He stared down at the silent phone. Call. Just call me, Maggie.
But what if she couldn’t? What if she was in trouble? It would be so easy. A car coming forward, a voice saying “The Colonel sent me,” a hand reaching out to grasp her wrist—
His eyes fell on the blue sweatshirt. He grabbed it, shoved it toward the Golden’s nose. “You’re a Retriever, damn it! This is her scent, you like Maggie. Find her!”
The dog raised his head, sniffed, fur rippling. Then he began to pace, lurching back and forth in front of the window with a low, rumbling growl.
Beckett stared at the distressed Golden, then let the blue shirt fall to the floor. “Christ, what’s the matter with me?” He blinked at the telephone. Ring, damn you. Ring!
* * *
It was dark and cool among the bird cages. Dane moved slowly through the screeching maze, searching each shadowy aisle. The market wasn’t very crowded. He would find her.
Had she recognized him? He still wasn’t sure. Maybe she’d thought he was just some French thug. He bent to search under a table of cages. She had to be here somewhere. He turned a corner and looked down into the frightened eyes of Magdalena O’Shea.
* * *
Maggie cried out in fear, twisting away, but iron fingers shot out, gripping her shoulders and spinning her around to face him. She looked around wildly, searching for help, pulling against him. But the aisle of cages was empty.
“Let me go!”
“Don’t scream again, Juliet,” said the man with the wolf’s face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
The quiet words, spoken in English, chilled her. Maggie looked up into the glasses and saw her own eyes, dark with fright, reflected in the mirrors. A sudden warning flashed in her head. Don’t let him know you recognize him! She forced herself to look at him blankly. “Who are you?” she whispered. “Please—My name’s not Juliet! You have the wrong person.”
He only smiled and dragged her back into the shadows. Hard arms closed around her in a terrifying mockery of a lover’s embrace, locking her against his chest.
Her arms were trapped against him and she felt the scream of panic coming. “What do you want with me?”
He lowered his head until his lips were hot against her ear. He smiled as he told her, slowly and deliberately in a silky whisper, exactly what he wanted. “I’ll tie your hands behind your back and touch you the way you need to be touched.”
“No! Oh God, you filthy…” She began to struggle frantically against him.
He held her effortlessly.
Terrified by his strength, she fought to free her hands, but his left arm held her in a painful, unbreakable grip. His right hand dropped to her waist, moved up under her t-shirt to close over her breast. The rough fingers hurt her. She cried out again with the unexpected pain and kicked out with her legs.
Brutal fingers covered her lips before she could scream again. A large ring flashed blue in the light. Then his mouth covered hers, insistent and demanding, forcing her mouth open, crushing her lips against his teeth.
She bit him.
He cursed, hit her hard across the face.
“Help,” she screamed. “Help me!” Maggie felt herself spun around with such tremendous force that she crashed into the wall of cages. Hot black pain stabbed through her.
Voices, coming closer!
Her attacker turned, loosened his grip. Suddenly free of his arms, she flung out her right hand. She felt the glasses spin from his face. Then her knuckles smashed into a cage. Some inner musician’s voice screamed, Your hands, watch out for your hands! No hope for it. She locked her fingers through the wire mesh and pulled with all her strength. He reached for her wrist.
Two women appeared at the end of the aisle just as the precariously stacked cages shifted, tilted. She felt them give and pulled harder, frantic now. This time several of the huge, top-heavy cages dislodged and came crashing down on the man. The iron hands fell away from her as the birds shrieked in terror. She felt a sharp edge graze her cheek and doubled over as a small cage hit her shoulder. Protect your hands! A latch snapped and dozens of small bright birds whirled and beat around her head. She heard the man growl with pain.
For a brief, terrifying moment she looked at her attacker. Then she turned and ran.
Above her head, the freed birds lifted into the high clear sky over the towers of Notre Dame.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
PARIS. AFTERNOON, JULY 7
Beckett stood at the window of the small office and stared down at the cars inching along the narrow Rue des Halles. No taxi pulling to the curb. No dark-haired woman in jeans and a music t-shirt hurrying along the sidewalk.
Why did I leave her alone? What the devil did she think she was doing? She’ll be on the next plane home if I have to carry her to the airport myself. Damn the woman!
He fixed his gaze on the Golden. If only—
His cell phone rang, and he lunged for it. “Beckett.”
“Colonel! Thank God. He’s here, in Paris!”
His breath whooshed out as the Golden gave a low whine and hopped toward him. “Whoa, Mrs. O’Shea. Where are you, and are you hurt?”
“I’m in a souvenir shop”—she hesitated, and he pictured her glancing around—“across the square from Notre Dame. I’ve borrowed a phone, I…it’s him!”
Her fear hammered at him across the wires. He shouted, “Who, Maggie? Who?”
“It’s the blond man, Michael! The one with the sunglasses—in Simon’s photograph! He followed me here, he—”
Oh sweet Christ. Some part of him registered that she’d used his first name. “Listen to me, Mrs. O’Shea. I’m coming for you right now. Just stay where you are. Wait for me.”
“No! I’m too exposed here. I’m going to hide in the church.”
“Not Notre Dame, Maggie! It’s the first place he’ll look—”
A harsh, ragged breath. And then, “The gargoyles, Michael! I’ll be—”
Gargoyles? “Stay away from the tower, Maggie!” he shouted into the receiver. “Don’t get trapped up there—”
The dial tone buzzed in his ear.
* * *
The blond man was only yards away from the souvenir shop, walking slowly across the Square du Parvis toward the small row of stores.
She slammed down the phone and sank to the floor behind a tall stand of post cards. Quickly she pulled off her bright sweater, dropping it behind her. She pulled a cotton scarf from around her neck, struggling to tie it over her hair. Hurry. She took a ragged breath and inched toward the door.
He was entering the souvenir shop.
She hunched down, praying that no one would look at her. He was headed toward the rear of the shop. She waited a heartbeat, then, staying low, ran out into the open square.
She looked around wildly. One hundred feet above the crowded square, she saw people moving among the gargoyles on the high carved gallery that linked the two gothic towers of Notre Dame.
The tiny square, dominated by the great stone face of Notre Dame, was congested with tourists. Head down, she ran to the base of the north tower. Moving under the shadowed portal, she turned to look back, just as the man appeared in the souvenir shop doorway. Something bright orange was in his hand. Her sweater. He dropped the cardigan to the cobblestones and moved with quick strides across the square toward the cathedral.
She stood frozen in the tower entrance, watching him come towards her. A laughing group of Italian tourists crowded past her up the steps. Without conscious thought she turned and followed them through the stone portal of the north tower into the cool sheltering darkness.
The small white sign said Five Euros. Maggie dropped the coins into a gnarled hand, passed beyond the gate, and began to climb the steep circular stairs.
She hesitated once, looking back down. The tower’s curved stone steps were so narrow. Would she be trapped? More women crowded behind her, calling out in Spanish, pushing her forward. Too late now. She ran up the stairs.
/> Several hundred steps later, breathless, she emerged into the hot sun and wind high above Paris.
The gallery was a narrow, fenced-in walkway across the roof of Notre Dame to the south tower. There was no place to hide, and no exit behind her—only the graceful spire and the huge, intricate flying buttresses that supported the cathedral’s roof.
She forced herself to move out onto the walkway. Perched at intervals along the balustrade, protected from falling by meshed netting, were the ancient, fantastic stone figures of Notre Dame—the birds, demons, and monsters who for centuries had guarded the cathedral while gazing out over the rooftops of Paris. Up close, the twisted gargoyle faces were agonized and evil.
The gallery was crowded with tourists. For the first time in an hour, among all these smiling ordinary people, Maggie felt safe. Moving to the edge of the carved balustrade, she peered cautiously over the edge. One hundred feet below her, the Square du Parvis ebbed and flowed with people. Too far down to see faces clearly. She glanced toward the exit. Should she take the stairway down the south tower? Where was he?
She watched the gallery entrance. What if he had seen her enter the tower? She touched her throbbing cheek, surprised to find a trace of blood on her fingertips. She shivered as she remembered his hands on her body, the filthy words he had whispered in her ear. Movement in the doorway. Oh please no.
Several tourists stared openly at her, and she raised her hand to hide the blood on her cheek. Quickly she moved behind a large, hideous stone bird and shrank against it.
“Not my day for birds,” she said under her breath.
Fifteen minutes later she saw him emerge, squinting, into the sunlight. She took a deep shuddering breath and stepped out from behind the gargoyle to face him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
PARIS. AFTERNOON, JULY 7
“Colonel!” The whisper came from the far end of the parapet. “Over here.”
He limped slowly toward her in the hot white light, winded, leaning heavily on his cane. Then he stopped and looked down at her, at the cut lip and purpling bruise on her cheek, at the blood on her hands and face and the torn knee of her jeans. Her whole body was shaking.
His hands closed gently over her shoulders. “Mrs. O’Shea. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.” The tight anger in his voice was barely controlled. He hadn’t realized he’d been so afraid until he looked down at her.
She gripped his arms with surprising strength. “Forget about me, did you get him?”
“My first job is to look after you, ma’am.”
“Then he’s still out there.”
Her eyes were dark with fear, her skin ashen and slashed with crimson. Christ, when was the last time he had been this frightened for someone? Afghanistan. He shook his head. “Just what the devil did you think you were doing, Mrs. O’Shea?”
“I found the man in the photograph for you. I…he…”
She was close to hysteria. He bent toward her the way a father might comfort a frightened child, and spoke slowly. “You got away from him. You’re safe now.”
“Not safe. Scared.” She shook her head back and forth. “I saw his eyes. Yellow, like antifreeze.” She shivered. “He quoted Shakespeare, he called me his Juliet…”
Very gently, Beckett reached out to slip the ridiculous scarf back from her tangled hair. “Did he hurt you?”
She took a deep breath, and he could see the effort for control. “No, not really, I’m fine.” Now the low voice was restrained, almost indifferent. But the huge eyes gave her away.
He had to will himself not to touch her face. “Your cheek is bleeding.”
She raised a hand to hide the bruises. Forcing a weak grin, she said, “I guess I went ass over teakettle.”
Who says that? “Tell me,” he said.
“He hit me. He…put his hands on me. He had a knife, he said he wanted to…he put his mouth on mine. I didn’t think anything could frighten me so much.”
He’d hit her. Very deliberately, as if to erase the other man’s touch, Beckett’s thumb traced her swollen lips. “He won’t hurt you again. Count on it.”
She shook her head, dizzy and disoriented in the hot sunlight. She tilted toward him.
He caught her, felt the trembling of her body beneath the thin fabric of her shirt. “I’ve got you,” he said.
She pulled away. “I’ve been a damned fool,” she whispered. “I thought I could take care of myself. But I ran away from him, I didn’t fight. I was so scared. I wasn’t brave enough. Just once, I want to be able to run toward, like you do.”
He looked down at her. How could she not know how strong she was? “You ran into eight lanes of Parisian traffic just hours ago to save a dog! Now you’ve poked a sleeping tiger, Mrs. O’Shea, and you’re still standing. That’s saying something.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s understanding that there is something more important than fear.”
“Like finding my godson.” A smile flickered, and she took a deep breath to regain control. “So, Colonel, are all your investigations like this?”
His laughter startled them both. “I rescue Yankee piano players from cathedral spires at least once a month, Mrs. O’Shea,” he said.
“You laughed. And your face didn’t break! You should try it more often.”
“Come here, dammit, you’re still shivering.” He drew her out of sight, into the shadows, then removed his jacket and dropped it over her shoulders. “What is it?”
“The gun.” She was staring at the 9mm Beretta automatic in the holster beneath his arm.
“I’ve been trying to tell you, Mrs. O’Shea.”
“You’ve killed people.”
“Yes.”
She nodded bleakly. “Oh.”
“Bad people.” He scowled down at her. “I’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. I try to save lives, not take them. But, sometimes it’s hurt or be hurt, kill or be killed. And when you kill someone, anyone, you still have to carry it with you for the rest of your life.”
She looked away. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.”
“The life you choose has a way of becoming who you are. I told you, I live in a world of shadows. Cold, black shadows. And you’re surrounded by light.”
She drew a sharp, quick breath. “Now here’s the part where you say ‘Go home’ again.”
“Because I want you away from the darkness.”
“The decision to stay or go is still mine. I refuse to be a victim.”
That damned defiance again. “But your physical well-being is my business.” He thought of the young girl he’d lost in Kandahar. “If you’re going to let your heart rule over your head, Mrs. O’Shea, then you shouldn’t be here.”
“Okay, got it. Head, not heart.”
He shook his head. “That bastard tracked you, found you today. He could find you again. He’s let you know he can reach you.”
“But why?”
“Because he knows you can identify him now. Somehow,” Beckett lied, “he knows you’ve seen that photograph.” Damn you, Sugar. “Now you know he’s connected to Orsini—and you’ve seen his face. That makes you a problem. His problem. So he’s after you.”
“I won’t let him stop me. It’s not right.”
Right? I don’t know what the devil’s right anymore, he thought. Finding that kid is right. But—she didn’t get that she still wasn’t safe.
“You know the danger is real. I’ve got to get to Aix. If you come, there’ll be no turning back. I won’t ask again. Are you ready to go home?”
“This search has given me a reason to get up every morning. Until now, all I wanted was to hide in Boston, curled up in a tight little ball.” She touched her bruised mouth. “I know this is not a game, Colonel. But I won’t change my mind.”
“Things could get worse in Aix,” he warned her.
“There’s an old newspaper photograph framed on the wall in my shop. It shows the crumbling, b
ombed-out city of Sarajevo in 1992, shells of exploded buildings everywhere. An old man in formal evening wear is sitting outdoors on a folding chair in a square that’s been reduced to rubble. He’s holding a cello between his knees, playing Albinoni’s Adagio in honor of the dead. Humanity, in the midst of violence.”
“You do have a way,” Beckett murmured, “of finding beauty in a brutal world.”
“Music demands that we remember,” she whispered. “Sometimes you just have to keep going, remember what’s important.” She looked out over the Seine. “I know now that I need to do this. Not just for my son and my godson. For myself.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Then we need to leave Paris immediately. We’ll drive through the night.”
“Aix marks the spot.”
Just shoot me, he thought. “But from now on, Mrs. O’Shea, there will be no running off. I’m the soldier. You are the piano player.”
She stood in front of him, small, back straight, bruised and smiling grimly. Brave as hell.
“What am I going to do with you?” The blinding honesty in his voice stunned them both.
“How about you finally start calling me Maggie?”
“Boundaries, remember? I’m the professional.”
She looked at him for a long moment. Then, “Right. Boundaries. Okay, Colonel. Then how about finding me a hot bath and a brandy? At least…”
“At least, what?”
“We’ll always have Paris, Colonel.”
She was the damndest, most complicated woman he’d ever known. “Do you come with instructions, Mrs. O’Shea?”
* * *
Dane stood outside a small patisserie near the cathedral, punching numbers into his cell phone. He’d lost her. She was probably with that colonel of hers. But not for long. He’d find her. He’d find them both.
The little bitch had outfoxed him. He fingered the gash above his eye. The next time they met, she wouldn’t be so lucky.
The phone rang six times. Then a female voice came on the line. “Oui?”
The Lost Concerto Page 18