by Mark Pryor
Hugo called Claudia. “Did you find us a place to eat?”
“I did. Table for two at eight.”
“Would you hate me if we canceled?”
“Hugo, what’s wrong? You sound . . . depressed or something. What did you find out?”
“Honestly, I thought this would be a wild goose chase, that my theory couldn’t possibly be right. Or maybe I just hoped that.”
“You wouldn’t tell me what it was,” she said, “so I couldn’t really say one way or the other.”
“Let’s just say we should head back to Paris. I need to tell Camille what I found, show her some of this stuff.”
“So they were murdered, all three of them?”
“Yes, they were,” Hugo said.
“Who? Who did it?”
“Can you get us a rental car? I’ll explain on the drive down.” He thought for a moment. “But there’s someone here who needs to know the truth about a case he worked on. Text me the address and I’ll meet you at the restaurant, we’ll get something from there and eat on the road.”
Hugo knocked on Georges Bazin’s door.
“Entrez,” Bazin called.
Hugo went in and sat across from the French policeman. “Well, it looks like you were right.” He’d brought a few of the crucial documents, photographs mostly, and placed them on the desk. “Look at these and I’ll explain.”
Georges Bazin sat quietly and listened, and when Hugo was done, his eyes locked on a photo of a stretch of coastal road, a broken barrier, and a steep but not precipitous drop to the sea. After a moment, Bazin looked up.
“Makes more sense now.” A wry smile played on his lips. “I feel like I should’ve seen this before. I mean, really seen it.”
“Hindsight,” Hugo said. “Makes fools of us all.”
“But three more people died because I didn’t.”
“You weren’t the only one. You weren’t even the one responsible for figuring this out.”
“No,” Bazin sighed, “I suppose not. You’ll be needing to get back, be there for the arrest.”
“I’ll drive down this evening.”
“You need a ride anywhere?”
“Just to a restaurant, thank you.”
Bazin picked up his desk phone and called Officer Hillier, who appeared in the doorway two minutes later. Hugo stood and shook hands with Bazin.
“Thanks again for your cooperation,” Hugo said.
“Of course. You know, I feel like I should be happier you solved this. Instead, I just feel . . .” The policeman shook his head sadly.
“I know what you mean,” Hugo said. “Anytime an accident turns out to be murder, well, you wonder if you’ve discovered a moment of evil. An accident causes enough grief and sorrow, but to use a tragedy to disguise something like this, when you figure it out there’s not much to celebrate.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Officer Hillier knew the restaurant, Chez Nous, and dropped him at the entrance to the busy parking lot, away from the line for the valet parking. Cars nudged forward and young men and women dressed in black zipped back and forth, swapping keys for tickets, trying to keep their hungry customers moving into the restaurant. Those unwilling to pay the extra five euros crawled through the parking lot proper, looking for empty spaces, stalking those leaving, and in some cases forcing their vehicles into manufactured spaces that meant an exit through the sunroof.
“Summer up here still,” Hillier explained. “Most Parisians have gone home, but this week people come from everywhere else before school starts. Hope you booked a table.”
Hugo said nothing. He was impatient to get on the road. It was already eight o’clock and the light was beginning to weaken. Clouds had started to fill a sky that had been blue all day, threatening to bring rain or, at the very least, an early sunset.
On the drive over he’d exchanged texts with Lerens, convincing her to keep a team on the only person Hugo suspected, despite the fact that she was still inclined to hold Miki Harrison accountable. He’d detected a note of uncertainty in Lerens’s tone when she was talking about Harrison as a suspect, which Hugo appreciated. Neither of them could dispute which way the evidence pointed, but in Hugo’s experience a good cop had good instincts, and learned to trust them. That didn’t mean ignoring the facts, it just meant keeping an open mind and making sure your eyes were open to other possibilities.
Hugo hurried across the parking lot, sliding between the crowd of cars and, at one point, almost stepping out in front of a tiny Renault. He wondered whether it’d do much more than bruise his shins, and the car’s weak horn, more like a squeak, didn’t convince him otherwise. He was eager to get back to Paris and find out whether his instincts had pointed him in the right direction, whether he’d uncovered the real truth. The confirmation lay in Paris, quite literally, and he wanted to be there when Lerens and her team revealed it.
He stopped to let another car pass, a dark-blue Peugeot. He was on the driver’s side and frowned with impatience as the car slowed and the window came down. He was preparing to tell the driver that he didn’t live here, couldn’t give him directions to an alternate parking lot, or anywhere else, when he saw the gun pointing at him.
Michael Harmuth had turned his body so that his left arm also hung out of the window, blocking any side view of the weapon, like they were just two friends, chatting.
Hugo’s breathing slowed and he forced his eyes away from the steady black barrel, forced himself to look at the person behind the gun.
“I’m surprised to see you up here,” Hugo said.
“I could say the same, although given your reputation, perhaps I shouldn’t be.”
“Am I next on the list?” Hugo asked. He thought about running, but the gun was just too close, he’d never make it three steps. Talk first, run if I have to.
“There was never a list, you know that, right? I never wanted it to play out this way.”
“You’d be amazed how many times I’ve looked into the eyes of a murderer and heard those same words,” Hugo said.
“I’m not a murderer!” The gun wavered, but only for a fraction of a second. “Well, I suppose I am technically, but not in my heart of hearts.”
“Four deaths, Michael. You’re directly responsible for four people being killed.”
“Ah, I see,” Michael Harmuth said. “Then you really do know.”
“I wasn’t positive, but yeah, I was pretty sure.”
“You want to make it five?” The words were intended to be menacing, but Harmuth looked suddenly tired.
“No, and you don’t either.”
“Want, need,” the steel was back in Harmuth’s voice. “Not always the same thing. Get in the back seat.”
“And if I don’t, you’ll shoot me right here?”
“Why not? What do I have to lose at this point? Get in.”
“If I run, you’ll miss.”
“I have your pretty lady friend in the trunk, Hugo. I won’t miss her.”
Hugo’s eyes flickered to the trunk, but there was no way to tell if Harmuth was lying or not. His fingers itched to grab his cell, call Claudia and make sure she was all right. But if he did have her, if she was in the trunk, he couldn’t run. He reached out for the handle, opened the rear door, and slid into the back seat. He pulled the door shut and called out, “Claudia! Can you hear me?”
Harmuth shook his head. “Ever the gentleman. I imagine she’s waiting for you in the restaurant.” In a quick move that surprised Hugo, Harmuth had his door open and was letting himself into the rear seat, beside Hugo. “You’ll be driving. Climb through.”
It was a squeeze and at one point Hugo thought he might be able to land a kick into Harmuth’s crotch, but Harmuth sensed it, too, and locked eyes with Hugo. “I swear to god, Hugo, two things are true. If you cooperate with me, I will not kill you. But if you fuck with me, like you just thought about doing, I will shoot you and then lure your pretty girlfriend out here and shoot her, too.”
“A
nd you’re not a murderer.” Hugo dropped into the driver’s seat.
“No. And you probably think I’m being insincere, but the fact you didn’t take a chance with her life, that was admirable.”
“Excuse me if I’m not flattered by any compliment from you,” Hugo snapped. “Where are we going?”
“My mother still has that house outside of Dieppe. I’m assuming you know who my mother is.”
“Claire Rogers.”
“I’m curious to know how you figured this out, but we don’t have time. Your phone and gun, please.” Harmuth was sitting right behind Hugo, his gun pointed at the back of Hugo’s head between the seat and the headrest. Hugo was angry, not just at Harmuth, but at letting the man put him in such a vulnerable and indefensible position.
“I didn’t bring my gun.”
“Bullshit. We had that chat already, you take it everywhere. Fingertips, please.”
Hugo reached slowly beneath his jacket and took out his gun, holding it between his fingertips as ordered. Harmuth snatched it, then took away Hugo’s phone, and tucked them both under his leg.
“Did you follow us up here?” Hugo asked.
“No, actually. I called Miki Harrison; she said you were on your way up here, to Dieppe.”
“How would she know that?”
“Beats me. I’m guessing your friend Tom told her, but it doesn’t matter. When I heard that you were coming here, I was sure you’d figured it out. Not positive but as good as. I called a few hotels and asked for you, and when I located the hotel I went there. I saw Claudia and not you, and stuck to her until she got here. I just waited, and then when I saw you get out of a police car, well, that was that.” He gave a short, hard laugh. “Imagine if I’d been wrong, if you didn’t know anything?”
“Pretty embarrassing for us both,” Hugo said.
“Yeah,” Harmuth said. “Let’s go to the house. Behave and I’ll leave you there, send someone to get you in a day or two.”
“Why would I believe that?”
“Because you don’t have many options right now. Believe and behave, don’t and die.”
Hugo turned and looked through the front window. Harmuth was right, his options were as narrow as they could be, for now. He put the car in drive, and drove slowly through the parking lot to the main road. “Which way?” he asked, through gritted teeth. If nothing else, I can put a few miles between this lunatic and Claudia before that gun goes off.
On any other evening, under any other circumstances, Hugo would have appreciated the drive out of the city of Dieppe, the lessening of traffic as the car took them off the main road, angling upward, parallel with the English Channel, toward the angry red ball of the sun that sunk lower and lower and spilled its light like blood across the horizon.
“Here, turn left,” Harmuth said.
Hugo steered the car into a narrow road that snaked between high hedgerows that cut off the view, the quick twists of the deep-cut lane throwing Hugo’s sense of direction out of whack. He tried to focus on the direction, but with few visual markers, it was difficult.
“Coming up,” Harmuth said. “Left again, this driveway.”
The track was rutted and the car bounced left and right before hitting a smooth patch that led them up a steep slope to a stone house that looked like it had been built into the hill, the roof at the back seeming to touch the rocky slope behind. Several of the windows were broken, and the ground was littered with tiles that had slid from the roof. To their left a ramshackle shed tilted toward them, its roof half gone.
“This your vacation home?” Hugo asked. He looked at Harmuth in the mirror and considered driving the car straight into the stone wall of the house, but Harmuth reached forward and unclipped Hugo’s seatbelt, so he stopped the car.
“Get out,” Harmuth said. “I told you, do as I say and I won’t hurt you.”
“You’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical,” Hugo said. But he opened the door and got out, Harmuth doing the same behind him.
“I only need a couple of days,” Harmuth said. “Maybe even just one.”
“To do what?”
“Walk toward the house. Move.” He gestured with the gun and Hugo started walking. “To disappear,” Harmuth continued. “What do you think? I managed it once, didn’t I?”
“With your mother’s help, yes.”
“I was a kid then. I’ve been preparing for this eventuality, I’m ready.”
Hugo thought of his own go bag, the one he had packed and ready when he was with the FBI, the one he no longer needed. What did Harmuth have in his? Money and a new passport? They made their way to the house, and Harmuth produced a key from his pocket. The heavy front door unlocked easily enough, and Hugo wondered if Harmuth had been here recently. If he really did have a backup plan, an escape plan, it would make sense to use this place as a staging point.
Harmuth stood aside and indicated with his head for Hugo to enter. Inside it was dark, and the air was damp and cold. Hugo felt sure that even if Harmuth had been here recently, he’d not spent much time in the house.
Harmuth flicked a switch and a weak light fell over the main room, the kitchen to their left, and some heavy chairs and sofas making up the living area, arranged around an open fireplace in the wall to their right.
“To the kitchen,” Harmuth said, flicking the gun barrel in that direction.
“Good, I’m hungry,” Hugo said.
“Hugo, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I was sorry, would you?”
“If you’re sorry, put down the gun. I believe actions, not words.”
“I meant it when I said I’m not going to kill you, that’s about the best I can do.” Hugo paused and looked over his shoulder. “Unless you try to stop me,” Harmuth added, his jaw set.
“Where do you want me?”
“That door, open it.” It looked like a pantry door, with thick panels and an iron handle and hinges, but Hugo realized that it must be more than that. When he opened it, the air was even colder and he stared into a storeroom that seemed to have been chiseled out of the rock itself. The room was roughly ten feet wide and twenty deep, with a stone floor worn smooth from use over the years. To his left, plastic crates had been stacked on top of each other and looked to be full of bottles of water and wine. To his right, wooden shelves had been affixed somehow to the rock wall and bore dozens of cans of food, beans and soup, and other dry goods.
“Go inside,” Harmuth said.
A sense of dread washed over Hugo and he stopped in the doorway to the little room. He tensed himself to fly at his captor, make one final attempt to save himself from being entombed in this place and prevent his killer from getting away. But Harmuth seemed to sense Hugo’s aggression and put another two feet of space between them, raising the gun an inch or two to show Hugo he was ready.
“You said you weren’t going to kill me,” Hugo growled. “I’ll die of exposure in there before someone finds me.”
“I think there’s a blanket somewhere. And you have wine and food, so you’ll be fine for two days. That’s all I need, just two days.”
“Whether I live or die, there’s nowhere you can go we won’t find you.”
“Get in,” Harmuth repeated. “Don’t make me shoot you.” He lowered the gun toward Hugo’s leg, and Hugo instinctively backed into the storeroom. “That’s better. Now go to the back.”
Hugo complied, resisting the urge to grab a can and hurl it at Harmuth’s head. When Hugo got to the back of the storeroom, he said, “You don’t want to know how I figured it out?”
“Not playing that game with you, Hugo. It’s time I need, not a story about how clever you are. Oh, and I apologize for the lack of light.”
Without another word, Harmuth swung the door closed and Hugo heard the bolt slide into place as darkness enveloped him. Hugo started forward but in the blackness lost his sense of balance and clattered into a stack of crates on his right. He swore and tried to right them, hoping that none of the bottles would topple o
ut and smash on the rock floor. The last thing he needed was to be locked in the pitch black with broken glass all around. But by feeling carefully, Hugo managed to set everything properly upright, and he steadied himself before moving slowly forward, using his fingertips to guide him. His nostrils stung with the dust and cold, and he made a conscious effort to slow his breathing, to calm himself.
He reached the door and felt for the handle, trying it even though he knew it was useless. He pushed and pulled against the door, but it didn’t budge. As sturdy as it looked, he thought. He traced his fingers around the edges and realized that Harmuth must have turned off the light in the house and left already.
He turned his back to the door and felt to his right, hoping for a light switch, wracking his brain for what he’d seen on the shelves, but he couldn’t picture anything that’d be much use. Hugo continued his search for a light source on the left side of the cell but felt no switch, no wires, nothing that would contradict Harmuth’s parting words, I apologize for the lack of light.He waved a hand in front of his face and thought maybe he saw movement, but he wasn’t sure.
One thing, and one thing only, was for sure—Hugo was a prisoner, locked tight in this stone room, and shackled further by complete blackness and a silence that was absolute.
He tried cheering himself with humor, cursing at Harmuth for not leaving him a cork screw, but the darkness wouldn’t let up, pressing in on his body and soul, making movement difficult and stifling his thoughts, blurring the sharpness of his mind and disrupting his attempts to think his way out of his prison.
He waited what felt like five minutes, but perhaps it was just two, for his eyes to adjust and he thought maybe it was working, that the blackness was less absolute. Even so, he couldn’t see objects either side or ahead of him. He started to feel around for the blanket Harmuth had mentioned, but a moment later he thought he heard a noise from inside the storeroom and he froze, listening intently. He moved into the middle of the small room, still listening, but either it was his imagination or one of the crates he’d knocked into earlier had just settled back in place.