by Mark Pryor
There must be something useful in here, he thought, and started to run his hands over all of the shelving he could reach, careful not to dislodge objects that might land on his head, and careful, also, to avoid getting splinters from the shelves themselves. He was halfway along the room when he felt something, a wash of relief flooding through his veins as his fingers closed around a large box of matches. He gave it a reassuring rattle, opened the box, and struck a match. The flash of light and sharp smell of burnt chemicals in the cold air were as welcome as anything had ever been, literally a tiny beacon of hope. Hugo sheltered the flame and used its light, and the light from two more matches, to finish his inspection of the shelving, finding more matches and a box of tea-light candles.
Finally, some luck, he thought.
He lit four of the candles and placed them around the storeroom, making its walls glow and giving him enough light to complete his search. He hoped to find a set of tools, something he could use to break down or through the door, but his luck extended only to the newfound light source.
He went to the back of the room to put out the candle there, to preserve it, and his gaze rested on a knee-high wooden barrel. Too flimsy to break the door down, but . . . he lifted its lid and on top of a mound of dried beans sat a metal scoop. Hugo picked it up. It was heavy in his hand, solid and well-made. Not the axe or crowbar he’d have preferred, but better than nothing. He took it to the door and pressed the leading edge of the scoop against the miniscule gap between two of the thick boards that made up the door. He squared his stance and applied as much pressure as he could, trying to force the boards apart. His hand felt like it might slip on the metal handle, but he kept going until the little shovel snapped out of the gap, sending a large sliver of wood flying into the dark.
Not much,Hugo thought, and this is gonna take a while. But it’s a start.
He worked for five minutes, then took a break to rest. As he leaned with his back to the door, he thought he heard another noise, this time from the other side, a soft thump from the kitchen, like someone was moving in there and trying to be quiet.
Hugo’s mind raced. Did Harmuth forget something? More likely he changed his mind about killing me . . .
His blood ran cold when the noise came from the door itself, a gentle scrape, once, and then a second time. Hugo shuffled to his left, pressing himself against the shelves, preparing himself to rush at Harmuth as soon as the door opened.
He heard one more clank, the bolt being slid across, and a moment later saw a line of gray where the top of the door should be. He waited for the gray line to broaden and as soon as it did, Hugo launched himself at the door, charging it with his shoulder, his fists balled and ready to fight.
The door thumped into a body on the other side, and Hugo slammed himself into it again. It gave under his weight, faster than he planned, and he sprawled out of the storeroom and landed facedown on the floor. He struggled to catch his breath, his hands scrabbling at the form lying next to him, trying to use his weight, his strength, to immobilize his captor.
A white hot pain slashed across his left forearm, and he cried out, but the cut made him angry, angrier than he’d been in years, and he swiveled on the ground and lashed out with his foot, aiming the toe of his boot at the dark figure trying to rise. His foot connected and for a moment Hugo froze in place, a disconnect trying to right itself in his brain, the high squeal of pain from his adversary not registering, not making sense. And then, through the fog of anger and pain, and in the dark of that cold, stone house, his mind made the connection, recognized the voice.
“Claudia, it’s me. It’s Hugo, stop fighting!”
The dark figure froze and the voice, when it came, was hesitant. “Hugo?”
“Yes, it’s me.” But they’d already recognized each other, the low light allowed them to see that much, and as their panic ebbed away they came together in relief, both on their knees with their arms wrapped tight around each other.
“My God, Hugo, I was so scared. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” She squeezed him and he winced. “I was until you rescued me, anyway.”
“I’m sorry.” She moved away, sitting back on her heels. “I cut you.”
“Let’s find a light.” Hugo stood and moved between the black outlines of furniture to the front door, when he fumbled for the light switch. Claudia hurried to him, as Hugo rolled up his sleeve. “It’s fine, looks worse than it is.”
“I’m sorry, maybe there are bandages here.”
“We need to get going, find Harmuth. How did you get here?”
“Taxi,” she said, “but I sent him away. The police should be coming, I called when we were driving here.”
“How did you . . . ?” He wasn’t even sure what question to ask.
“Two guys having dinner in the restaurant, they kept staring at me, and I could tell they were preparing some sort of move. I wasn’t in the mood, Hugo, so I told the waitress I was going outside for a cigarette. I was going to wait for you there. I saw you walking across the parking lot, I waved but you didn’t see me.” She reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Then I saw the car pull up, I saw you get in. I couldn’t see who it was, I didn’t even know why you got in with him. But I knew something was wrong so I got in a taxi and followed.”
“And called the police?”
“Not until we were out of the city.” She looked down as if she’d done something wrong. “I didn’t know what was going on, and I didn’t want to call them over nothing. But I figured you wouldn’t stand me up without calling, and you wouldn’t answer your phone.”
“He took it. He had me at gunpoint.”
Claudia looked at her watch. “I called about ten minutes ago. I figured he’d done something . . . God, Hugo, I assumed it was you in there but then you attacked me!”
“I’m sorry, I thought he was coming back, I had no idea you were here.”
“That’s OK, I’m just a little . . .” She shivered. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, he didn’t hurt me.”
“No,” she laughed through tears, “I did that for him.”
“You said the taxi left?”
“Yes, just in case. I didn’t want to put anyone else in danger.”
“Brave woman.”
“More than you know,” she said, looking up at him with a soft smile.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Harmuth’s not getting very far,” Claudia said.
“Why not?”
“My knife. I used it on his tires.”
Hugo grinned. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. When I got here I didn’t know what was going on, but I figured he’d use that car to get away from here. I only got two of the tires before I heard the front door opening, then I ducked behind that little shed. Like I said, I didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t good.” She shrugged. “If I was wrong, I’d be more than happy to buy him two new tires.”
Hugo shook his head. “You weren’t wrong, not by a long shot.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The distant wail of sirens grew louder, and Hugo turned on every light he could find to help the arriving officers see inside and outside the stone house. Before they arrived, Hugo used Claudia’s phone to connect with an emergency operator and update them on their exact whereabouts and the situation. He emphasized the importance of finding Harmuth’s dark-blue Peugeot, hopefully stopped by the side of the road. The city lights way below them twinkled orange and white, but Hugo knew it was dark on these country roads, and unless the police were actively looking for Harmuth’s car, they could easily drive right past it.
“You need to call for an ambulance,” Claudia said when he’d hung up.
“I’m fine.”
“No, it’s either that or a trip to the hospital when you faint.”
Hugo smiled and did as he was told, asking for an ambulance to be sent along with the police. In the meantime, Claudia rummaged thro
ugh the house and found a clean packet of gauze, which she pressed onto his wound.
“Thanks,” he said, wincing as she tied it off.
“Try to keep it up and not move too much, I don’t think it’s all that bad.”
They stood in the doorway, waiting for the police, watching as the headlights flashed into the driveway. Two police cars arrived at once, their sirens extinguished but blue lights raking across the front of the building. Hugo and Claudia stood with their hands up as two officers, one man, one woman, approached cautiously, their hands resting on their holsters. Once they’d confirmed the couple’s identities, the officers relaxed and went back to their cars to switch off the overhead lights and update the dispatcher.
The policewoman approached and introduced herself as Audrey Chapuis. “We have every unit available looking for your man, he won’t get far.”
“He’s pretty slick,” Hugo said, “and he’s been ready to disappear again for a while, if what he said is true.”
“Maybe,” Chapuis said. “Hang on.” She pressed her fingertips to her left ear, making sure she could hear the radio chatter. They waited for a moment, then she looked up and smiled. “They have him. He drove into a field, may have burst a tire.”
“May have,” Hugo repeated, and gave Claudia a nudge with his elbow.
“Told you,” she said.
“Bon,” Chapuis said, “they want me to run you down to where he’s being held to do a field identification. A formality, but we need to do it after the ambulance has seen to you.”
“Of course,” Hugo said. “Was he hurt in the crash?”
“I don’t think so,” Chapuis replied. She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Unless you want him to be, I’m sure we could arrange something.”
They laughed at her joke but Hugo wondered, just for a second, if they’d give him the time and space to plant his fist into Harmuth’s face if he asked them to. Victims and their assailants rarely encountered each other once the police were involved, at least in his experience, and he wouldn’t have allowed that kind of revenge, but he was beginning to see the appeal of it. His arm was beginning to ache, and he was relieved when the flashing lights of an ambulance appeared at the foot of the driveway.
A pair of paramedics hopped out of the vehicle and waved a greeting at the flics. Chapuis pointed to Hugo, who held out his arm. One of the paramedics pulled on blue latex gloves, while the other opened the back of the truck.
“They said you’re American,” the taller paramedic said in broken English.
“Oui, mais je parle français,” Hugo replied. Yes, but I speak French.
“Bien.” He took Hugo’s arm and gently unwound the bandage, then looked at the cut. “Not as bad as it looks. I’ll put a couple of stitches in, bandage you up, and you’ll be fine.”
“Glad to hear it,” Hugo said. Once it was cleaned, stitched, and bandaged, he flexed his arm and thanked the paramedic.
“Don’t thank us,” he said, “we don’t usually get to leave the city. Made for an interesting drive.” He snapped off his gloves and made his way to the front of the ambulance. The other paramedic slammed the doors shut and gave Hugo and Claudia a friendly wave.
As they drove off, Hugo and Claudia walked toward the police cars.
“You doing OK after all that excitement?” Hugo asked her.
“Yes, but I think I’ll leave the action to you and Tom in the future. I’m not so used to it.”
“You did great. Better than great.”
“Thanks.” She smiled up at him. “And speaking of Tom, I need a strong drink.”
“As soon as we get this field ID done, I’m right there with you.”
When they got to the cars, Chapuis held the passenger door open for Hugo. “Monsieur, you can ride with me. Madame, perhaps you can go with my colleague.”
“Bon, d’accord,” Claudia said. Yes, OK.
Hugo felt a pang of disappointment at being separated from her, and that surprised him. He gave her a strong hug and resisted the temptation to pat her behind, but watched as she climbed into the front seat of the other car.
Chapuis turned to her colleague. “Guillaume, wait here until the crime-scene unit arrives, keep the place secure. Then take her wherever she wants to go.”
“D’accord,” Guillaume said, then nodded at Hugo as Chapuis slid behind the wheel and they pulled away. Hugo waved at Claudia, but she was saying something to her new companion. That’s my Claudia, he thought. Friends with everyone.
They drove in silence along the coastal road, and Hugo lowered his window to enjoy the fresh, salty air. It’d been a while since he’d visited the coast, and he made up his mind that he’d have a proper vacation up here, soon and preferably with Claudia.
Ten minutes later, they came to the crash scene, and Hugo quickly saw what had happened. Harmuth had tried to drive on his flat tires, shredding them completely, the wheels themselves digging into the roadway and then, as he failed to steer around a corner, he’d run into an iron gate. The bottom half of the gate had broken from its post, tipping upward, and the hood of the car had lodged underneath. The top of the gate had shattered the windshield, breaking it inward over Harmuth. Another ambulance was here, and Harmuth sat as Hugo had done, in the back of it on a gurney, as he received treatment for his cuts. Four policemen hovered close by, making sure the patient didn’t try any more escapes.
Officer Chapuis arranged the car so that her side faced the back of the ambulance. A nearby flic motioned for the paramedics to stop what they were doing and step aside for a moment. When they were clear of the ambulance, Chapuis turned on the spotlight by her window, and trained it on the rear of the vehicle, smothering Harmuth in light. He shielded his eyes but lowered his hands when an officer barked orders at him. He blinked into the brightness and Hugo was startled by how pale he was. Perhaps from the crash, surely to some degree, but it was more than that. He looked ten years older, his expression blank and his shoulders slumped. The red scratches and cuts on his face seemed all the brighter for the contrast with his blanched face, and as they watched a cut on his forehead trickled blood into his right eye. Harmuth reached up and wiped it away, then turned his face from the light.
“That’s him,” Hugo said. “No doubt at all.”
“Merci.” She turned the spotlight off, then reached for the gear shift but stopped when her phone rang, answering it instead. She gave her name, then listened for a moment before handing the phone to Hugo. “It’s Detective Georges Bazin.”
Hugo smiled as he took the phone. “Georges, I’m glad someone contacted you.”
“Is it him? Is it really Michel Rogers?”
“Yes, it is. And this time he’s not getting away.”
A long sigh came down the phone. “I knew it. I always knew it. Are you headed to the station? We’ll have to charge him with your kidnapping before we can dig up his past, just to make sure we hold him.”
“Can I do it in the morning?” Hugo asked. “I’m pretty beat and have a beautiful young lady waiting to buy me a drink.”
Bazin chuckled. “Of course. How could I get in the way of that?”
“Merci bien. You know, I’m not sure I’d have been afforded the same accommodation back home.”
“This is France; we know where our priorities lie. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the station.” He paused and Hugo heard the smile in his voice. “If you’re a little late, I’ll know why.”
They sat on the bed and ate pizza. Neither Hugo nor Claudia wanted the formality of a restaurant, and what they both needed most was comfort food, washed down with good wine that they drank out of the hotel’s glass tumblers.
The television played in the background, a mix of news, weather, and commercials, but the sound was low and neither one paid any attention to it, focused more on reducing the size of their pizza, slice by slice.
“Did you call Camille?” Claudia asked, after a while.
“I did. They’re going to hold off on the digging until to
morrow, no need to do it tonight after so long.”
“Digging? Hugo, you still haven’t told me what this is all about.”
“No?” He smiled. “I guess I didn’t yet, did I?”
“No.” She threw him a sharp look. “But if you’ve finished stuffing your face, I’m ready.”
“I’m not done stuffing my face, actually,” he said. “But I’ll tell you anyway, if you promise not to make fun of me.”
“For figuring it out?”
“For being so slow.”
“You always say that,” she laughed. “But since you’re always the first one to solve these crimes, I don’t think anyone else is in a position to complain about you being slow.”
“Yeah, I know.” Hugo grimaced. “It always seems so obvious to me after the fact.”
“Tell me anyway. When did you first suspect him?”
“It’s hard to say, honestly. I didn’t have a moment of clarity when suddenly I knew it was him. It was more a case of seeing little clues pile up in my mind, hints and suggestions, and things that I couldn’t quite make sense of. And, looking at the other players, I just couldn’t see any reason for anyone else to be guilty of these crimes.”
“Especially when your main suspect was killed.”
“Benoît? Yeah, that was a gamble on Harmuth’s part. I mean, if it’d worked and we’d fallen for the suicide angle, he was in the clear. Game over and he wins. If not, then it was obvious someone else was doing this.”
“Why do you think he took that gamble?” Claudia asked.
“The same reason most people make a bet. It looked like a good idea at the time, and he thought he’d win. I mean, he was right in some respects. Benoît was looming large to the police as the killer, and everyone knows cops love to close their cases. I can see how a dead Benoît works out perfectly for Harmuth.”