“Marc,” he said, forcing an easy tone of voice. “Old friend, I never expected to see you here.”
Marc said nothing. He was dressed in black—tight black leotards and top and mud-soaked black slippers. Only his gloves were white. And his face.
He glided into the room, the knife held loosely in the gloved hand. Rocco tried again, stilling the superstitious terror that threatened to swamp him. “Thank goodness you’re here. That damned bitch of yours shot me. I need some help. I’m afraid it’s going to have to be a doctor—I’m not sure if I’ll make it to Paris before someone patches me up.”
Marc said nothing. He kept coming, his feet making no noise, almost as if he were floating a few inches off the ground, Rocco thought dizzily. Every motion was smooth, effortless.
Rocco kept talking. His brain was getting a little muddled, but it no longer seemed to matter. “Remember the orphanage, old friend? Remember Grand-mère Estelle and that whip she used? I still have nightmares about her and old Georges. I remember how helpless I used to feel, and how I hated them. Sometimes I wake up at night in a cold sweat, remembering.
“Do you remember the smell? The rain and the charred timbers of the old place? And the roses, Georges’s goddamned roses, covering over the stink. I knew a whore once who always wore a cheap rose perfume. I killed her, just for the pleasure of it.”
Marc said nothing. He stood only inches away from where Rocco sat, and it took all his effort to lift his head, to look into that white-painted mask of glee and despair. The chocolate brown eyes were quite mad, Rocco decided. But then, they’d always been a little off. Marc was going to kill him. He knew what Rocco had been trying to do, knew that Rocco would kill him if he got a chance. He wasn’t going to get that chance.
“Have you ever killed a man before, Marc?” he inquired dreamily. “Of course you have. You were the one who killed Georges, weren’t you? And you’re going to kill me.” It really didn’t matter. He was very tired, and he didn’t want to go out into that cold, wet rain. Better to stay right here.
And then he remembered what Marc had done to the old gardener, his fitting act of revenge for the endless bouts of sexual torture. A last bit of energy filled him. He didn’t want to be mutilated. He reached out a hand, to protest, to stop Marc, but his arms were weak, and Marc was very, very strong. He kept slashing, slashing, and there was nothing Rocco could do but laugh. Marc didn’t realize that he was feeling nothing, cheating Marc of the pain. Finally he was cheating Marc of everything, as the blackness closed in, the thick silence settled around him, and he slumped forward on the bloody bed.
Claire was cold, so very cold. It never stopped raining in France; the steady downpour was a constant companion and reflection of the gloom. Rain and death seemed entwined, inescapable. She sat in the front seat of the Peugeot and shivered.
At least Nicole was temporarily distracted. Right now she was probably making herself sick in the back seat, gobbling down chips and candy bars and warm Coca-Cola. Doubtless in the next half hour Claire would have to crawl in back and hold her while she rid her body of everything she was busy stuffing into it. Which certainly wouldn’t help Claire’s uneasy stomach.
She’d forced herself to nibble on some bread and cheese, to choke down some of Tom’s god-awful wine. At least her hands had stopped shaking, even if her stomach still churned and roiled inside her. She kept feeling the cold, hard metal of the gun in her hand, the recoil as she shot, the second time, at the murderous intruder’s head.
It had been his quick reflexes and her own rotten aim that had saved her from killing him. Not any sense of morality, or decency, or fairness. She’d always considered herself a pacifist, someone who’d rather turn the other cheek than react with violence when threatened.
But it wasn’t her who was being threatened. It was Nicole. And when it came to a helpless child she was no pacifist at all, but the equivalent of a soldier, determined for revenge. No one could hurt or threaten Nicole and get away with it.
She shivered again, looking over her shoulder at the small figure happily gorging herself in the back seat. The amazing thing about children was their resilience. She’d seen it time and again when she was a teacher, hoped and prayed the girl Brian had hit would have that same ability to bounce back. And there was Nicole, who’d gone through a nightmare and a half during the last three days, entirely at ease, on the run with people who bore no relation at all to her.
Claire wished to God she could be that flexible. She wished she could blot unpleasant images out of her mind. But over and over again she saw the man Tom called Rocco, his hand clutching her ankle, his dark, evil eyes glaring up at her, as she shot at him, trying to kill him.
“Cold?” Tom asked gently, his attention still on the rain-swept afternoon, the headlights sweeping down the deserted roads.
“Yes.” She huddled deeper against the seat, hugging herself. Sooner or later this nightmare had to end. Sooner or later they’d be safe. “How far are we going?”
“I’m not sure. At least we know we’re safe for now. Guillère must have been driving the white Fiat. I thought I saw it in town, and I hurried back rather than waste any more time shopping.”
Claire lifted her head, finally giving Tom her full attention. “I don’t think so. We heard him outside about ten minutes after you left. You couldn’t have seen him in town.”
There was silence in the car. “Well,” he said finally, “Fiats are a dime a dozen in France, and white’s a popular color. It must have been my paranoia.”
“It must have been,” said Claire, shivering. And neither of them believed it.
“When the hell did this come in?” Malgreave roared through the offices, crumpling the paper in his fist. “God damn it, Gauge, get in here!”
He watched Pierre shuffle forward, cursing the incompetent idiot. Gauge had learned early in his career that you went farther in a bureaucr
acy if you didn’t allow yourself to think. He’d perfected the art of mindlessness, and his somewhat bovine brown eyes blinked at Malgreave innocently.
“Three o’clock this afternoon, Chief Inspector.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“You hadn’t given me any particular instructions. And since Inspector Summer had discounted the previous messages …”
“Previous messages?” Malgreave’s voice shook the windows. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Josef shrank in his chair, bewilderment and panic washing over his face. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. What previous messages?”