The fight in the next room had not abated. Christophe had apparently decided the best defense was offense and he continued to yell at both the girls. They had been lucky to be with him at all was the gist of it.
Faith tried to spit the uncomfortable gag from her mouth, but it was too tight. She hopped from drawer to drawer, turned around to open them, and, after locating where madame kept her dishcloths, odd bits of string, flashlight batteries, and coffee filters, hit pay dirt—three Sabatier knives in graduated sizes. She gripped the black handle and worked the blade back and forth on the rope binding her wrists. It wasn't exactly making carrot-flower decorations for sushi or deboning a turkey, yet it required the same precision if she wasn't going to open a vein inadvertently. She was almost free when a sentence came through the door that made her stop in amazement.
“And if you think we're breaking into any more apartments with you, you're crazy. I don't care about the clock-ards. They could get jobs, my father says. They are just too lazy and drunk.”
Breaking into apartments! The apartments of their own friends and relatives! But who better? Inside knowledge of not merely who had what but who was where. Have a nice time skiing at Val D'Isere, ma tante, and by the way, why don't you leave that too-heavy and inconvenient gold necklace at home?
And what was she saying about the clochards? Faith would have to think about that one later. At the moment, she didn't plan to stick around to hear anymore. Maybe sweet Dominique and Berthille were only part of the break-in scheme—and maybe not. At the moment, she didn't trust any of them.
Faith cut through the last of the rope, quickly freed her ankles, and untied the gag. Just as she was moving across the room to retrieve her purse from the closet, she heard Christophe's voice.
“I want some water.”
She didn't wait to watch the latch on the door move, but heard it as she raced to the closet, pulling the door shut behind her. Obviously, he was coming to check on her and obviously he wasn't going to find her as he had left her. She stuffed the gag in her mouth again, lay on the floor, quickly wound the ropes approximately back in place, and held tightly to the knife. If it came to that, she'd have the element of surprise. A nick just to get the gun; she hoped it wouldn't have to be anything else. She rolled on her back, so he wouldn't see the ropes had been cut, and started praying. She was in the middle of "Our Father" when she remembered.
Her shoes.
Sitting side by side on the kitchen floor right outside the closet. She quickly switched to "Please, God, don't let him see my shoes" and held her breath. She was so frightened, her heart seemed to stop beating.
“Water! Since when do you drink water? No, my boy, you sit here. We haven't finished with you, have we, Ber-thille? Maybe the thing to do is to leave him here for a nice long vacation. You take his car while I drive mine. How would you like that, you fumier!”
The kitchen door was slammed shut.
Faith was out of the closet and into her shoes instantly. She exchanged the paring knife she'd been using for the largest one in the set, placed it in her bag, and slung the bag around her neck to leave her arms free.
She'd already noted the door to the outside. It was covered with a long curtain of brightly colored plastic strips that were supposed to keep winged pests out of the kitchen when the door was open on hot summer days. She unlocked the door, noiselessly pushed aside the fluttering screen, and stepped into the backyard. There was a small lawn, bordered by a flat court for petanque, then the rest of the property dropped precipitously down to the stream. There was a well-worn almost vertical path to its banks.
However, that was not the way she planned to go. Somehow she must get to the front of the house and check out the car. It was a risk she had to take.
There were two windows on either side of the front door and a smaller one to the left of the fireplace. This was the one she had to worry about, since it overlooked the drive where the car was probably parked. But by crawling along the ground, she might avoid detection. Besides, she was fairly certain no one was looking out the windows at the moment.
Faith crept along the side of the house, careful to stay in the shadow. When she got to the chimney, she dropped down as flat as her body allowed and pulled herself along on her belly. She could see the car ahead of her. A shiny new red VW Golf convertible, number one on the most-stolen list. But Papa would have plenty of insurance.
The earth was still damp and had the rich smell spring brings. The promise of growing things. It was not unpleasant. She was almost to the car. Her knees were starting to get sore. She was really out of shape. Of course, Chris-tophe's rope tricks hadn't helped. She reached up and cracked the driver's side door open. She was breathing more rapidly in anticipation.
No keys.
She was so disappointed, she almost collapsed. She'd been counting on finding them there. It appeared even in the country, Dominique reflexively pocketed her keys. A girl who didn't take chances—chances of this sort. Now there was only one thing to do. Go back and make for the woods on the other side of the stream, away from the road.
Easing the car door shut, Faith crawled back across the yard. She'd almost made it to the corner when the front door banged open.
Nine
Berthille came running out the door, dragging Dominique by the wrist behind her. She'd obviously reached a decision.
“I did not think it was possible to insult us even more! If you wanted to get rid of us, this was the way! You are lower than a snake. Your bed! We wouldn't even stay in the same room with you! Breathe the same air—" She stopped abruptly as she saw Faith's fleeing figure.
“He did have a woman here! I knew it! Who is the bitch?”
Christophe pushed them aside and started to run after Faith, who looked over her shoulder to make sure he hadn't pulled the gun from his pocket. It was an incredible scene. Christophe's face was contorted with rage—and fear. He was rapidly gaining on her. The two girls, both dressed more for a night of jazz at Lyon's Le Hot Club than Sunday in the country, were at his heels, screaming.
Suddenly, Berthille kicked off her high-heeled platform shoes, put on a burst of speed, and threw herself forward, tackling him. He fell heavily to the ground face first and Dominique piled on them both.
“So, you thought you could join your whore and get away from us!" Both girls began to laugh triumphantly, as astride they pummeled his back. Swearing continuously, he was trying to get up, but it was hopeless.
Thank God there were some things you could depend on in life, Faith thought as she reached the top of the path at the rear of the house and started down toward the stream. The wrath of a woman scorned—fortunately complicated in this instance by there being two women.
The path was very steep and she was forced to go slowly. The jeunes filles, weighing in at about ninety pounds each and with arms and legs like elegant pipe cleaners, wouldn't keep Christophe pinned for long. But Faith was afraid to go faster and fall. It wasn't just the baby. Twisting an ankle at this point would be fatal.
She could see the path continued into the woods on the opposite side of the stream, but the logs that had been fashioned into a crude bridge had been pulled apart by the ravages of winter, so only one remained completely in place. Grateful for at least this means to cross, Faith gingerly stepped up onto it. It had been soaked by the melting snow and felt spongy. She hoped it wouldn't give way in the middle. The water wasn't deep. She wouldn't drown, but she'd get very wet and the rocks below the surface looked slippery. It would be hard to get a footing in the swift current.
The commotion up at the house sounded closer and she half expected the three dervishes to come whirling down the hill.
She made it safely to the other side of the brook and reached down to toss the log into the water. Under her weight, it had already started to break and might go completely when the next person trip-trapped across, but she wanted to make certain. Anything she could do to slow Christophe's pursuit.
Running down the pat
h into the dense forest, she was glad for the training she'd done in the last weeks walking up and down the stairs at St. Nizier several times a day, usually as burdened as a pack mule.
The path ended in a large clearing. It was obviously the family's picnic area. A crudely fashioned brick barbecue was surrounded by logs, dragged from the surrounding forest to provide seating. The undergrowth had been cleared and it was a beautiful spot. Beyond the tall trees, Faith could see the pink and gray granite crests of the mountains surrounding the plateau.
She still wasn't that far from the house and the shot she heard propelled her from the clearing. What did he think he was doing? If he was trying to frighten her, it was working, but how were the two girls reacting to Christophe's Jekyll and Hyde transformation? Another shot rang out and she could hear his voice. He wasn't looking for partridges.
She struck out in what she judged to be the same direction as the driveway, which she assumed led to a larger road. She didn't want to get too close to it. Christophe would soon give up tracking her—she hoped—and take to the roads. But she didn't want to get too far away, either, and roam deeper and deeper into the woods. From the isolation he'd stressed, she'd figured she must be in or near the huge Parc des Cevennes, occupied by hikers in the summer; at this time of year, virtually uninhabited.
She was beginning to get winded, but at least the exercise was keeping her warm. She didn't even want to think about nightfall and how cold she would be.
A shaft of sunlight caught the shimmering mica in a large granite rock and Faith gratefully went over to it and sat down to catch her breath. The sounds of pursuit had ceased. She was safe. She and the baby would live to tell the tale. She just wished there were some way she could communicate this to Tom and Ben. Their ordeal was as bad as hers. She felt almost sleepy sitting in the sunshine and wondered if she dared take a quick nap. She'd need all the energy she could get for the walk that was beginning to loom in her imagination as only slightly less arduous than Hannibal's stroll across the Alps. But no, a nap would be foolhardy, however tempting the oblivion from her hunger pangs.
A voice, not close, but not far enough away, either, startled her out of her ridiculous woolgathering. It was Christophe! She could hear her name.
There were more rocks on either side of the slight clearing she'd been sitting in and she climbed on top of the largest group to find another ledge, then more rocks. Her best bet was to get as high and as far away as possible. Her thin shoes didn't offer much traction and she briefly considered going barefoot, but her feet would be cut to ribbons before she'd gone very far. She used her hands to grip the rugged stone and pulled herself up. At the next leveling off, she was rewarded by the sight of a series of openings, more vertical than horizontal, that she could see were marked caves. The Cevennes was famous for these strange and abundant configurations. Spelunking was a major vacation activity for the Leblancs. They'd bemoaned the fact that Tom and Faith would not be in France long enough to join them.
Trying not to think who might still be finishing a long winter's nap inside, Faith eased her way into one and cautiously took a step or two into the darkness. She opened her purse, which had hung awkwardly around her neck, for the matches she always carried after having been locked in someone's preserves closet a few years ago—not by mistake. These were from the Copley Plaza in Boston and she wished she were in some fairy tale and they'd take her there as she struck a light. She lit a match, remained firmly in place, stunned at how large the cave was. Limestone stalactites descended from the ceiling, meeting the stalagmites that spiraled up from the floor. The air was cool and damp. There were no bears or other monsters. Merely one closing in on her. She hid behind a large rock as far away from the opening as she could get, blew out the second match she'd lighted, and waited.
Christophe's voice was more audible. It sounded as though he was right outside one of the caves.
“Madame Fairsheeld, Faith," he called. "Please. You will never survive hi these woods. We will return to Lyon as you suggested and try to straighten things out. I promise. I have been a bit mad and you must let me take care of you now. Think of the baby, madame! Please answer me. I swear you will not be hurt.”
Faith closed her eyes even hi the darkness and strained for the sound of his footsteps entering the cave. She took the knife from her purse and held it ready.
“Faith, believe me. You must. You are in great danger here. You will be lost and there are many wild animals in this area. Please come out and we will go back to the car.”
He sounded so sincere. There was a hint of tears in his voice.
Faith didn't buy it for a minute.
She was ready to spring out at him. He would have to light a match to find her. Maybe he would go into one of the other caves. Maybe he was claustrophobic. Maybe she could kill him before he killed her.
The voice was starting to drift away until at last she heard only an occasional "Fairsheeld." She pulled the cuffs of the sweater down over her hands and tucked her feet beneath her. She wasn't moving. Not for a very long time. "Think of the baby," he'd implored. Well she was. Constantly. And very glad of the company.
It was four o'clock on Sunday afternoon. Michel Ravier and Tom Fairchild sat and looked at each other. Neither man had slept or shaved since Faith's disappearance, and Ravier's office matched their disorderly mien. Half-eaten containers of food and cups of coffee, some still filled and cold, were strewn about the room. Michel was not a smoker, but had made plenteous use of his snuffbox. Black grains decorated the papers scattered across his desk.
Faith had been spotted all over the country—especially after the reward was announced. Michel had just hung up after speaking with the police in Lourdes. A man and a woman had come dashing into the gendarmerie, swearing that the missing Americaine was one of a group of suppliants immersing themselves in the waters at that very moment. The Lourdes police had called Ravier and gone to check it out. Now they were filing their report. It was an American woman, all right—sixty-five and on crutches.
“She's got to be somewhere. All the borders, airports have been under constant surveillance. Her face has been on the front page of every paper in Europe. How can it be that no one has seen her?”
Tom stared bleakly across the desk at the inspector. "You know why, Michel."
“No, my friend. It's not the time for this. Have faith.”
It produced a wan smile. "I hope to.”
Faith was not wearing a watch and swore that she would never be without one from now on. She had no idea how much time had passed since she'd last heard Christophe's voice, but judging from the stiffness of her body, it had been some hours. She had been too frightened to sleep. She crept cautiously to the front of the cave. The sun was lower in the sky. It was late afternoon. She didn't want to be in these woods in the dark. Christophe had threatened wild animals, and while she was sure he was lying, she didn't want to put it to a test. She'd have to try to find the road and follow it until she came to some sort of dwelling or village. Before her ascent, she'd noted that the clearing she'd been in seemed to offer the best passageway and she started to climb back down to it, carefully fitting her feet in the crevices of the rocks. There were plenty of short bushes to hold on to and it wasn't difficult, just scratchy. Vivid images of Christophe lying in wait for her at the bottom filled her with terror, but she couldn't continue to climb. There would be no road.
The forest at one end of the clearing was as she remembered—a dense carpet of pine needles and mosses with little low undergrowth or fallen trees. It was blessedly empty.
As she walked, she looked about at the wide variety of plant life. She'd never been a Girl Scout and her family had tended toward vacations where her father could do research on Thomas Hardy's theological metaphors and her mother could hole up in an English country inn with a stack of Agatha Christies. Faith and her sister, Hope, explored on foot and bicycle but never learned much about flora and fauna—or any survival tips other than the advisability of
avoiding British railway food.
Faith knew there were plenty of things to eat in the woods—mushrooms, probably truffles right below her feet; however, the only thing she would have trusted not to poison her at the moment would have been a slice of crusty bread spread with butter, and there didn't seem to be a tree of those.
She plodded on. Her shoes had become part of her foot, adhering like a second skin more tightly with each step. How far could these woods possibly extend? The answer, she knew, could well be miles and miles hi this part of France.
After what she judged to be an hour, she saw a break in the trees and what looked like a road, certainly flat, open land, on the other side. She picked up the pace. Her shoes, so comfortably a part of her body earlier, had now turned traitor and were rubbing blisters on her heels. She took some tissues and tried to make a little cushion, which helped marginally.
Faith stepped through the trees. The land was flat as far as the eye could see. The plateau was covered with low ground covers, and as she stepped forward, she smelled the strong fragance of wild thyme and rosemary. She was dizzy with hunger. There was no road in sight. Nothing in sight at all, except what looked like a pile of stones in the distance. For no other reason than that it was there, she headed for it. As she walked toward it, Faith felt a breeze that she did not doubt would become a strong wind by nightfall. Up above her, birds circled. Hawks. Birds of prey.
“Not me, you vultures," she yelled at them, and felt better.
As she approached the pile of rocks, she was disappointed to discover it was not a shepherd's hut where she might have bedded down for the night, but a dolmen, a burial chamber from megalithic days. Whoever had occupied it thousands of years ago had become one with the plateau, yet even if she could have squeezed into the chamber, Faith was uneasy with the implications. Besides, it was still daylight and she needed to press on.
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