Lazare tried to sit up. He felt affection for this young man now, and gratitude. He wanted him to know that the room was soundproofed, so with luck the shots would not have been heard. He wanted to tell him that if he left quietly, by the rear staff entrance, the collection would proceed and he might even escape—for a while at least. He wanted to tell him something else too, something infinitely rich, which he could feel welling in his mind and heart, some priceless secret of life. Its exact nature, however, eluded him.
Star, bent over him, clutching at him, saw his face contort as Lazare tried to speak. He began to kiss his father’s dying face. He watched his lips start to form a word, or words, and clung to him, waiting for this final message, which he knew had to be recognition, and love.
Lazare’s lips moved; he coughed slightly; from his mouth came a gush of bright arterial blood. Star waited. Nothing happened. Lazare did not slump. His eyes did not close. It wasn’t like the movies, Star thought, shaking him. He waited some more. The room spun and jumped. Gradually, he realized that there would be no words, no final gesture, and that Jean Lazare was dead.
He wept, then he stood, then he paced. Bad, bad, bad, he thought. He could feel his mind slipping, none of the gears would mesh. He felt outrage and anguish. Accelerating forward from the back of his brain with vast and rushing momentum came another idea: he had been robbed.
This made him shake, then laugh, then weep. He bent down over his father’s body, and then—even though he didn’t much like its design—he stole his watch. He buckled it around his own wrist. He took Jean Lazare’s black overcoat from the coat-stand and put on Jean Lazare’s black leather gloves. The gloves were too tight, but they hid the blood on his hands. The overcoat was too short and too small, but he found that by slinging it over his shoulder it could be made to cover the blood on his shirtfront. He inserted a new magazine into his gun, thrust it into his pocket, and opened the door.
He could hear the tides of the audience in the distance, and see poor, half-blind, half-deaf Mathilde in the room across the corridor, milky eyes turned to the television screen. The passageway was deserted. He crossed into the room opposite, picked up a white silk cushion, pressed the barrel of the gun into it, and fired twice into the back of Mathilde’s neck. Point-blank. She died better than his father. She slumped forward in her chair at once. No noise from the gun, just this huge white open silence, a great sky of silence. He could feel it again now—invincibility, very close.
He left the room, turned left, and walked out through the rear staff exit doors. They led out into a small alleyway, at the end of which were gates, and a security guard in a small glass-and-wood sentry box.
He could see no police at this entrance. From here, the mews, the garage, and fame were less than a four-minute walk away.
He could feel his own cunning coming back, seeping along his veins. He stopped at the sentry box and smiled at the guard, who recognized him from earlier that morning, he thought. Just testing; he asked directions to the nearest pharmacy—Madame Duval was a little overcome. Then this struck him, under the circumstances, as funny; he gave a snort of laughter. What she needed, he went on, leaning against the open window of the sentry box, was this special tisane. He watched the security man, who said—a little too fast—that yes, old women could be like that, fixed in their ways, and there was a pharmacy—a very good pharmacy—nearby, just two streets away on the left.
Star looked at him; he could feel God in his skull. If the man hadn’t stressed the excellence of the pharmacy, he thought, he might have let him live. As it was, he had a twitchy rabbity look Star did not like. He took out the gun and fired two bursts straight in the man’s face. He watched it splinter and pulp and spray, then he reloaded, stuffed the gun back in his pocket, and jogged the few hundred yards to the mews.
No sirens, no shouts, no sound of running feet. Easy, easy, easy, Star thought: it was just so fucking easy to be great. He opened the gates to the mews and jogged the last few yards to the end garage. He listened, but he could hear nothing at all except the calm of this God in his head. He was about to open the garage doors, then he thought: a little reward.
He took out the container of White Doves. Six remained. One—taken with speed the previous night while Mina lay beside him, pretending not to be afraid, pretending not to be awake, pretending she wasn’t going to betray him like everyone else—one taken then had produced a confidence swoop. Also other interesting and gratifying effects.
He tipped one pill into the palm of his hand. He added a second, then swallowed them. Water, he thought: must take some water—but that was okay. He could drink water, do the interview—at Mathilde’s place.
“Gini,” he said, calling her name through the doors in a low voice. “Gini, it’s okay. It’s me. I’m sorry I’m late.”
Chapter 20
“SWEET,” STAR SAID AS the garage doors lifted. He was standing directly in front of Gini, blocking her escape. She stood looking at him, transfixed. He was covered in blood. There was blood on his shirtfront, on his hands, under his nails, on his neck, on his face. The front of his hair was wet with blood, and caught in his hair, in one loose lock at the front, were some small sharp white fragments. Bone; tiny fragments of bone, Gini thought. She clamped her hands across her mouth. He stood there, drenched in blood, tossing down an overcoat, a pair of black gloves, a wide smile on his face.
She slumped back against the garage wall, shaking.
How many more people had he killed? Just Jean Lazare; just the driver of this car—or, as he had claimed, more than that? The driver of this car had been young, she thought, insofar as she could tell the age of a man left with only half a face. She had taken off her green scarf and pressed it against the terrible wounds. She knew what was going to happen, because she had watched similar things happen in Bosnia; nothing could have saved him, and it was useless to try to stanch the blood. Nevertheless, she did try. It had taken him over an hour to hemorrhage to death.
Now she, too, was bloodstained. She was wearing a sweater and a thick coat, but shock was making her bitterly cold. She could not stop shivering—and Star, when he finally noticed, seemed pleased by this.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said. “I was shaking too. Just a little bit. Just before—just before I did it, you know. Don’t be ashamed, Gini—it’s all right.”
“I can’t drive…” She backed away from him, then held out her hands. “Look. I can’t drive with my hands like this…”
He hit her across the face hard and without warning. Gini staggered and half fell. When she looked back at him, she saw the look Chantal had described. White skin, glittering eyes, something horrible, something that deeply repelled her, about his mouth.
“You fucking drive. You fucking drive and you fucking drive now.” He caught hold of the lapels of her coat and slammed her back against the car door. He was about to add the threat, the otherwise, and then did not. He had seen her fear, smelled her acquiescence. That made Gini ashamed, and shame made her angry. She did what he told her to do, as slowly as possible, and it seemed to her that he was deaf, unaware of danger. She could hear the swoop of sirens in the distance now; he, it seemed, could not.
He sat upright in the seat next to her, holding the gun pointed toward her stomach as they approached the mews gates. Gini took as long as she dared to turn out; she kept praying for police cars, for running feet He directed her then through a maze of little alleyways and back routes, and she kept praying they would come to some barricade, but they did not. The noise of the sirens was very loud, then more distant. He still seemed unaware of them. She felt he was watching something, some private horror film of his own, yet he remained alert, directing her first left, then straight, then right.
Once, when she thought he was not looking, when his eyes seemed fixed but sightless, she risked switching on the lights to full beam in an effort to attract attention. He noticed at once.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Just don’t fuckin
g fool around. Switch them off. I’m going to give you—the story of your life. You want that, don’t you? Make a right.”
Gini realized where they were going then. He was taking her by a more direct route than he had used earlier that day, but he was taking her back to Mathilde’s street, Mathilde’s apartment. Her mind was working better now; fear and anger were giving time an extraordinary clarity and precision. With precision, she saw that if she went up to that apartment with him, he would—sooner or later—kill her. That course of action had to be prevented, but she could see no way to avoid it. If she refused, he’d shoot her in the car, or in the street, or in the lobby, or in the lift.
“Star,” she said eventually, reducing her speed slightly, “did you hear the sirens back there?”
“No. Why?”
“Well—I’m just thinking. Are we going back to Mathilde’s?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think that’s such a good idea? We’re sure to have been seen. They could be following us right now—and if we stay in that apartment too long… You could get trapped, Star. You know what happens. They surround the building, cut you off, so there’s no possible escape.”
“Oh, but I don’t want to escape,” He gave her a white smile. “You didn’t realize that?”
“No. No. I guess I didn’t. But, Star…”
“Look—I’m not dumb, all right?” She heard another of those unpredictable flashes of anger. “No one ever escapes. Today, tomorrow, next week—they close in and they finish you off. Meantime, you’re my hostage—this is a hostage situation, right? So you know what they do, I know what they do. They evacuate the building. They surround the building. They put their best fucking snipers up on the roofs. They move into the apartments opposite, and next door and underneath. They install their listening devices so they know what room you’re in. They make a telephone connection. They get some smooth fuck, some asshole shrink, to talk to you on the phone. They start in on their psycho-profiles, right? And meantime, they’re oh-so-nice, oh-so-fucking-cooperative. You tell them you want a car, a plane, a helicopter—some shit like that—and they never miss a beat. They say, sure, Star, no problem—anything else we can get you? You’d like a yacht, maybe? Concorde? How about we fix you up on the Orient Express?”
He laughed. “You think I’m dumb enough to buy all that? I’ve watched the movies a million times…Make a left here…and I know what they do. They let you sweat. They wait for the tension to get to you. They wear you down. They figure, sooner or later you’re going to need to sleep, you’re going to start to crack. And then, when they figure they’ve got the timing right, they send them in. And those guys—SWAT, the SAS, the GIGN—they’re good. Thirty seconds—less—and you’re out of there, Gini. And me—you know what’s happened to me? The same as happens to all the other poor fucks: I’m dead, like some fucking rat in a fucking hole…” He gave a long, slow sigh. “Well, I don’t plan on dying like that. Never did.”
Gini listened to this long recitation in silence. Its accuracy chilled her. She gripped the steering wheel hard. They had just turned into the far end of the rue de Rennes. Three blocks ahead was Mathilde Duval’s apartment building. She slowed.
“But you do plan on dying?” she said quietly. “Is that it?”
“Maybe.” He shot her a secretive look, then smiled. “That worries you, doesn’t it?”
“Sure. You die—I die. I have this feeling you just pronounced my death sentence.” She felt some nerve return and glanced at him. “Though I don’t see how I get to write your story if I’m dead.”
“You’ll find out. Soon enough.” He gave another secretive smile. “Just don’t ask questions—okay? I don’t like women who ask fucking questions all the time. I—what the fuck are you doing?”
Gini had just seen the pedestrians ahead of her—seen them, and recognized them. Walking slowly, forty yards in front, still about twenty yards short of Madame Duval’s building: Pascal and Marianne.
They were hand in hand. Pascal had his camera case slung over his shoulder. He was bending toward Marianne slightly, listening to her. Marianne was skipping along, chattering, her face lifted to her father’s. Gini hit the accelerator pedal. Star jabbed the gun hard in her crotch.
“There’s some people there. Star…”
“Brake. Brake now.”
“Star—they’ll see. You’re covered in blood. They’ll—”
“Stop. Right here. I’ll fire on the count of three. One. Two…”
Gini stopped. They were right outside Madame Duval’s building. Pascal and Marianne were about ten yards behind the car, on the sidewalk, on her side of the car, so she could see them advance in her side mirror.
“Star, wait…” Another few seconds and they would have passed the car, passed the Duval building, turned into Helen’s building. They were still talking, laughing, they might notice nothing. “Star—you don’t want trouble now. Just—”
He had reached across, snatched the keys out of the ignition, and was already out of the door. Gini kept her eyes fixed on the wing mirror. She could hear Marianne’s high, childlike voice. Her tiny triangular-shaped face was still lifted to her father’s. She was wearing navy woolen tights, a navy-and-red-plaid pleated skirt, a navy reefer jacket. Her dark hair had been newly cut with bangs, in a bob. Her gray eyes, so like her father’s, were still raised to his. She is just nine years old, Gini thought. Star was closing the passenger door, walking around to the sidewalk; just another few seconds. They still might not notice him. Provided she stayed in the car, provided Pascal did not see her, if she didn’t move and Star didn’t speak—please God, Gini thought.
One yard; half a yard. Go on, she thought—walk on by.
“Mais regarde, Papa—cet homme-là…” Pascal’s reaction speed, honed from years in war zones, was very swift. Even before Marianne’s footsteps faltered, before she began on that high puzzled remark, Pascal had halted, turned, scooped Marianne into his arms. He was starting to turn, starting to move away as Star got to her door, opened it, and said: “Okay, Gini—get out.”
Gini did not move. She could see Star’s white face bent toward her, leaning into the car. She could see the gun—and she thought that he was blind as well as deaf. He hadn’t heard the sirens, he couldn’t see Pascal or Marianne, if she could just give them another fifteen seconds, twenty—that would be enough. She stared at the gun, waited to hear the retreating footsteps. There was no sound of footsteps, just a terrible white and endless silence. Then Star began to scream. His scream jolted her heart, echoed along the street.
“Out of the fucking car, out, now. You get out or I blow your fucking head off—out, out!”
She slid out fast: speed, not delay, might be the answer. She twisted out of the car and up, almost into Star’s arms, and he was yanking her arm up behind her back, jabbing the gun in her neck. From the corner of her eye she could see Pascal, four feet to her left, clasping Marianne in his arms, one arm locked around the child’s waist, one hand, fingers spread, pressing her face against his shoulder. One tiny flashing frame of film: she saw his face, white, intent, poised, the pre-firing-line look. Had Star seen them? Was he aware they were there?
“Please, Star,” she began, moving between them, holding his eyes, lifting her free hand to his face. “Just take me inside. I want to be inside, with you…”
Something was happening to his face, to his eyes. Something was kicking in, something that gave him a new, concentrated, rapacious look. His arm was curling around her shoulder now, his grip becoming gentler. He began to draw her toward the portico steps, holding the gun, rubbing the gun against her throat. Up the steps, all eight of them; under the cover of the canopy. He fumbled with his left hand, drew the keys out of his pocket, handed them to her.
“You open the door. Open the fucking door. Get the elevator quick…”
It’s all right, Gini thought. No one was moving, no one was near: it was just her and Star and this key; the world had narrowed to this tiny, f
raught space. Her hands shook; she couldn’t stop her hands shaking. They were shaking so badly, she couldn’t insert the key into the lock. It scratched and jittered against the metal.
“Let me help you, Gini,” said a cool voice from right behind her, and she felt Pascal’s hand close over hers.
He guided the key at once into its slot.
Pascal could feel the shutters clicking in his mind. A series of fast, power-driven shots. The distinctive car, being driven erratically, accelerating fast, then braking sharply, just those few feet in front of them. One part of his mind was still listening to Marianne, and the birthday party she would be having, and the magician who could produce rabbits from hats, then he was also seeing the man get out from the passenger seat, and seeing the blood, then the glint of metal. And it was still—just—all right, because he had Marianne in his arms, was starting to turn, there was a doorway behind them less than five feet away, and the man, crazed, moving jerkily, like a marionette, did not seem even aware of their presence on the sidewalk. So there was still time to turn, shield Marianne, walk, not run, he thought—and then he heard Gini’s name and he did not turn or move away—which was simultaneously the one right thing in the world to do then, and the most terrible mistake.
She bought him time. He watched her do that in a moment that lasted less than ten seconds but felt a century long. She shielded them with her body, then she walked up the portico steps with the man and she bought him time to set Marianne back down on the sidewalk, push her back into the doorway beyond.
“Don’t move,” he said. “Wait until I’m in that building, with Gini and that man, and the door is closed. Then run back to Maman. Tell her to call the police—at once. Tell her what you saw. Where I am. You understand, Marianne?”
She lifted her face to his, her eyes wide and fixed on his. He felt a second’s terror that she would cry, or argue, or cling to him. Then he saw her features become set and still and determined. She nodded, and Pascal, seeing for the first time how much she was his daughter, felt a sudden tight and agonizing love for her. He pressed her hand in his, ran soundlessly back along the sidewalk and up the steps. More tiny, quick flashes of information as his hand closed over Gini’s and he helped her insert the key in the lock. The gun was a Beretta, a 93R, he saw, and the man holding it was unused to firearms, hyped, but with a delayed reaction speed. Pascal watched his white face and jittery eyes. He thought he wasn’t really aware of Pascal, hadn’t taken him in until they were all three in the lobby with the entrance doors shut. Then, in the middle of that black-and-white chessboard floor, with the elevator behind him, Gini clasped in front of him, and the gun still thrusting at her neck, jabbing under her chin, he seemed to see Pascal for the first time. Slow the film down, Pascal thought, because he could see the man had some movie racing in front of his eyes, looping, too many frames per second, so he’d get sense, then a gap, sense, then a gap.
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