Peter worked on his computer all that afternoon, and finally at four o'clock, he decided to call Suchard, and then felt foolish once he did it. This time Paul-Louis took the call from the laboratory but he was curt with him, and told Peter he had no further news. He had already promised to call the moment the final tests were finished.
“I know, I'm sorry … I just thought …” Peter felt stupid for being so impatient, but Vicotec meant so much to him, more than to anyone else, and it was on his mind constantly. That, and Olivia Thatcher. It became impossible to work finally, and at five o'clock, he decided to go to the pool and see if he could burn off some of his tension by swimming.
He looked for Olivia in the elevator, and at the spa. He looked for her everywhere, but he didn't see her. He wondered where she was today, what she thought about the night before. If it was a rare interlude for her, or a kind of turning point. He found that he was haunted by everything they had said, the way she'd looked, the deeper meaning of everything she'd told him. He kept seeing those huge brown eyes, the innocence of her face, the earnestness of her expression, and the slim figure in the white T-shirt as she walked away. Even swimming didn't exorcise her from his mind, and he didn't feel much better when he went back upstairs and turned the television on. He needed something, anything, to distract him from the voices in his head, the vision of a woman he barely knew, and the worry of Vicotec going down the drain with Suchard's testing.
The world was in its usual state when he watched CNN. There was trouble in the Middle East, a small earthquake in Japan, and a bomb scare at the Empire State Building in New York that had driven thousands of terrified people into the street, which only served to remind him of the night before, as he watched Olivia walk out of the Place Vendome and followed her. And as he thought of it, he suddenly wondered if he was losing his mind. The announcer on CNN had just said her name, and there was a blurred photograph of her back in the white T-shirt, as she hurried away, and an even fuzzier photograph of a man a good distance behind her. But all you could see was the back of his head, and no other distinguishing feature.
“The wife of Senator Anderson Thatcher disappeared last night, during a bomb threat at the Hotel Ritz in Paris. She was seen walking from the Place Vendome at a hurried pace, and this man was photographed following her. But no further information about him is known, whether he was following her maliciously, or according to plan, or simply by coincidence. He was not one of her bodyguards, and no one seems to know anything about him.” Peter realized instantly that the photograph was of him as he first followed her from the square, but fortunately no one had recognized him, and it was impossible to identify him from the picture. “Mrs. Thatcher has not been seen since approximately midnight last night, and there are no further reports about her. A night watchman says he thought he saw her come in early this morning, but other reports claim that she never returned to the hotel after this photograph was taken. It is impossible to say at this time if there has been foul play, or if perhaps, with so much political strain, she has simply gone somewhere, perhaps to take respite with friends in or near Paris for a few hours, although as time goes on that appears less and less likely. The only thing we do know for certain is that Olivia Douglas Thatcher has vanished. This is CNN, Paris.” Peter stared at the screen in disbelief. A montage of photographs had just been shown of her, and as he continued to watch the TV, her husband came on, and a local reporter conducted an interview with him for the English-speaking channel Peter was watching. The reporter implied that she had been depressed for the past two years, ever since the death of their young son, Alex. And Andy Thatcher denied it. He also added that he felt sure that his wife was alive and well somewhere, and that if she had been taken by anyone, they would be hearing from the responsible group shortly. He seemed very sincere and amazingly calm. His eyes were dry, and he showed no signs of panic. The reporter said then that the police had been at the hotel with him and his staff all afternoon, manning the phones and waiting for word of her. But something about the way Andy Thatcher looked made Peter think he was whiling away the hours by working on his campaign, and not as frantic about his wife's whereabouts as anyone else would be. But Peter was suddenly terrified as he wondered what had happened to her after she had left him.
He had left her at the hotel shortly after 6 A.M., and he had seen her go into the hotel. What could possibly have happened to her? He felt more than a little responsible, and wondered if it was foul play, and if she had been grabbed on the way to her room. But as he turned it around in his mind, he kept stopping in the same place. The thought of kidnapping worried him so much, and yet it felt so wrong to him. And the words Agatha Christie kept rolling around in his head again and again. He couldn't bear the thought that something terrible might have happened to her, but the more he thought about it, the more he suspected that it hadn't. She had walked away the night before. She could easily have done it again. Maybe she really couldn't face going back to her life, although he knew that she felt she had to. But even last night she had told him that she didn't think she could do it for much longer.
Peter began pacing around his room as he thought about her, and a few minutes later, he knew what he had to do. It was awkward, certainly, but if her safety depended on it, it was worth it. He had to tell the senator that he had been out with her, where they'd gone, and that he had brought her back to the hotel that morning. He wanted to mention La Favière to him too, because the more Peter thought about it, the more certain he was that she had gone there. It was the one place where he knew instinctively she would take refuge. And as little as he knew her, it still seemed obvious to him. And although Andy Thatcher surely knew how much La Favière meant to her, perhaps he had overlooked it. Peter wanted to tell him about it now, and suggest that they send the police there at once to search for her. And if she wasn't there, then he felt sure she was truly in trouble.
Peter didn't waste time waiting for the elevator. He headed straight for the stairs, and ran up two flights to the floor where he knew they were staying. She had mentioned her room number the night before, and he saw instantly that there were police and secret service standing in the halls, conversing. They seemed subdued, but not in any particular gloom. Even right outside her suite, no one seemed particularly worried. And they watched him as he approached. He looked respectable, and had put his jacket on as he left his room. He was carrying his tie in his hand, and he wondered suddenly if Anderson Thatcher would see him. He didn't want to discuss this with anyone, and it was going to be embarrassing telling him that he had had coffee with his wife in Montmartre for six hours, but it seemed important to Peter to be honest with him.
When he reached the door, Peter asked to see the senator, and the bodyguard in charge asked if he was acquainted with him, and Peter had to admit that he wasn't. Peter told him who he was, and felt foolish for not having called first, but he had been in such a hurry the minute he realized she was gone, and wanted to share as quickly as possible where he thought she might be hiding.
As the bodyguard stepped into the suite, Peter could hear laughter and noise within, he could glimpse smoke, and he was aware of what sounded like a lot of conversation. It almost sounded like a party. He wondered if it had to do with search efforts to find Olivia, or if, as he had suspected earlier, they were actually discussing the campaign, or other political issues.
The bodyguard came back outside in an instant, and apologized politely for Senator Thatcher. Apparently, he was in a meeting, perhaps if Mr. Haskell would be good enough to call, they could discuss their business over the phone. He was sure Mr. Haskell would understand, in light of everything that had just happened. And as it so happened, Mr. Haskell would have. What he didn't understand was why they were laughing in that room, why people weren't scurrying around, why they weren't panicking over losing her. Did she do this all the time? Or did they just not care? Or did they suspect, as he did, that she had just had enough for now, and had taken a hike for a day or two to gather her w
its about her?
He was tempted to say that his message had to do with the senator's wife's whereabouts, but he knew he could have been wrong too, and he was realizing more clearly now, as he thought about it, how awkward it was going to be to explain their tryst of the night before in the Place de la Concorde. And why exactly had he followed her? Badly put, the whole thing could have created a huge scandal, for her as well as him. And he realized now that he had been wrong to come. He should have called, and he went back to his own room to do that. But as soon as he did, he saw her photograph on CNN again. This reporter was exploring the idea of suicide rather than kidnapping. They were showing old photographs of her dead child, and then shots of her at the funeral, crying. And the haunted eyes which stared back at him begged him not to betray her. They interviewed an expert on depression after that, and talked about the kind of crazy things people did when they lost hope, and they suspected Olivia Thatcher had when her son died. And Peter wanted to throw something at them. What did they know of her pain, her life, her grief? What right did they have to pick her life apart? They went all the way back to photographs of her at her wedding, and at her brother-in-law's funeral six months after she'd married Andy.
Peter had the phone in his hand when they began talking about the tragedies of the Thatcher family, starting with Tom Thatcher being assassinated six years before, the son who died, and now Olivia Thatcher's tragic disappearance. They were already calling it tragic when the operator came on and asked how she could help Peter. And he was about to give her the number of the Thatchers' room, and then just as suddenly, he knew he couldn't do it. Not yet. He had to see for himself first. And if she wasn't there, then he would know something had happened to her, and he would call Andy as soon as he could. In truth, he didn't owe her anything, but after the night before, he felt he owed her his silence. He just hoped that he wasn't risking her life by stalling until he got there.
And as he put the phone down again, the announcer on CNN was saying that thus far her parents, Governor Douglas and his wife, had not been available for comment on the mysterious disappearance of their daughter in Paris. The voice droned on, and Peter went to grab a sweater from the closet. He only wished he had brought a pair of jeans with him, but there had been no way of knowing he would have anywhere to use them. It was hardly the kind of thing he wore to meetings.
He called the desk after that, and after being told there were no more flights to Nice at this time of night, and the last train was leaving in five minutes, he asked for a car, and a map that would get him from Paris to the south of France, and when they offered him a driver, he explained that he wanted to drive himself, although it would certainly have been faster and easier with a driver. But it would also be much less private. They told him they'd have everything ready for him in an hour, and he should come to the front door and pick up the car, and the maps would be in it. It was just after seven then, and at eight o'clock, when he went downstairs, a new Renault was waiting for him, with a stack of maps on the front seat. And the doorman very obligingly explained to him how to get out of Paris. He had no bags with him, no luggage at all. All he'd brought was an apple, a bottle of Evian water, and his toothbrush in his pocket. And as he got behind the wheel of the car, it had a little bit of the flavor of a wild-goose chase. He had already worked out at the desk that, if he needed to, he could abandon the car in Nice or Marseilles, and fly back to Paris. But that was only if he didn't find her. If he did, he wondered if she'd ride back with him. At least they could talk on the way back. She obviously had a lot on her mind, and maybe he could help her sort it out on the road to Paris.
The Autoroute du Soleil was still fairly well traveled at that time of night, and it was only after he reached Only that the traffic began to thin out and he picked up some speed for the next two hours, until he reached Pouilly. And by then, Peter felt strangely peaceful. He wasn't sure why, but he felt as though he was doing the right thing for her. And for the first time in days, he felt free of all his encumbrances and all his worries. There was something about getting in a car and driving hard through the night that made him feel he had left all his troubles behind. It had been wonderful talking to her the night before, like finding a friend in an unexpected place. And as he drove, all he could see was her face, her eyes haunting him, just as they had the first time he saw her. He thought of her the night he had seen her in the pool too, swimming away from him, like a small, lithe black fish …and then running across the Place Vendome the night before, to freedom …the hopeless look in her eyes when she'd gone back …the sense of peace about her when she spoke of the little fishing village. It was crazy to follow her across France, and he was aware of it. He scarcely knew her. And yet, just as he had to follow her from the square the night before, he knew he had to do this now. For reasons still unknown to him, or anyone at that point, he had to find her.
Chapter Five
The road to La Favière was boring and long, but thanks to the speeds he was able to achieve, it went faster than he expected, and it took him exactly ten hours. He drove slowly into town at six o'clock, just as the sun came up. The apple was long since gone, and the Evian bottle was almost empty on the seat beside him. He had stopped for coffee once or twice, and had left the radio on to keep him awake. He drove with all the windows down, but now that he had reached his destination, he was truly exhausted. He had been awake all night, for the second time in two days, and even his excitement at being there and the adrenaline that had spurred him on were beginning to fade, and he realized he had to sleep an hour before he began his search for her. It was too early to look for her anyway. Except for the fishermen beginning to arrive at the dock, everyone in La Favière was still sleeping. Peter pulled off to the side of the road, and climbed into the backseat. It was cramped, but it was exactly what he needed.
It was nine o'clock when he woke, and he heard children playing near the car. Their voices were raised as they ran by, and Peter could hear seagulls overhead. There were a variety of sounds and noises as he sat up, feeling as though he had died. It had been a long night, and a long drive. But if he found her, it would be worth it. As he sat up and stretched, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and laughed. He looked a mess, definitely enough to frighten small children.
He combed his hair, and brushed his teeth with the last of the Evian, and looked as respectable as he could as he got out of the car to begin his search. He had no idea where to begin, and he slowly followed the children he'd heard, to the bakery, where he bought a pain au chocolat, and walked back outside to look out over the water. The fishing boats were already out, small tugs and little sailboats were still in port, and there were clumps of old people huddled in groups, discussing the state of things, as the younger men continued their fishing. The sun was high in the sky by then, and as Peter looked around, he decided she'd been right. It was the perfect place to escape to, peaceful, beautiful, and there was something about it that was very rare and warm, like an embrace from an old friend. And near the port was a long sandy beach. He finished his pain au chocolat, and began to walk slowly along the sand, wishing he had a cup of coffee. He felt mesmerized by the sun and the sea, and wondered how he would find her. He walked almost all the way down the beach, and sat on a rock, thinking of her, and wondering if she'd be angry if he found her, if she was even here, when he looked up and saw a slip of a girl come around the point from another beach just beyond it. She was barefoot, in T-shirt and shorts, she was small and slim and her dark hair was blowing in the breeze as she looked up at him and smiled, and he could only stare. It was as it was meant to be. So effortless, so simple. She was there, smiling at him from across the beach, as though she'd been waiting for him. And with a smile meant only for him, Olivia Thatcher walked slowly toward him.
“I don't suppose this is a coincidence,” she said softly as she sat down on the rock beside him. He was still more than a little overwhelmed, and he hadn't moved since he'd first seen her. He was too bowled over
by having found her.
“You told me you were going back,” he said, his eyes digging deep into hers, not angry, no longer surprised, simply there, and completely at ease with her.
“I was. I meant to. But when I got there, I found I couldn't.” She looked sad as she said it. “How did you know where I was?” she asked gently.
“I saw it on CNN.” He smiled, and she looked horrified.
'That I'm here?”
He laughed at the question. “No, my friend. They said only that you were gone. I spent the whole day imagining you back in your life as a senator's wife, however reluctantly, and at six o'clock I turned on the news, and there you were. Kidnapped, apparently, and they have a photograph of me following you out of the Place Vendôme, as your possible kidnapper, but fortunately you can't see much.” He was smiling. It was all so absurd, and a little bit crazy. He didn't say anything about some of the reports about her depression.
“Good Lord, I had no idea.” She looked pensive as she absorbed what he had just told her. “I was going to leave Andy a note, saying I'd be back in a few days. But in the end, I didn't do that either. I just left. And came here. I took the train,” she said by way of explanation, and he nodded, still trying to understand everything that had brought him here. He had followed her twice now, pulled by a force he couldn't explain but couldn't resist either. Her eyes looked deep into his, and neither of them moved. His eyes were a caress, but neither of them made any move to touch each other. “I'm glad you came,” she said softly.
“So am I …” And then he looked suddenly like a boy again, as the breeze ruffled his dark hair and swept it across his eyes. They were the color of the summer sky as he watched her. “I wasn't sure if you'd be angry if I found you.” He'd been worried about that all the way from Paris. She might have thought of his following her as an unforgivable intrusion.
Five Days in Paris Page 9
