard advertising his show. How delicious. Paris felt like his own macabre playground tonight and he was the master of ceremonies. Then he saw Lara McBride sprinting across the street towards him. He hadn’t counted on a foot chase, this was not how he had wanted things to play out. The woman was fearless and persistent and he was in awe of her. But, there was no time for admiration now.

  He took off, running as fast as he could, past the storefronts on Avenue George Cinque, figuring the Police would be coming up the Champs d’Lysees. He looked over his shoulder, saw that Lara was on his trail and she had a pistol. He dodged right, running through traffic to the other side of the street, weaving between the people on the boulevard. Lara followed, trying to get a bead on him with the gun, but there were too many civilians around him, he knew she could not get a clean shot, nor would she risk wounding a bystander or killing him. He could count on that.

  She was gaining on him, but he knew the streets better. They were coming up on the huge American Cathedral of Paris, a white stone building with intricate statues of Saints looking down on the Boulevard. It was a favorite tourist spot, Guillotine knew there would be more people there and he could lose her in the crowd, double back around and escape.

  As they closed in on the huge Cathedral, Guillotine saw that he was wrong. There was no crowd tonight as he had imagined. There were, however, two motorcycle cops stationed out front, stood beside their Police issued bikes, seeing him and Lara approach. She started shouting to them, trying to get their attention. But she had the gun and Guillotine could play it off as though he was the victim.

  “Une folle!!” he shouted, pointing back at her, the crazy woman.

  “Stop him!!!” Lara called from behind, about fifty feet behind now and closing.

  The motorcycle cops began to reach for their weapons. Guillotine bolted in to the oncoming traffic. Cars swerved and two collided, smashing together, one being knocked in to a spin that saw the car mount the sidewalk and slam in to a storefront, shattering glass and debris across the boulevard. People raced for cover, screaming. Car horns blared. Lara made it to the middle of the street and saw him cut over to Rue de Boccador. She ran out in to the traffic, making the cars hit the brakes, holding her hands out to stop them and shouting to the drivers. She made it across the street without being hit and took off after him, leaving behind a devastating scene of carnage. The motorcycle cops were shouting in to their radios, one of them running to the crashed car in the mouth of the storefront, while the other scrambled to get on his bike, revving the engine to follow after Lara.

  Guillotine’s heart was pounding, but excitement was pushing him further and faster now than ever before. He was having so much fun, he was laughing. He saw the Theatre des Champs-Elysees ahead. Perfect. He saw the stage door, ran as fast as he had ever run and burst through the door to the back of the theatre. Behind him, Lara saw the door close as he went inside and slowed down, the gun ready, the safety off. Behind her, she heard the rev of the motorcycle cop heading down the street toward her. She had to get inside the theatre now or risk losing him. She threw the door open and saw a burly Doorman holding a newspaper sat on a chair inside, already startled by the man who had just run in. When he saw the pistol pointed in his face, his face went white.

  “Where did he go?” she shouted. The Doorman pointed to a set of stairs across the wooden hallway and Lara took them two at a time.

  She found herself backstage, and heard the sounds of an opera performance on the main stage. She could not see it through the large curtains covering the rear of the stage, but could clearly hear a man and a woman with strong voices in the middle of an aria. Through breaks in the long flowing velvet fabric, she could see the opulent interior of the theatre. It was red and gold and every seat on all four levels was filled. She was crashing a performance in progress and that meant more innocent bystanders could he hurt. The ceiling depicted an enormous painting that wrapped all the way around, leading to a centerpiece that looked like a golden rose. She saw all this and hoped he hadn’t escaped out there somewhere. No, if he had, all hell would be breaking loose right now. That meant he was still back here somewhere, looking for a place to hide- or a way out.

  She was moving along the back of the stage, making her way to the other side of the building. There were assistants and cast members, dancers in costume up ahead, they hadn’t seen her and she didn’t want to startle them with the gun and risk causing a panic. She lowered the pistol, hid it behind her and s
aw that none of the people ahead looked as though a stranger had just pushed past them. Then she looked over to her right and saw a set of steps leading down below the stage and a door at the end of them. She hurried down the steps, knowing she had little time before he found some alcove or corridor in what was likely a maze down there to hide in.

  She pushed the door open and stepped in to a vast, cavernous room that ran under the stage and out under the audience. The ceiling was low but the room was broad and long, filled with wooden mock ups of staircases, windows, painted backdrops showing views of gardens and various other colorful scenes, furniture that looked like it had been preserved for centuries. It was like stepping back in time to a room where someone had taken pieces of the past and thrown them down there, a crazed place that made no sense. Dusty sheets covered most of the pieces of set design that sat in rows going up and down the seemingly never ending room, creating odd shapes that made it hard for her to focus.

  She heard a noise to her right, somewhere out towards where the audience was seated above. She moved forward, cautious, knowing he had the upper hand in here. She moved to the wall, better to have something at the back of her, kept glancing back to the green door she had come through while searching the rows, zeroing in on where she thought the sound had come from.

  Above her, the singers were reaching a crescendo. A noise from the other side of the room made her move instinctively to chase it, but she knew a half second later that she had made a mistake and fallen for what turned out to be bait. She felt her feet kicked out from under her, saw a blur of movement to her right as she fell on her back, then all she could see was the ceiling as her back slammed on the cold stone floor and the breath was driven out of her lungs. She rolled sideways, her training kicking in, taught never to stop moving once you’re down. He had come at her from beneath one of the grey sheets covering a set piece behind her. He had a rag in his hand. Chloroform maybe or possibly some kind of poison. She gripped the pistol and tried to aim. He slapped it from her hand as she sat up and she slammed her elbow in to his face, that horrible scarred face that looked like it had been dipped in pure evil and left to harden like melted wax.

  The blow didn’t stop him, he simply kept coming at her with the rag. She blocked his arm, hearing the singers above her on the stage finish the song and the audience thunder in to rapturous applause. It was deafening, even down here. She hit him in the ear, sending him off balance, giving herself a chance to scramble for the pistol that lay just a few feet away.

  He threw himself on to her back, one arm around her neck and she screamed in anger and frustration. The audience applause was maddening, as though they were goading him on to finish her. The noise rolled through the whole building, deafening as it reverberated off the walls, drowning out her cry. He was like an insect, writhing on her as though he was trying to get inside her, a parasite, slippery and impossible to throw off. The door to the room burst open and the motorcycle cop rushed inside, standing in the doorway with his gun drawn and a flashlight in his other hand. The man with the scars relaxed his grip for a second, distracted, and Lara took the chance to drive her elbow up and jam it into his jaw, sending him toppling backwards, lost in the gloom, but at least he was off her. She gulped air desperately and grabbed the pistol.

  As soon as she felt the cold metal in her fingers, she spun around and fired twice in Guillotine’s direction. The man with the scars was already diving back in to the shadows, disappearing behind a long row of stage mirrors that had been set down at different angles and stacked against each other, providing a splintered reflection of the room. Her shots had hit the mirrors, shattering the glass, spraying fragments and shards all over the stone floor. The man with the scars raced along the wall, heading for the access door on the other side. Lara saw him pull the door open and, for a second, he was framed in the doorway. She had him in her sights. She breathed and pulled the trigger.

  That was when the motorcycle cop hit her from behind. She heard the shot and then her world went dark.

  Chapter Forty Five

  Inspector Brouchard walked through the grand lobby of the George Cinq hotel, remembering when he had stayed here with his wife for their anniversary years ago. They had a wonderful weekend, the place was as romantic as they could have ever wanted. They never left the opulent room for a weekend that had cost him a month’s salary. It had been worth every penny, though, and she had never looked more lovely, glowing with happiness. She had talked about their weekend here as he held her hand in the stark white hospital room a few short months later. She had reminisced about how wonderful the place was as he felt the life slip out of her and she began to ramble, lost in her memories and unable to articulate, the tumor stealing her away from him. Death went about its business that night without pomp or circumstance or fair warning and Brouchard felt he was in its wake again tonight. He steeled himself for a second as he crossed the lobby to the man who identified himself as the head of hotel security and the first Officer on the scene. He had to put memories of his wife away now, bury them deep- a young American girl needed his help. He had stayed down here to co-ordinate the response units while Lara and Jason had gone to Beth’s room.

  “Is she alive?” Brouchard asked.

  “They’re bringing her out to the ambulance right now,” the Police Officer reported.

  “Show me,” Brouchard ordered.

  The Police Officer led the way, the head of security, a man in his forties, ex military, a serious looking man whose name badge read Philippe, prattled as they walked. Like most ex military, he thought jargon made him sound professional, unaware that it only made him seem less reliable.

  “We have secured the incident area and relocated all relevant personnel to a secure room on the other side of the complex,” Philippe said. Brouchard wasn’t interested in what this man had to say, but politely thanked him and addressed the Police Officer who had approached.

  “Do we have any witnesses?”

  “Yes, Inspector. There are several from the ballroom. And we found a British man outside.”

  “A British man? He was in the ballroom?” Brouchard was confused.

  “No, Inspector, he was on the roof with the girl when it happened.”

  “She fell?”

  “He says she was pushed,” came the reply.

  Brouchard motioned for him to open the door to the rear of the hotel and the Police Officer complied, letting Brouchard walk back out in to the rain, seeing the ambulance and response vehicles cluttering the alley. Paramedics were carefully lifting the stretcher carrying Beth Hollaway in to the back of an ambulance. Brouchard hurried through the rain and climbed in the back of the ambulance beside her. The Paramedics, both fit looking men in their thirties, began to object, but the Police Officer pulled them aside to quiet them down while the Inspector knelt beside the wounded girl.

  Her face was cut up from the glass, her neck in a brace, a respirator on her face, helping her breathe. She was a mess and it broke his heart to see the young woman like this. He took her hand and was reminded of his wife.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I promise you, I will find the man who did this to you.”

  She could barely move her head, but her eyes focused on him and he could see she understood. With that, he climbed back out of the ambulance and headed back inside, calling the Police Officer back and demanding to interview the British man.

  He didn’t see Guillotine move through the crowd, approaching one of the Paramedics with a convincing look of concern on his face. Brouchard had already gone back inside when Guillotine got to the Paramedics.

  “That’s my wife,” he said, pointing to Beth inside the ambulance. “Can I ride with her?” he asked, sounding as solemn as he could. It was convincing enough as the Paramedic hesitated for a second, wanting to get the ambulance moving and nodded.

  “Get in. Hurry!”

  Guillotine thanked him, kept his head down and climbed in to the back of the ambulance as the Paramedic closed the
door behind them and the vehicle moved out of the alley, pulling out on to the Boulevard, passing the news vans as they rolled up out front of the hotel like ravenous vultures come to feed on the injured. Seconds later, the siren was blaring and they were roaring through the Paris traffic. Beth could feel the vehicle moving, but had no idea the man who had done this to her was standing three feet away from her, his eyes fixed on her face.

  Chapter Forty Six

  The Paramedic was working hard to stabilize Beth. Guillotine kept his back to her, hiding until he was ready to reveal himself. Beth could only see the roof of the ambulance, her head locked in place so only her eyes could move. Up front, there was only the driver. He was speaking on the radio, calling ahead with a report on her injuries so the emergency room team would be ready for her. Guillotine knew she would never make it.

  He calculated he had about three minutes before they reached the hospital. He would have to move fast. He pulled the blade from his pocket and turned to the Paramedic behind him. The young man was checking the respirator system, bent over Beth with his back to Guillotine. She was securely fastened in to the stretcher and immobilized. Guillotine moved fast, the blade went in to the young man’s neck, one fast cut and the windpipe was severed. Guillotine took the young man’s arm and politely moved him away from Beth as the arterial spray began to spatter across the cabinets containing medical supplies and down on to her face. The young Paramedic grasped his wound in shock, his mind trying to make sense of what had just happened. His death was already assured, the man was merely seconds from realizing it. Surrounded by all manner of medical accessories, yet ironically beyond saving. Guillotine helped him to sit on the floor and took the Paramedic’s hand away from the wound, allowing the blood to flow freely down his neck and chest and cover his thighs. He looked up at his killer in confusion, trying to understand what had happened. Guillotine smiled, feeling pride at a job well done and he watched in fascination as the light went dim in the young man’s eyes and his body went slack, his head slumped on his chest. The Paramedic twitched a couple of times, his legs flicking out in a grotesque spasm as the last drops of life reluctantly left him.