by Susan Finlay
“Well, I can give you a one-time guest pass.” She took out a card from behind the desk and handed it to him. “Use the number on here to log in. Our technology section is over there.”
He turned his head, saw the overhead sign, and thanked her.
When he reached the technology section, all of the computer desks were occupied. He began to think he was being prevented from finding out more. As he was about to leave, a man departed, giving Dave his chance to slip into the vacated spot. His search for British newspapers produced numerous links. He didn’t even need to type in the names Elizabeth Raybourne or Maura Barrington. Each paper had an article about the case, and most of the articles included what Dave figured must be the worst photographs of Maura that they could find. One looked like a mug shot with one eye half closed as if she were drunk. Another showed her in jogging clothes with her hair looking like a ratty mess. A photo of her in a party dress and kissing a young-looking man had the caption: ‘Party girl with a passion for young boys’. One paper had a shot of her more respectably dressed, but apparently turning away from the camera like a criminal being led into court.
Some of the facts in the reports fit with what Maurelle had told him, but there were bits that didn’t fit, such as the part about why she and her boyfriend had broken up and why she had to move out. An article showed a quote from him: ‘I broke up with Maura because she was very intense. I can’t believe she would kill someone, though.’ Several teachers from the school said that Jared was a good student, and one cast doubt on Maura’s claims to his mother that she was tutoring him—why have an English teacher tutoring maths? Another article quoted the victim’s mother as saying, ‘Jared had his whole life ahead of him and that woman took it away from him. I should never have rented a room to her. I thought the school would have done a better job of checking potential employees’ backgrounds before hiring them.’
The opinion pieces were even worse—but for one which commented on the presumption of guilt and the way that it was being assumed she had run away because of guilt. The writer explained how circumstantial the public evidence was, taking each point in turn.
After an hour of reading news articles online and in print, Dave left the library and headed back to the parking lot where he’d parked. As he unlocked the car door, his cell phone rang. Though he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, he answered, thinking that it might be his grandmother calling.
“Bonjour, Dave. This is Paul Lepage.”
“What’s up? I didn’t know you had my cell phone number.”
“I didn’t. I called Fabienne and she gave it to me. Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to make sure that you didn’t have a problem meeting up with your lady friend.”
“Huh?”
“I dropped her off a while ago. She said she was meeting someone, and I assumed that someone was you.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Maurelle Dupre.”
Dave’s mouth opened wide. He glanced around as though expecting either her or the police at any moment. “You saw her? When was that? Where is she?”
“I saw her about twenty minutes ago. As I said, I gave her a ride.”
His heart was pumping harder. “Where did you drop her off?”
“La Trinite in Vendome.”
She was here in Vendome? “I’m confused,” Dave said. “Why was she with you?”
“I found her walking along the road. She was hitchhiking after her handbag was stolen in Belvidere.”
Dave quickly ended the call, thanking Paul, and stuck his cell phone back into his pocket, only to pull it right back out. He sat there in his car, debating. What the hell was he supposed to do? What was the right thing?
After several minutes, he made a decision. Whether it was right or wrong, he couldn’t say, but, regardless, he was in too deep to stop now. He made a quick call to Coralie, and was relieved when she told him he could use the car all day, if needed. He called his grandmother, too, to let her know what was happening.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Maurelle leaned back and closed her eyes, finally relaxing after ten minutes of idle conversation. The tan leather seats felt luxurious to her tired body, and the cool breeze blowing at her face was heavenly. Lulled by the steady motion of the car, she couldn’t keep her eyes open.
She jolted awake, realizing something had changed. As she looked ahead, she saw they’d slowed down and were getting off the highway. “What’s happening?” she asked.
“I need to look for petrol.”
Entering a small town, he turned right and stopped at the next intersection. A few moments later, he pulled into a petrol station on the right-hand side of the road. Pierre got out and proceeded to fill the tank, conversing with the attendant as he waited. When he finished, he opened his car door, but stood looking around the station as if waiting for something or someone.
She hadn’t noticed anything particularly worrisome in his behavior, and yet somehow she’d been less nervous riding with Paul Lepage—maybe because Paul and Dave were friends. Two weeks earlier she’d hitchhiked with a farmer. He had been elderly and nearly toothless, but that didn’t stop him from talking and joking. She’d actually laughed with him and enjoyed his company, probably because he reminded her of her former neighbor, Ian Waitley, who used to make her laugh as they sat in his living room eating biscuits and talking about their other neighbors.
Pierre discarded his suit jacket and tie, tossing them into the backseat. He slid back into the driver’s seat and unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt. Before he turned the key, he looked in the rearview mirror and combed his hair.
Returning to the highway, he quickly resumed driving speed, set his cruise control, and then turned on the radio, but seemed unable to settle on a station. “We’ll stop in the next large city. It’ll be close to noon by the time we get there—time for lunch, yes?”
Maurelle nodded. She was hungry, but she didn’t have money for lunch and she didn’t want charity from the man. Annoyed by the constantly changing music stations and the question of what to do about lunch, she was unable to relax. She gazed out the window at the forest they were passing through. Should she continue riding with Pierre or take off on her own at the next stop? After resting, she might manage on foot for a while.
As if reading her mind, Pierre turned off the radio and looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “You’re traveling awfully light for someone on her way to Spain.”
She cleared her throat, preparing to speak, but words wouldn’t come. Shrugging, she turned and gazed out the window again, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions.
“Looks to me as if you’re running away from someone,” Pierre said. “A boyfriend, maybe. Did you have a lover’s quarrel?” Maurelle ignored him. “It’s a shame that a pretty young woman like you should be all alone,” he said. “I wouldn’t let you take off like that if you were mine.” Still she said nothing. “I would keep you to myself.”
With each passing road sign and kilometer, her anxiety rose. “I want to get out now,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and level. “Please stop the car.”
He slowed down slightly, and she sat up straight and reached for the handle. He turned off the main highway onto a narrow road with woods nearby.
“I have a friend,” he said, “who has a little cabin hidden away in this area. I’m sure I can find it. He won’t mind if we use it for a while.”
Oh God! Oh God! Could she open the door and jump? Actors did it in movies all the time. But, that wasn’t real. They used stunt doubles and tricks. In reality, she would probably end up with a few broken bones and be completely helpless.
A couple of minutes later, Pierre turned onto an unpaved road. As he drove, the car’s tires stirred up plumes of dust which entered the vents and caused Maurelle to cough. He came to an abrupt halt. From what she could tell, they were in the middle of nowhere. At once she opened the door and ran for the woods. She barely reached the first trees when she tripped ov
er a rock and landed face first in the underbrush. As she struggled to get up, he was upon her, holding her down, crushing her ribs, and knocking the breath out of her.
She shoved her palms into the hard soil and screamed. It didn’t help because he slammed her face into the ground. Her nose and mouth were filling with dirt and making it difficult to breathe. Kicking and squirming, she somehow managed to raise herself up and take a gulp of air and along with it gained a second wave of strength.
She pushed backward with all her might, tipping Pierre off her back. As he fell sideways, he attempted to regain footing, but stumbled and tripped on a fallen tree branch. Maurelle, taking advantage, scrambled up and bolted. Moments later, he caught up to her and tackled her to the ground. In desperation, she screamed, kicked him and clawed at him. He threw his body on top of hers. His weight on her ribs and stomach held her imprisoned, throwing her into a frenzy of terror.
When she tried to rise up, he wrenched her shoulder so that she cried out in pain.
“Shut up,” he told her gruffly, and shoved her down hard.
She turned her head and searched for something, anything that she might use as a weapon. Lying in the dirt and moss to the right of her head was a thick piece of tree branch that had broken off a tree. As she reached out for it, she realized it was out of her grasp.
Pierre shifted, moving one of his hands away and easing the physical pressure on Maurelle. She looked at him and realized he was unzipping his trousers. She twisted and contorted her body, grabbing onto the fallen branch with her right arm and swung it at Pierre’s head.
In his search for Maurelle, Dave drove along the congested highway, scanning the landscape and periodically swearing to himself out loud—at her and at him. What the hell was he doing searching for a fugitive, a murder suspect fleeing from the police, especially after he’d sworn not to let anyone dupe him again? And worse yet, he was doing it in a borrowed car with a broken air-conditioner. He should turn the car around and go back to Vendome, walk right into the Gendarmerie, and—
And what? Tell them he was tracking a woman who was wanted in connection with a murder in England? Send them after Maurelle and wash his hands of her?
In his mind’s eye, Maurelle’s innocent face, with its big blue eyes appeared. He smacked the steering wheel with his hands. Damn, damn, damn. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t believe she was guilty without proof. He couldn’t believe she was innocent without proof either. If he was going to help her—and that was a big ‘if’ right now—he had to remain objective.
He looked at the car clock. He was driving Coralie’s car and couldn’t keep imposing on her generosity. If he didn’t find her by sunset, he might as well give up because it would be next to impossible in the dark. By morning, her trail would be cold. That gave him less than half a day.
Ten minutes later, Dave again wanted to scream as he sat in the hot BMW, waiting for emergency workers to clear away a traffic accident. Weaving in and out of traffic, trying to get past the bottleneck the accident had created, it took another ten minutes before he cleared the congestion. Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something running in the field up ahead. He craned his neck and tried to make out whether it was an animal or a person, but it was still too far away to make out clearly. A memory of the last time he had searched for Maurelle flashed through his mind.
Dave held his breath and slowed down the car as he strained to see the runner more clearly, a move that nearly caused another accident. A car horn blare made him jerk his attention back to the road in time to see a disgruntled driver behind him swerve into the passing lane, yelling some profanity at Dave as he drove by.
He carefully turned his attention back to the runner, closer now but still a blurry figure. As he drew nearer, he could make out the runner as a woman with long hair, loose and flowing behind her like the mane on a wild stallion. He pulled off the road, jammed on the brakes, and parked in the grass. He vaulted from the car and ran toward her, catching her in his arms as she tripped and fell toward the ground.
Maurelle was sobbing and shaking uncontrollably as he held her, stroking her hair. When she calmed down, Dave led her back to the car and helped her inside. He squatted down next to her seat and searched her face, trying to figure out if she was all right. Prudence dictated he give her a bit more time and distance before attempting to ascertain just what had happened.
He rubbed his hand through his hair and stood up. He closed the door, went around to the driver’s side, and climbed in. As he started up the engine, in a hoarse voice, she blurted out, “No! We can’t leave.”
Startled, he looked at her. “I don’t understand.”
“I hit him,” Maurelle said. “I—I don’t know if he’s. . . .”
“You don’t know if he’s what?”
“Still alive,” she whispered, the color draining out of her face.
“Christ, Maurelle, what did you do?”
She buried her face in her hands and cried, her body shaking.
Dave sat still, not touching her, not knowing what to think. His heart was racing. He took a deep breath, clutching the steering wheel. Slowly, he turned to look at Maurelle. “Tell me what happened. Who are you talking about? What man? Do you mean Paul Lepage?”
“No. Not Paul. Paul gave me a ride, too, but he was kind. This second man who gave me a ride told me his name is Pierre Auberge. He’s probably twenty years older than Paul. I don’t know him. I couldn’t keep walking—not in sandals, anyway.” She wiped her tear-streaked cheeks, and cleared her throat. “He gave me a ride. At first, he seemed all right but he somehow made me nervous. He started talking oddly, and when I asked him to let me out, he refused.”
Dave pursed his lips, thinking about hitchhiking-related incidents he’d dealt with back in Chicago. Those incidents had become his cases because they’d left behind murder and rape victims. Hell, Diana Lewis and Johnny Kincaid had kidnapped some of their victims by picking up hitchhikers.
“Go on.”
“When he slowed down, I jumped out of the car and ran, but he followed. He attacked me, and pinned me down to rape me,” she whispered. “I fought him, found a broken tree branch, and hit him over the head. I got up and ran until you showed up.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“I don’t know. Not long ago—perhaps ten minutes ago. ”
“Can you take me to him?”
She nodded.
“Are you okay? Did he—hurt you?”
She tensed, shaking again momentarily, but said, “I’m all right. Just scratched and shaken.”
Dave wasn’t entirely convinced that she was okay, but he needed her to take him to this man, first. He’d deal with Maurelle later.
She led him to the turn-off and then to the unpaved road. He stopped the car and she led him into the woods, stopping occasionally to look around to get her bearings. Each time, like a trained hunter, she would carefully choose her path, which surprised Dave.
She reached an area in the woods where she stopped and pointed a few yards away.
“Are you sure this is the place?”
“I recognize that gnarled tree over there,” she said, pointing to a particularly knotted, half-dead magnolia. “And here is the broken tree branch that I hit him with.”
She picked up the branch and handed it to Dave, and he turned it over, noting a damp patch that looked and felt like blood.
“Well,” Dave said, “obviously he survived, since I don’t see him here. Do you have any idea where he left his car?”
She shook her head, momentarily looking bewildered.
“It can’t be far away.” She pivoted around, looking as if she was trying to get her bearings and then she stopped. “There,” she said, pointing.
As they approached the road, Dave heard a car engine. He spotted a brown Peugeot speeding away around the bend, heading toward the highway. Feeling a mixture of anger and relief, Dave turned around to look at Maurelle. Judging from the look on her fa
ce, she’d seen it too. She stood still, her face pale as an ice statue.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Maurelle pulled the bedcovers over her head and tried to get back to sleep, but her stomach growled, forcing her wider awake. She groaned, threw off the covers, and opened her eyes, letting in the pinkish-gold light coming through the pink sheer curtains. Glancing down at the unfamiliar blue flannel nightgown she was wearing, she felt disoriented but as she turned over and looked around the cozy room bits and pieces from yesterday’s events came back to her.
Dave had helped her back to the car. He barely spoke as he drove back towards Reynier. She thought he was taking her to the Gendarmerie, but she had been too tired and worn-down to care. Somewhere along the way, she drifted into a half-sleep and awakened only when he stopped the car. When she saw Fabienne’s house, her heart sank and yet at the same time she felt comforted, her body relaxing.
Dave had whisked her upstairs and helped her to lie down on the bed, with Fabienne standing nearby watching, anxiety etched in her wrinkled face. Turning to Fabienne, Dave said something, though the words were a blur in Maurelle’s mind. Later, a woman who had introduced herself as Sandrine Fortier, a nurse and friend of Fabienne’s, examined her and told them that Maurelle had bruised ribs and a bruised right shoulder, but was otherwise unharmed physically. Sandrine had given her an herbal remedy, which enabled her to sleep through the night for the first time in several days, but now left her foggy.
She tried to sit up, intending to get out of bed, but sharp pains jabbed at her upper torso, causing her fall to back on the soft duvet. Determined, she tried again, this time preparing herself for the pain and bracing herself with her arms.
When she managed to sit on the edge of the bed, she was surprised to see her duffel bag on the chair in the corner of the room, in the exact spot where she had left it. Confused, she wondered if she’d somehow overlooked the bag when she’d previously left empty-handed. She wobbled over to the chair and unzipped the bag. Her clothes were neatly folded as she’d left them, only not in the same order. Digging down to the bottom, she pushed the contents out of the way and lifted the false bottom. It was empty. Frantically, she searched through the main compartment. Her clothes, toiletries, books were all there—the things she didn’t care about.