Seen and Not Heard

by Anne Stuart

  Claire couldn’t blame her. If only there was someplace they’d be safe, someplace they could hide. But wherever they went, Marc would find them. The police, those stupid fools, would stand by and wait until they were slaughtered, would wait until Marc wiped out half the old women in Paris before they finally did something. By then it would be much too late for them.

  When she first saw the lights in the distance she didn’t even notice them. Too many times had she hoped for signs of civilization, only to be passed by a speeding, oblivious driver who had no intention of stopping to give directions or aid to a fellow motorist. Besides, she would have been afraid to signal, terrified that one of them would be a white Fiat with a familiar figure in the driver’s seat.

  But this time the lights weren’t headlights. They were the dim, unmistakable lights of a small village, the warm glow emanating from windows, and shining overhead the small public phone that sat conspicuously by the local market.

  “There’s a phone, Nicole,” she said, her voice raw from its nonstop monologue. “We’ll call the police, and they’ll send someone to help us. I promise you, darling, I won’t let him get us.”

  Nicole said nothing. Claire pulled up beside the phone, climbed out, and pulled Nicole with her. Like most pay telephones in France, the instructions were in both English and French, and Claire sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving as she fumbled for the proper coins. This time she had to get through, this time someone would help her.

  Goddamnit, didn’t anyone speak English in the Paris police? she fumed as she repeated, over and over again, her name, her nationality, as she was passed from barely bilingual subordinate to slightly more bilingual superior. “Someone is trying to kill me,” she finally shrieked into the telephone. “He’s already murdered countless people, he just killed my friend, and now he’s trying to kill me and my little girl. You’ve got to help me.”

  The calm, expressionless voice came again. “Please to give your name, visa number, nationality, and address.”

  “I’ve given you my name,” Claire shouted, in tears. “I can’t give you my visa number—I’ve lost my passport.”

  “That’s a very serious matter, madame,” the voice said sternly.

  “Not as serious as murder. Listen, I’ve been living with someone who’s been killing old women. His name is Marc Bonnard, and he’s absolutely crazy. He’s going to kill me and the child with me, and if you don’t send help …”

  “Please hold,” the damned voice said again.

  And Claire, staring at the telephone in mute fury, slammed down the receiver. “Nicole …”

  But Nicole was staring straight ahead, oblivious to the thwarted phone conversation, oblivious to the rain pouring down on her head, oblivious to the dark, deadly night.

  The streets of the tiny village had been deserted when Claire first placed her call, but now in the distance she could see a door open, a small pool of light flooding the rainy darkness. She gently pushed Nicole back into the car, then raced down the roadway to the door, only to have it slam shut in her face. She threw herself against it, pounding on it, screaming and crying for help.

  The only response was an incomprehensible babble of French. Claire didn’t need a translation to know she was being told to go away. For a moment her knees buckled, and she sagged against the door, weeping. But only for a moment. She shoved herself back, upright, and turned to the car, to the oblivious, waiting Nicole.

  “No help here,” she said briskly, ignoring the tears staining her face, climbing in the car, and starting the motor. This time it purred to life, one tiny blessing in a world turned angry and hostile. “We’ll have to head for a larger city. At least we’ve got …” Her voice trailed off in sudden horror. “No,” she said after a moment, “we don’t have money. Tom has it all.”

  Nicole said nothing. “We don’t have any protection either,” Claire said aloud, despairing. “Tom had the money, and the gun. We’ll have to go back.” She turned and looked at Nicole, waiting for a protest, a change of expression. Nothing.

  “All right,” she muttered under her breath. “We’ll go back. Marc should be long gone by now. He’d never think we’d be stupid enough to hang around. We’ll go back, get the gun and the money, and then drive straight to … God, I don’t even know where we are! I don’t know where the nearest city is, I don’t know where the frontier is.” Her voice was rising in desperation, and she forced herself to calmness.

  “We’ll be all right,” she said, refusing to think how she was going to find the money and the gun. She’d have to search Tom’s corpse, have to rifle in his dead pockets, and if she hadn’t gone mad with grief and fear yet, that could be enough to push her over the edge.

  But not with Nicole depending on her. She could hold out long enough to get them to safety, hold out long enough to get Nicole to her great-aunt. And then she could give in to all the misery and guilt that were battering at her. Then she could give in to anguish and despair.

  It took her just as long to retrace her path to the old barn. Every wrong turn, every dead end she’d hit on the way out, she hit on the way in. She’d lost all consciousness of time, dreading the moment when she found the old barn again, content to spend the night driving through the deserted, muddy roads, the silent child by her side.

  And then she thought to check the gas gauge. It took her a while to find it, and then she wished she hadn’t. The car was smack dead on empty, and there was no telling how long it had been there. If she got to the barn, found the money and the gun, they might not be able to escape. Marc could be hiding somewhere there, watching, waiting for them.

  She had to take the chance. If she didn’t get the money she wouldn’t be able to fill the tank, and sooner or later they’d run out, and be left like sitting ducks for Marc to finish with them. It was her only choice, and she had to take it. But God, she wished there was someone else who could do it for her.

  The rain had stopped when she finally found the old barn. There was no sign of another car, but the night was dark, and a white Fiat could be hiding anywhere nearby, and Claire wouldn’t be able to see. Nicole was still sitting upright in the front seat, eyes blank and staring, and for a moment Claire considered leaving her in the car, rather than subject her to the sight of Tom’s body once more.

  She didn’t dare. She had no idea if they were alone there in the woods, but she couldn’t take the chance. The only way she could protect Nicole was to keep her with her. It was unlikely the child could be any more traumatized than she was already. One more view of a dead man she had barely known wouldn’t be the end.

  But Nicole had liked him. She’d opened up to Tom more than she’d opened up to anyone before—she’d laughed with him, the first time Claire had ever heard her laugh. He would have been a marvelous father, full of fun and life, willing to take chances, willing to try anything. And Marc had finished all that, wiped it out, just as he’d wiped out a child’s innocence.

  The candles were still burning, just as they had been when Claire had grabbed Nicole and run, but the flames were burning down low, casting eerie shadows in the huge old building. Claire had Nicole’s cold, limp hand grasped tightly in her own as she edged inside the doorway, looking around her, every sense, every instinct, tuned in to the night air around them.

  “Stay here,” she whispered, releasing Nicole’s hand and pushing her gently against the thick stone wall. Nicole stayed, her face blank, as Claire turned to the bloody spot where Tom’s body lay.

  The blood was still there, a thick, congealed pool of it. The body was gone.

  “She’s called in, sir.” The voice came crackling over the police car phone. “She hung up while I was getting Chief Inspector Clery to talk with her. She said Bonnard’s killed the American, and he’s after her and the little girl.”

  “Shit.” Malgreave leaned back. “We’ve got to get that murdering bastard before he kills anyone else. Did she say where she was?”

  “The dispatcher didn’t speak English
very well …”

  Malgreave almost put his fist through the windshield. “Why the hell didn’t they have someone who could speak English answer the goddamned phone?”

  “They were trying to get someone …”

  “So we don’t know where she was?” Malgreave cut him off ruthlessly.

  “We were able to trace her, sir. She was calling from a public phone in the village of Jassy. The call came in about thirty-five minutes ago …”

  “And it took you that long to call me?”

  “She said the dead man was in an abandoned barn somewhere outside of Jassy.”

  “Just great,” Malgreave fumed, slamming down the phone. “How many abandoned barns do you think are in that depressed part of the country?”

  “We’ll find it, sir,” Vidal said.

  “I’m glad you have confidence, Vidal,” Malgreave said wearily. “I hope it’s justified.”

  “We’re within ten miles of Jassy, sir. We know they were driving a beige Peugeot, and there certainly isn’t much traffic on the road. The local gendarmes know we’re coming—they’ll know where to look first,” Josef said earnestly.

  Malgreave turned and stared into the back seat. “For all our sakes, I hope so, Josef.” And turning back, he lit another cigarette.

  There was no sound, no noise at all in the huge old barn. Just the distant rushing of the stream, the wind in the trees overhead, the eerie echo of the huge stone building. Yet with sudden, horrifying certainty Claire knew they weren’t alone.

  She backed up, slowly, lifting her gaze overhead to the rickety catwalks lacing the stone walls. No sign of anyone, but she knew he was up there, waiting. She reached behind her, catching Nicole’s limp hand in hers.

  “Nicole,” she whispered, her voice a breath of sound. “I know you don’t want to listen, don’t want to wake up, but you have to. You have to help me, or I won’t be able to stop him. I want you to run and hide. I want you to go back to the car, get in, and lock all the doors. No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, don’t open those doors. He can’t get you in there, he can’t open locked doors. He’s only human. You’ll be safe in the car, Nicole. Please, baby, run.”

  Nicole didn’t move. Her hand remained loose in Claire’s desperate grip, and her eyes were blank. Claire swallowed the desperation that was beating against her throat. “All right,” she said softly. “You don’t want to leave. I’ll still keep you safe. I won’t let him hurt you, Nicole. I swear I won’t.”

  There was the slightest answering twitch in the cold, clammy hand, and Claire gripped it with renewed hope. “If you won’t go to the car, I want you to go hide in the corner. Behind the haystacks, in the shadows. He won’t be able to see you unless he’s looking, and he’s more interested in me right now. Can you do that for me, sweetie?”

  Still no answer. With a silent, desperate prayer, Claire dropped Nicole’s hand. Slowly, with zombielike precision, Nicole began to edge backward into the shadows, her eyes still blank.

  Claire closed her eyes in relief as she listened to the shuffling sounds of Nicole seeking shelter. And then, lifting her head, she threw her shoulders back and stepped into the center of the huge old barn, staring up into the shadowy darkness.

  “Marc?” she called, her voice firm and loud. “I’m here.” And she started for the first flight of stairs.

  “This is the fourth goddamn barn we’ve tried in the last hour,” Josef fumed. “Can’t your men do any better?”

  “This is a poor section of France, Inspector Summer,” the local prefect said. “We have more than our share of barns standing empty.”

  “How many more?” Malgreave interrupted.

  The local shrugged. “Perhaps a half dozen, perhaps less. There’s one not far from here, though I doubt it’s what you’re looking for. It hasn’t been used for much during the last few years—too remote. Americans could never find it.”

  “These Americans are particularly inventive,” Vidal said.

  “They must be, to have eluded the illustrious Paris police for so long,” the man sneered.

  “Damn you …” Josef began, but Malgreave interrupted.

  “We’ll check this next one,” he announced, “and then we’ll split up. At this rate it will take all night, and I don’t know if Nicole Bonnard or Claire MacIntyre have all night.”

  The petty bickering abruptly ceased. “Maybe this time we’ll be lucky,” Vidal said diplomatically. Josef looked at him and snarled.

  Claire had never liked heights. She’d grown dizzy at the Grand Canyon, she’d never attempted the Eiffel Tower, and hadn’t even been too happy with the outside escalators at one of the museums Marc had taken her to. She’d had a moment of suspecting he’d subjected her to it on purpose, knowing her fear, and then she’d dismissed the idea, thinking she was being absurdly paranoid. In retrospect it was clear that was exactly what he’d done.

  The wooden walkways were set into the old stone walls with thick, splintery chunks of wood. Here and there the braces had rotted through, and the narrow balcony swung a bit over the stone floor. She refused to look down once she passed the first flight. Somewhere down there was Tom’s body. Somewhere down there was Nicole, hiding, waiting, unable to protect herself.

  Somewhere above her was Marc, moving silently along the walkways. She could hear the unmistakable creak of aging wood. Even someone as graceful as Marc couldn’t overcome the hazards of ancient, rotting wood, and his noiseless tread could bring forth occasional, telltale sounds.

  From the moment she’d looked over her head and known Marc was up there, Claire had had no choice. There was only one way down, and she had to cut off that exit. He would have to go through her to get to Nicole, and she had no intention of letting him do so. She had no weapon, other than her hands and a fury so deep and powerful it frightened her, but she had no hesitation. She would stop Marc, no matter what the cost.

  “I know you’re up there, Marc,” she said again, holding on to the railing and pulling herself upward. “You’re not as good as you think you are. I can hear you. I can see your shadow on the walls, I can hear you moving. You’re moving away from me. Why? Do I frighten you, Marc? Have you finally found someone who won’t cower before you, who won’t just sit there and let you kill them?” she taunted. “It’s no wonder you kill old women. They’re the only ones who are too weak to fight back. You’re a bully, Marc. A childish, murdering bully.”

  Another creak, directly overhead, and she jerked her head up. She could see his slippered feet, the flash of white gloves and something else, something shiny and metallic and very deadly, before he disappeared into the shadows once more, silent as the grave.

  “Did you think I didn’t know?” she continued, climbing higher, splinters in her hand from the railing. “Did you think I didn’t see through your little games, your twisted idea of lovemaking? I knew. I knew a long time ago. I just hadn’t decided what to do, especially about Nicole. I knew you were crazy, I just didn’t know how crazy you were.”

  A sudden, hideous, high-pitched shriek tore the air above her head, and she nearly lost her grip on the railing. Something dove at her head, followed by another, and she ducked, stilling her own terrified scream, wondering what Marc was throwing at her.

  Bats, she realized as they flew blindly away. Marc had disturbed a horde of sleeping bats overhead, sending them flying wildly into the night. She only hoped they scared him half as much as they scared her.

  She allowed herself one brief glimpse down to the stone floor beneath them. There was no sign of Nicole in the candlelit darkness, no sign of life at all. Maybe Nicole had come to her senses, had gone to hide in the car. Or maybe she was just waiting for death to come and claim her.

  Out of the corner of her eye Claire thought she saw a flash of light through one of the narrow slits of windows. She dismissed it as wishful thinking, and climbed higher. “I’m not going to let you get away with this,” she announced, her voice calm and dispassionate. “To get to Nicole you�
��ll have to go through me. And I’m not going to let you.”

  The silence above her was as thick as a velvet shroud. One more flight, one more rickety expanse of walkway, and there’d be nowhere else to go. Maybe he’d found a place to hide, maybe she’d been fooling herself and there was another way down. Sudden panic clamped a fierce hand around her heart.

  “Marc?” She cursed the fear that came through her voice, but she couldn’t help it. She willed herself to calm. “Cat got your tongue?” she taunted, climbing up the final flight. The walkway swung beneath her weight, pulling from the wall, the flimsy wood rotting beneath her fingertips. “Marc?”

  He was there. It was so dark she could scarcely see him, but the white gloves and face stood out with eerie luminescence. He stood absolutely still, not making any move toward her, waiting for her to come to him.

  “Two can play at this game,” she said, holding still. “If you think I’m going to come any further you’re crazier than I thought, and that would be downright impossible, my friend. Why are you wearing face paint?”

  His body moved, an expressive pantomime with short, graceful gestures that were a perfect communication. His face was himself, he said, sorrow and laughter hiding from the world. He reached up a white-gloved hand and gestured her closer, that gesture promising her love and redemption and oblivion, and for one brief, horrifying moment she was tempted.

  “I’m not taking one step further,” she said, her voice deliberately mocking, “so you can stop making like the Ghost of Christmas Future. If you want me, Marc, you’re going to have to come and get me.”

  He twisted in the darkness, and she could see the silvery glitter of the knife in his hand. In a weird, inexplicable way it was reassuring. He was so mesmerizing in his grace and talent that she was half ready to do or believe anything. The knife was a blessedly prosaic instrument of death.