by Cara Black
Lili's fault! And then she wasn't afraid anymore of how he would kill her. How he lied and what he did to Lili was all that mattered. She saw the jagged swastika carved in Lili's forehead as she charged into him.
"No more LIES!" she screamed.
His Gestapo dagger slashed her leg, ripping her skin, but she kept going. They fell, tumbling, into the corner gutter over snarling gargoyles, frozen in stone. He was amazingly strong and wiry. His bony fingers gripped her neck, squeezing tightly. Choking and gasping, she pushed him away. But he banged her head against the ugly gargoyle spouts. Again and again. She was sputtering for air and blinded by her own blood. Half of her body hung over the ledge. Her fingers clawed a gargoyle's wing as she tried to hang on. Below them was the skylighted roof of l'Academie d'architecture.
"You're going with me," she gasped.
As her grip loosened, she used her last bit of strength to pull him on top of her. She heard him shriek before his fingers let go of her neck. But it was too late.
They sailed into the cold dark air. Together, they landed on the skylight, that shattered beneath them. Shards of glass, splintered and twinkling like diamonds, pierced her skin. Her splayed legs caught on the metal skylight handle, jerked, then held as she swung upside down before managing to grip the skylight frame.
She twisted her good leg around the support bars but her other bloody leg dangled uselessly. Cazaux's long body hung suspended from the ceiling, entangled in cord and wire from electrical lines. Powdery blue dust shimmered in the moonlight while his legs twitched.
"Help me!" he choked.
He was slowly being strangled. The wire had rubbed the makeup off his neck, exposing the mottled brown birthmark. Far below them, a well-dressed gala crowd gathered open-mouthed on the glass shards.
"I wondered how you hid the birthmark," she sputtered, gasping for breath. "The more you move, the tighter it gets. Here." She reached her bloodied hand towards him.
Vainly, he tried to lift his arms but they were wrapped and twisted by cord. His face was turning blue. "Air. . .help!" he rasped.
He was beyond rescue, she couldn't even reach his fingertips. "There's one thing I need to do, Laurent de Saux," she said, wiping her hand in the soot.
He was gurgling and choking but hope shone in his eyes as she reached down. She was about to draw a swastika across his forehead, brand him as he had branded Lili.
She stopped. If she did that, she'd be down at his level.
"The circle is complete, Laurent, as Lili told her daughter-in-law," she said. "Due to Lili Stein, you won't be prime minister!"
She watched as he wiggled himself to death to the accompaniment of screams from below.
She was dizzy, her leg was slipping, and hundreds of needles stung her body. She'd finished what Lili had started; after fifty years Cazaux wouldn't do any more damage. Never forget, Lili had said. Her bloody fingers couldn't grip the skylight handle any more. Below her, shimmering glass carpeted the ground and she prayed to God it would be quick. She managed to yell, "Get out of the way," before her leg slipped and she couldn't hold on any longer.
An arm grabbed her from a swaying rope ladder. Her sticky hand was grasped firmly by a pair of dry ones. All of a sudden, wind whipped around her and she was suspended in the air. Blades thupped above her. She was flying. The gray slate rooftops of the Marais were far below her. Then everything went black.
Epilogue
THE LOUVRE'S SILHOUETTE BLOCKED all but a tiny rectangle of the silver-gray Seine. Weak November sun struggled through dirty windows into the Leduc Detective office.
"Cazaux almost made it," Martine said. She crossed her long legs, tugged the short skirt of her red power suit, and fluffed her blond hair. She seriously inhaled her cigarette. "Too bad, I was out of commission. That's one conversation I'll always regret hearing."
Aimee, her eye bandaged, shrugged. Miles Davis nestled in her lap, asleep. She sipped her espresso with her semi-good hand. "The EU is under reorganization, the treaty shelved. Especially after Hartmuth's withdrawal."
Morbier stood up, stretched, and offered Aimee a cigar.
"Cigars don't count," he said. "You don't need to inhale."
"Living dangerously suits me." Aimee accepted. She clutched the cigar in her other fist as he lit it. "That helicopter ride inspired me. I'm going to take up rock climbing. Seems to be my forte after all the heights I've been to. Care to join me, Rene?"
Rene turned his head as far as his neck brace allowed. "Ask me next year," he said. "Maybe my body will be healed."
"Seems amazing, after fifty years—," Morbier began but Aimee didn't let him finish.
"Fifty years doesn't mean injustice goes away. Sooner or later it reappears. But when this generation dies, who knows?" She shrugged. She puffed on her cigar, sending clouds of smoke into the air.
"Where's Hartmuth?" Rene said.
Aimee winced. "The total body count isn't over. Is it?"
Morbier inhaled deeply on his cigar. "Thierry chained himself to Sarah's hospital bed. She's out of intensive care. Hartmuth's feeding her."
"I think you know one of our undercover investigative reporters," Martine said slowly.
"Yves?" Aimee shuddered.
He'd been a good guy after all. Maybe she'd call him after her plastic surgery healed.
"They found him," Martine said. "Battered. But he'll live."
"When do you move into your new office?" she said.
"When Gilles packs his stuff into crates," Martine said. "I'll have to get my own flat now. Grow up."
"Editors do that." Aimee grinned. She turned to Rene. "Partner, we need to apply for another tax extension!"
"Aimee," Rene asked slowly, "will you tell Abraham?"
"If he asks. Otherwise, I'll let the ghosts alone. All of them," she said.