by Susan Finlay
“I’m not sure what you want me to do.”
“As a local journalist, we thought you might get us interviews that we can’t get on our own, such as with the victim’s family. We’ve spoken to a few neighbors, but trying to talk to parents, and other relatives, and to school officials and students could be tricky. Perhaps if you were to make the introductions and say that we’re working together on a story . . . .”
She chewed on the top end of a pen, while she studied Dave. Finally, she said, “Let me do a bit of checking up on you two and let think about it. Where can I reach you? Through your email? Give me your phone number too.”
In the early evening, while Greg stayed at the pub where they’d eaten dinner, Dave walked back toward the hotel among a crowded mass of people rushing about, most likely on their way home from work or their way out to eat. Although he’d tried calling his grandmother several times during the day, he hadn’t been able to reach her. He was feeling disconsolate and growing ever more concerned. His phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket, almost dropping it in his haste. He answered on the second ring. It was Kate Hill.
“First,” she said, “the woman, Maura Barrington, lived in close proximity to the boy. Second, she claimed she’d tutored him, but people are saying that’s a lie. Third, people say he was in love with her. Fourth, she was under investigation by the school’s governing board and they were getting ready to question the pupil.”
“I know all that,” Dave said. “What I want to know is what I haven’t read in the newspapers. What are the discrepancies in the case? What is true and what is false or misleading? I need to ask questions.”
“Why are you really interested in this case?”
“I told you already. It’s research. You’re a writer. You know how we need to gather information. It’s in our blood.”
She didn’t answer, and Dave wondered if he’d lost the connection.
“You’re right about one thing,’ she said finally. “It is in our blood to gather information. I did some checking into your background. You didn’t just leave your job in Chicago to become a writer. You were more or less forced out. I know about the Diana Lewis case.”
Dave sat down on a bench near a bus stop while pedestrians walked briskly past.
“You let a woman manipulate you into trying to prove her innocence,” she continued. “She almost got away with it, but your Chief of Police saw what was happening. He saw that you were becoming obsessed with her and pulled you off the case. The way I see it, you fell in love with Diana Lewis. That makes me wonder what really brings you here. Why are you asking questions about an ongoing investigation in which the prime suspect is a beautiful woman on the run?”
“It’s not that simple,” he said. “Yes, I made a mistake in believing Diana, but I was never involved with her. I wasn’t attracted to her, and I was married. The reason I helped her was that I thought she was a victim, that she’d been kidnapped by the other suspect, a man named Johnny Kincaid. She swore that he’d forced her to watch while he kidnapped other young women and killed them, that she’d tried to escape many times, but couldn’t.”
“He didn’t really kidnap her?”
Dave didn’t answer right away. He hadn’t talked to anyone about the case since he left the force—not even his parents.
“Kincaid did kidnap her when she was seventeen,” he said. “She was one of his first victims. Some strange attraction between them followed, and he decided to keep her alive. Over time, she fell in love with him and began working alongside him—until he got caught. By then, she was twenty-two, and had participated not only in luring the women to places where he could grab them, but also in killing some of them. She pretended she had nothing to do with it, that she was simply a victim. She played on my trust and used me. She thought I wouldn’t dig too deep, that I wouldn’t see her as capable of being involved.”
“Why did you believe her?”
“I don’t know. It drives me crazy. I thought I was smarter than that.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment.
“What about the Jared Raybourne case? What’s really going on?”
“I’m trying to find out whether Maura Barrington is guilty or innocent.”
“So you know her.”
He didn’t answer.
“If you find out she’s guilty, then what?”
“I’ll turn her over to the police.” Kate’s silence was punctuated with Dave silently kicking himself, recognizing this as a repeat of the conversation he had had with Greg, and realizing his cover story must be particularly lame. I really suck at lying.
“Okay. I’ll help you. But on the condition that I get the exclusive on whatever story comes out of this—and if you promise to turn her over to the authorities if she turns out to be guilty. Come by my house in the morning, ten o’clock, and we’ll go over the case.”
After their lunch stop, Maurelle, Fabienne, and Jeannette returned to the highway and headed toward Saint-Julien-du-Tarn. The sky had been clouding over, but so far no rain had fallen.
Soon Maurelle was driving in a gorge, flanked by rocky bluffs and steep drop-offs. She didn’t dare talk as she scaled the mountain. Dizzying bends forced her to slow down and lean forward, cautiously navigating the tight curves and drop-offs. Once she was more accustomed to the drive, the tight curves were less problematic and she managed to take in the panoramic view unfolding.
“It’s beautiful in this region. Truly wondrous,” she said. All during their journey, she had admired the increasingly wild terrain of chestnut forests interspersed with ancient villages and dotted with farmhouses surrounded by mulberry orchards. But the majesty of the current scenery truly left her in awe. She said as much to Fabienne and Jeannette.
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything,” Fabienne said, “until you see the scenery at Saint-Julien. Magnifique! It’s tucked at the foot of sheer cliffs on the left bank of the Tarn River.”
“Not far from Sainte-Enimie,” Jeannette added.
Fabienne said, “I really do love Saint-Julien. I didn’t realize until now how much I miss that ghostly village.” She laughed then, and so did Jeannette.
This comment drew Maurelle’s attention. “What do you mean by ghostly village?”
“It’s true, I’m sorry to say,” Jeannette said, confirming her best friend’s description. “The town itself always seemed drab as a black and white movie from way back when we were born, all the houses a dreary gray with matching roofs, white ghostly linen hanging out to dry on clotheslines.”
Fabienne piped in saying, “There’s not much in the way of amenities, businesses, and such there either. At least there wasn’t back when we visited.”
“Oh, you are so right,” Jeannette said. “You probably think Reynier has little to offer, Maurelle, but at least it now has a wine shop, a post office, a furniture shop, a hotel, and a decent restaurant. Saint-Julien has merely the basics. But I suppose it may have grown since we saw it last.”
“I really did enjoy visiting there though,” Fabienne said. “It may not be the loveliest village, but what it lacks in man-made beauty, it more than makes up for in natural beauty.”
“Yes,” Jeannette said. “But do you remember the old Roman bridge that crosses to the beach on the right bank of the river?”
“Oh, I had completely forgotten about that. I tell you, Maurelle, it’s not a good thing, this growing old. Your brain starts to go, right along with your joints and your hair. Dave thinks I’m a liar when in fact half of my supposed lies are really only my forgetfulness.”
Jeannette laughed at that.
Fabienne said, “I do remember that we used to go boating, the four of us, in the river. We would swim and lay on the beach and soak in the sun. My favorite pastime on those sunny outings was gazing across the river, taking in the view of the village, watching the small cascades gush out of the cliffs through the terraced gardens and arched garden walls.”
“Oh,” Jeannette said excitedly, �
�and I loved to go to the town square in the centre of the village and wade through the stream that meandered right through the middle.”
She stopped and Fabienne asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Well, I guess the man-made things in town weren’t quite as drab as I first remembered,” Jeannette said, smiling.
“I told you that our brains don’t work as well as they used to, didn’t I?” Fabienne said, laughing.
“Your village sounds delightful,” Maurelle said. “I can’t wait to see it.” For the first time in months, she was actually looking forward to something instead of looking behind her.
“We should be there in another hour, I think,” Fabienne said, “though I would rather you slowed down a bit. If it takes longer, I won’t mind.”
Maurelle glanced over at Fabienne who was nervously twisting her hands in her lap, and she let up her foot from the gas pedal, slowing down enough to allow the older woman to relax, but not enough to impede traffic. Drops of rain had begun to splatter the windshield, and though the drops were intermittent, she herself was getting nervous.
Maurelle was reasonably comfortable driving on the wrong side of the road now, and was getting used to driving through a winding gorge. She didn’t mind driving in heavy rain either. But the dreadfully real possibility of combining all three was jangling her nerves.
An hour later, while searching for signs that would tell her where to turn off the main road to get to Saint-Julien, a deafening thunder crash startled all three women, causing Jeannette to scream, and nearly making Maurelle swerve off the slippery road. Maurelle gritted her teeth and grasped the steering wheel as she craned her neck, trying desperately to see through the increased torrential downpour. Just what we need. Why can’t anything ever be easy?
She wiped away beads of perspiration forming on her forehead. After another fifteen minutes, she saw a signpost that listed Saint-Julien-du-Tarn, which meant they were at least on the right track and nearing the town.
“We’re getting close,” she said.
“Oh, thank God,” Fabienne said, clasping her hands together. “I have never been so frightened.” She leaned forward toward Maurelle, and added, “It wasn’t because of you, dear. You did a wonderful job. We—Jeannette and I—were frightened because we were reminded of something, a horrible experience we shared years ago.”
“What happened?” As Maurelle listened, she set the windshield wipers to a slower setting. The rain had reduced its intensity from fire-hydrant gushing to fountain spraying.
“It was sixty-three years ago,” Fabienne said. “It’s silly that we should be scared of a bad storm after all this time, really.”
Jeannette picked up the story from there. “We grew up in Candes-St.-Martin in the Indre-Loire region. You knew that we grew up together, didn’t you? That was before we moved to Paris.”
“Yes, Fabienne told me,” Maurelle said, thinking how wonderful it was that these women had maintained their friendship throughout their long lives. She, herself, had good friends when she was in school, but they’d all gone their separate ways.
“Well, there was a horrible storm on our way to school one day,” Jeannette said. “My older brother was driving us in our family truck. The road was slippery like today, the visibility terrible. Anyway, he lost control of the truck and slid off the road, crashing into a tree. After that, neither of us have had any desire to drive.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Was anyone hurt in the crash?”
“My brother died. Fabienne was in a coma for two weeks because of a bad concussion,” Jeannette said. “I only suffered bruises and a broken arm.”
“How terrible. I’m really sorry. I should have found a place to stop and wait for the storm to pass.”
“No, no,” Jeannette said. “We made it through fine. Anyway, we are looking forward to getting to Saint-Julien. You did the right thing, continuing through the storm. Don’t feel bad.”
Fabienne said, “That’s right. Actually, you are a much better driver than my Claude ever was. If he had been driving through this storm, Jeannette and I would have huddled on the floor so we couldn’t see what he was doing. Charles would have split his side howling with laughter at us.”
Jeannette broke out laughing and Fabienne joined in.
Maurelle was glad to hear the women laughing again. She doubted that she was a better driver than Claude had been, since she didn’t have a great deal of experience considering that she mostly used public transportation in London. She figured they were only being nice, but it made her feel better anyway. And at least the three women were getting along now.
When Dave returned to his hotel room, he pulled out his phone and dialed his grandmother’s phone number. Still no answer. He missed Maurelle and really wanted to talk to her, not only to let her know what was happening, but also to ask her some more questions about the Raybourne family.
He tried calling several more times throughout the evening while he watched television and scoured the internet for anything new. When he still couldn’t reach them, he called Jeannette’s and Coralie’s phone numbers.
No answer there either. Seeing no other option, he dialed Simone’s number.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As the rain began to abate, daylight returned, providing frequent glimpses of sheer cliff walls bordering the roadway on her right, glistening with moisture, and faint misty shadows of more distant cliffs and mountainsides, once again dividing Maurelle’s attention between her driving and the awe inspiring scenery.
“Oh look,” Fabienne blurted in excitement, pointing ahead. “We’re coming to the first tunnel. That means we’re close to Saint-Julien.”
Jeannette tapped Maurelle on the shoulder. “Dear, you’ll need to turn on the headlights. I don’t like the darkness. These tunnels are close together, one after another and they’re pitch-black.”
Maurelle switched on the headlights and was happy to have been warned. Jeanette was indeed correct. These tunnels were very narrow, curvy and long, carved through the mountain’s core, without any electric lighting. Driving without lights would have been really spooky, not to mention more than a bit dangerous. A few minutes later, after they exited the final tunnel, Fabienne had her made a sharp right turn onto a narrow road posted to be the turn-off leading to Saint-Julien.
Ten minutes later, after they drove through the final tunnel, they made another sharp turn to the right and followed the narrow road going into Saint-Julien.
“Oh, there it is,” Fabienne said, clapping her hands together as they approached the village.
Maurelle smiled. Everything looked fresh and beautiful after the cleansing rain. The clouds had floated away, leaving a clear view of mid-evening sun and a faint breeze delivering the pleasing scent of summer freshness. They drove into the tiny village, which looked, at least to Maurelle, like a smaller version of Reynier. The hill behind it, however, was far more vertical, which meant the houses and businesses butted right up against a straight rock wall. On the opposite side of town was another shorter jagged vertical wall that dropped down to a roiling river below.
Fabienne said, “It’s been a long time.”
“It certainly has,” Jeannette said. “Too long. How could we have thought it drab?”
“We won’t have electricity or water at the house, but tomorrow we can buy propane for the stove, bottled water for drinking, and oil lanterns or candles for light.”
Maurelle popped in. “Shouldn’t we stop at the general store then and pick up something for tonight, if not for lighting, at least snacks and drinks?”
“No. It’s too late, past seven already. The shops close early here. Tomorrow we’ll buy what we need. I’m too tired, anyway, to go shopping. I just want to rest.”
Worried, Jeannette said, “Dear me, we should have brought things with us.”
“I know, but we didn’t have time,” Fabienne said. She clicked her tongue, apparently annoyed at Jeannette who leaned back against the seat, pouting. “Maurelle, you
should follow the main road. It’ll go up an incline at the town edge. That’s where you’ll find my little house.”
Maurelle nodded. As she drove, the road turned and angled up, becoming narrower and almost hidden under a tunnel of tree branches, making her worry that she would run right into the rock wall. Her fears quickly vanished when the road ended in front of a lonely stone cottage, half-hidden amid overgrown bushes and situated directly in front of the rock wall.
“Oh, Fabienne whispered, tears streaking down her face. “I can almost see Claude standing by the door, waiting for us.”
Maurelle stopped the car and they all climbed out. As Fabienne and Maurelle walked across the weed-filled yard, with Jeannette right on their heels, Maurelle put her arm around Fabienne’s shoulder. The older woman instinctively pulled away slightly, but then looked up and gave a small smile.
Spears of light pierced the overgrown canopy in places, providing spotty illumination and allowing the three to find the front door, which was painted light chocolate to match the shutters covering the windows on the outside. Some of the paint had peeled off the door and shutters, revealing a dwelling in severe need of care.
“I hope you remembered the keys,” Jeannette said, between huffs of breath as she trudged up the path to the door. “Wouldn’t that be our luck if you left them back in Reynier?”
“Well, I’m forgetful but I’m not that senile yet,” Fabienne snapped. When they reached the front door, Fabienne dug through her handbag, looking for the keys. “Well, I know I put them in here,” she mumbled.
“Ha,” Jeannette said, “not senile, she says.”
A second later, Fabienne yanked out the keys and waved them in the air defiantly.
Her hands trembled as she tried to stick the key in the lock, and Maurelle sensed that strong emotion rather than feebleness was to blame for Fabienne’s clumsiness.
The key eventually entered the lock but did not want to turn.
Several tries later, with much key jiggling and grunting, Fabienne was able to get the lock to work, and she pushed the door open. It was too dark to see much inside.
