Gauge shook his head. It was just as well. He worked better making the transcripts, where he could stop and start the tape and not have to worry whether he’d caught everything. And then Malgreave or that puffed-up Summer could track it down at their leisure, and Gauge didn’t need to worry.
He stared at the tape machine that sat prominently on his desk. Even if the man hadn’t given complete details, all calls concerning the Grandmother Murders were automatically traced. They were in no danger of losing important information.
The question was, should he start transcribing the harried message now or wait till more came in? The line had been very busy all morning, what with the latest information going out over the news last night, and the angry American was only one in a long line of crazies who thought people were after them. The American was at least a bit original—he thought a mime wanted to do him in.
Gauge chuckled to himself. He’d wait for two or three more calls to come in before he changed tapes and began the laborious task of transcribing once more. After all, Malgreave and Summer were out and weren’t expected back till late afternoon. He had plenty of time.
The ground was rocky underfoot. Rocco’s shiny black boots were scuffed and splattered with mud, slippery on the wet earth, and he cursed as he slid down the shallow embankment and moved toward the house. The rain was pouring steadily now, drizzling down his neck, sliding down his back beneath the leather jacket that was like a second skin to him.
The shutters were still tightly shut against the miserable outside world, and a plume of wood smoke sweetened the air. Rocco shivered against the side of the building. Maybe if he hurried, finished the Américaine quickly, he’d have time to warm up before heading back out into the rain.
If it weren’t for the brat, he’d have time to enjoy the fire and the Américaine before returning to Paris. For a moment he considered the alternatives. He could tell Hubert that Bonnard killed the kid. While Hubert wouldn’t like it, there wouldn’t be much he could do about it. And things had gotten so bad maybe even Hubert couldn’t help.
Paris might not be the answer. He had friends in Marseilles, even a cousin or two. Opportunities abounded in that city, for an enterprising man who didn’t count squeamishness as one of his character flaws. Maybe the wisest thing he could do would be to silence both of them, leaving the bloody scene for the local gendarmes to deal with. They’d be so busy looking for the murderous Bonnard that they wouldn’t even think about Rocco Guillère.
Except for Malgreave, of course. He was like a dog with a rat, worrying it, shaking it, never releasing it until its neck was broken. Malgreave wouldn’t give up, even if Rocco disappeared into the Marseilles underground. Sooner or later he’d catch up with him.
But for Malgreave, time was running out. He was getting old, too old for this sort of thing. Sooner or later he’d retire, and that fool Summer was no match for him. Once Malgreave was out of the way Rocco could safely return to Paris. If Hubert had suspected something untoward in the death of the little girl, well, Hubert wouldn’t live forever either.
Damn, it was cold. He huddled closer to the building, listening to the quiet voices just barely discernible through the thick stone walls. It was no wonder he was freezing. Those walls still held the icy temperatures of the previous winter, and it was radiating directly into his bones. He looked down at his boots, the pointy toes scuffed and muddy. He was standing directly in a pool of water, and his beloved boots weren’t made to suffer such an insult. Water had already seeped through, and the leather was ruined.
He’d have to throw them out, buy new ones. The thought made him ferocious—his feet were large, and the fancy leather boots he preferred were hard to find. Someone would pay for this, someone with a soft voice and Marc Bonnard in her bed. The thought of wasting Bonnard’s mistress gave him an odd thrill of pleasure and fear. While the anticipation was sweet, the chilly wet air wasn’t. The sooner he iced the child, the longer he’d have to enjoy the woman. He wouldn’t even worry about the man returning. A civilized American was no match for someone who’d grown up on the streets as Rocco had. If he came back too quickly Rocco could make short work of him before finishing up with the woman.
Damn, he wanted that fire. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his custom-made switchblade knife, the one that had served him so well for years. He’d taken it off a Chinese heroin dealer, and the dragons on the ivory handle had always appealed to his imagination. This place must have a back door, a window where the shutters weren’t tightly latched. His boots splashed through the water as he skirted the house. He’d just reached the far corner when the icy dampness reached down into his bones, and he let loose with a loud, uncontrollable sneeze.
And inside the house, Claire looked at Nicole, and the two of them froze in complete, utter panic.
Tom sped along the rutted roadway, cursing. He pounded the steering wheel in impotent rage, damning the Paris police department, their governing Department of Interior, the local gendarmes, the army, the French, and the world, not necessarily in that order. He reached for the windshield wipers, but instead the lights flashed on through the dark afternoon light, and once more Tom cursed. Typical of the French to put everything in a different place, he fumed.
He skidded in the mud, and the groceries in the back seat tumbled to the floor. He wrenched the wheel, turning into the spin, and straightened the car, slamming down on the accelerator once more. At this rate Bonnard would find them and finish them before the Paris police even noticed something was going on.
It was no wonder it had taken them almost three years to come up with anything near approaching a solution to the Grandmother Murders. It would probably take another two to bring Bonnard to justice.
And to top everything off, he thought he’d seen the white Fiat in the tiny village of Jassy. He’d noticed it out of the corner of one eye as he was talking on the phone, and when he’d finally slammed down the receiver and tried looking for it there was no trace. Besides, it probably meant nothing. White Fiats were a dime a dozen throughout Europe, and a great many men wore hats pulled low over their faces. Still, he couldn’t rid himself of the nagging sense of familiarity.
At least he’d left Claire the gun, explaining the rudiments of how to aim it and fire it. Not that he was an expert himself—he could only hope he’d shown her the right way to do it. She wouldn’t need it—it had simply been a precaution, one to help set his mind at ease when he drove off and left the two of them there. He only wished it had worked.
The car slid again, and Tom cursed Hélène and her bald tires and an engine that tended to choke and splutter in the dampness. Just let it get him back to the farmhouse, quickly, and he’d ask nothing more of it.
And let Claire and Nicole be all right, he added in a silent prayer, giving in to the indismissible fear that was filling him. And he drove on into the afternoon rain.
CHAPTER 21
Nicole was standing motionless, petrified with terror. All her slowly returning sangfroid had vanished with the sound of that furtive sneeze, and she stood in the middle of the room, pale, silent, horrifyingly resigned.
Well, I’m not resigned, Claire thought furiously. “Hide, Nicole,” she whispered fiercely. Nicole didn’t move, and Claire caught her shoulders in a fierce, desperate grip, propelling her toward the bedroom. The late afternoon was alive with noise, the hiss and pop of the fire, the steady, nerve-wracking beat of the rain against the shuttered windows and the tin roof, the rattling noise of the wind at the door.
But it wasn’t the wind. Someone was jiggling the back door, someone was trying to force his way in. “Go away,” Claire shouted in a panic that almost equaled Nicole’s.
To her astonishment a voice answered, in heavy, guttural French. She stopped propelling Nicole forward, looking down at the child with a questioning expression.
“He says he’s a stranger. His car went off the road and he wants to call a garage.” Nicole’s voice was shaking with terror, her eyes blank.
>
“We don’t have a telephone,” Claire shouted. “Go away.”
Again the voice came, as the back door rattled noisily. “He says he’s wet and cold and wants to come in till the rain passes,” Nicole whispered. “Oh, Claire, do you really think it’s Marc?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like him, but Marc’s a trained actor. I’m sure he could disguise his voice if he wanted to.”
“But if he had come to get us,” Nicole said with eerie common sense, “he wouldn’t be making a sound. This man is much too noisy.”
Her words were prophetic, if not reassuring. The rattling turned to a loud thudding, and the two of them watched in mute horror as the flimsy back door began to give way beneath the barrage. Seconds later the door splintered open, and a dark figure hurtled through.
“Run, sweetheart,” Claire hissed, shoving her into the bedroom and shielding her with her body as she faced the huge, angry intruder. Where the hell had she put the gun Tom had insisted she keep?
The stranger moved into the room, relaxed now, taking his time as he shook the water from his leather jacket. At least it wasn’t Marc, Claire told herself, holding her ground. The stranger couldn’t have seen Nicole, he would think she was there alone. If he was intent on harming her at least Nicole would be safe.
The man looked up and grinned at her, a terrifying, savage grin that revealed a cruel mouth with several gold teeth. He said something in French, and Claire shook her head.
“I’m sorry, I only speak English,” she said with deceptive calm. She’d left the gun on the table somewhere behind her. If she could just back up, casually …
“I said, where’s the brat?” The man advanced on her, swaggering slightly, and for the first time Claire realized she’d seen that face before. She couldn’t remember where or when, but the effect was unnerving.
“Please leave,” she said, stumbling backward, away from him, part pretense, part real fear. The table had to be somewhere behind her, the gun in reach.
The man smirked, there was no other word for it. “Not until I get what I came for.” He had something in his hand, something slender and cylindrical, something that looked harmless. Until he snapped it, and a thin, wicked-looking blade snicked out. “I’m afraid you’ve become a problem, chérie,” he crooned. “You and the little girl. Not to mention Marc himself. I’m going to clean up a few loose ends. Tell me where the brat is, and when I finish with her we’ll have a few minutes to enjoy ourselves. If you’re nice to me I promise it won’t hurt.”
Claire just stared at him in horror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her shaking voice belying her protestations.
“Don’t anger me.” The man was enjoying this, she could tell. She edged a few inches further, but the table was still maddeningly out of reach. “It’s not often I get an audience, someone to talk to. Your man’s gone into town, there’s just you and the brat, and no one can help you.”
She didn’t bother to ask how he knew. He’d probably been the one in the white Fiat who’d followed them. “He’ll be back any moment …”
“And he’ll be useless against me.” The man began paring his filthy fingernails with the wicked-looking knife. “I kill for a living, chérie. I kill for business and for pleasure. Your American won’t have a chance against someone like me.”
“Who do you kill?”
The man shrugged. “Anyone for a price. Drug dealers, pimps, whores, businessmen, bureaucrats.”
“And for pleasure?” Her seeking fingers caught the edge of the small table.
The man smiled his hideous smile. “Why, old ladies, of course.”
A last, lingering trace of hope spiked through her. “Then Marc didn’t …”
“Oh, yes, Marc did. Just as we killed Grand-mère Estelle in the orphanage twenty-five years ago. Of course,” he added sweetly, “we no longer eat them.”
Claire’s empty stomach twisted, convulsed, and she doubled over, knocking against the table, the gun skittering into her desperate hands. She collapsed on the rough plank floor, rolled, and came up with the gun in her hands, pointing straight at her murderous intruder.
Except that he was gone. She saw his leather jacket disappearing into Nicole’s room, and she didn’t even hesitate. She fired, and the damned thing recoiled on her like an angry serpent. She heard Nicole scream, and she raced toward the room, prepared to fire again and again and again.
The man was lying on the floor, clutching his side and cursing furiously, weakly. Claire could see the blood on his hand as he pressed it against his leather jacket, and another wave of nausea and dizziness hit her.
This time she wouldn’t give in to it. Nicole was kneeling in the middle of the bed, staring at the bloody tableau in horror. Holding the gun as steady as she could in wildly shaking hands, Claire stepped over the man’s writhing form and caught Nicole in her arms. The child clung to her, burying her face in Claire’s shoulder, and slowly, carefully, Claire stepped back toward the door.
A steely, bloody hand shot out and wrapped itself around her ankle, the fingers digging in like claws. She fought back the scream that caught in her throat, and still holding Nicole with one protective arm, she leaned over and pointed the gun directly into the man’s face.
“I’ll count to five,” she said, “and then I’ll shoot you. Don’t think I won’t.”
His glittering, enraged eyes met hers for a long, thoughtful moment. She knew he was weighing his chances of toppling her over, Nicole and all, weighing that against the possibility of another bullet smashing through his skull.
“One,” said Claire, ready to pull the trigger if she felt the slightest tug.
Her ankle was numb, streaks of pain were shooting up her calf and thigh, and Nicole was snuffling into her shoulder, clinging to her for dear life.
“The hell with it,” Claire said, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet buried itself in the floor beside the man’s head, but she’d still accomplished what she’d set out to do. In his panic he released her ankle and rolled out of the way, slamming up against the foot of the bed and panting in rage and pain. He left a smeared trail of blood on the scrubbed plank floor.
Through a haze of panic and adrenaline-charged determination, she heard the renewed pounding, this time on the front door. Tom’s voice came with it, and for the first time the blind rage cleared a little from her head.
“Go around the back,” she shouted, not daring to leave the wounded snake untended. His knife lay on the floor, out of his reach, and she kicked it away, into the living room, cradling Nicole as they waited for Tom to arrive.
He took in the bloody scene with admirable efficiency. “You shot him?” he asked calmly.
Her voice no longer worked, so she contented herself with a brief nod. The man’s eyes were closed, his breathing labored, but she wasn’t fooled. When Tom started toward him she stopped him. “Let him be,” she said in a raw voice. “He’s too dangerous.”
“He could be bleeding to death …”
“He deserves it. He kills the old women too.”
Tom looked down at him, no surprise showing. “Rocco someone, the radio said. All right. If he bleeds to death he’s no great loss. Are you two all right?”
“I’m okay,” Claire said, lying. “How about you, baby?”
Nicole lifted her tear-streaked face, nodded, and hid once more in Claire’s arms.
“Good,” Tom said. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
“The police … ?”
He shook his head. “Still no luck. We’ll try from our next stop.”
“Do you know where we’re going?” She found she was still clutching the gun in an iron grip. Carefully Tom pried it from her.
“Not really. We’ll just drive till we find a safe place.” He reached for Nicole, and surprisingly enough she went, transferring her limpetlike grip to him with an unconscious show of trust. “At least I managed to get some food. We’ll have
a picnic on the road.”
He headed out the door, and for a brief moment Claire remained behind, staring down at the man she’d shot, the man she would have killed in cold blood if her aim had been better. She tried to summon remorse, triumph, at least a sense of justification. She felt nothing, empty inside, as she stared at the pale, sweating face.
Suddenly his eyes shot open, dark, full of pain and malice. He tried to move toward her, but the effort was too much, and he sank back, panting, his eyes shut once more. Claire ran from the room.
Pierre Gauge finished typing the transcript. He was a careful man, working slowly, steadily, so as not to miss or mistake a word. He worked without using his brain, only his ears and his fingers, not bothering to read what he had transcribed until he’d finished. He sat back, his watery brown eyes moving laboriously over the typed words.
And then he whistled to himself, softly, and allowed himself the luxury of a muttered curse. This one sounded different from the usual crackpots that called in, disturbing Pierre’s peace and distracting his attention from the day’s racing form. He rifled through his copy of yesterday’s transcripts and found what he was looking for. The American, Parkhurst, had called two days in a row. And in print he seemed neither deluded nor attention-seeking.
He scanned the page, coming across the call from Claire MacIntyre. He swore again. Well, it wasn’t his responsibility, his place, to judge whether a call was important or not. Neither of them had mention Guillère, and up to now that was the only thing Malgreave had been interested in. Pierre had placed those transcripts on Josef Summer’s desk. It was up to the bosses to think, not the likes of him. If Summer had screwed himself, well then, that was life.
But Gauge’s ass was on the line, too. He couldn’t just sit there, waiting for someone to pay attention. Neither Malgreave nor his two assistants were back yet, but they would be, sooner or later. And this time, instead of putting the transcript on Josef’s tidy desk, he took the few extra steps and placed it in the center of Malgreave’s mess.