The Prisoner of Castillac (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 3)

by Nell Goddin

  The root cellar for the rest of her life? No. Valerie felt something like a cozy blanket fall over her body—a comforting, warm feeling, if a little suffocating—because she knew very well why Achille was carrying the crowbar, and she understood that he was going to deliver her from the agony of seven years that she saw no other way to end.

  Perhaps having her head bashed in wouldn’t be pleasant, but at least it would be quick, and she would never have to go in the root cellar again. She could at least die outside, with a breeze on her face and the sun shining on her.

  Achille led her through the back field. He felt as though he wanted this awful thing to occur as far from his house as possible while still remaining on his land. Valerie was doing her usual thing of veering away from him, pulling on the rope and stumbling, and he felt irritated with her. With a thudding feeling in his belly he understood that his plan had a gaping hole in it—

  —he had not even considered what he would do with her body, once it was over. He had too many things to think about, and with Sutton breathing down his neck it was impossible to think clearly!

  He would just have to do it now and figure that part out later. He could always bury her in the woods—the woods went on and on and there was no way to search it all. Whatever needed doing, he would find a way to do it. He was a man now.

  Do it do it do it

  They passed the graves of his mother and father, under an oak in the middle of the field, a small pair of headstones side by side in the shade. If only they really were still alive, like he’d told Sutton. If only his father was still here to make things right.

  If only he were in the house eating cannelés that Aimée made for him, and all this fuss and bother were behind him.

  His grip tightened on the crowbar. Should I do it in the woods or in the field? he wondered. Does it make any difference?

  Valerie walked along behind him, eyeing Achille’s hand on the crowbar. Her body was flooded with adrenaline and it made her thinking sharp. Was there any way she could wrestle that crowbar away from him and bash his head in? I would have to be very very lucky, she thought.

  “La li la,” she sang, with a dreamy expression on her face. She tried to make her limbs look floppy and relaxed even as she watched for any chance to grab the crowbar.

  Bourbon ran along behind them, watching them both. A dormouse rustled at the edge of the field but she paid no attention.

  Thinking of Molly Sutton, Achille stopped suddenly. He turned and raised his arm, waving the crowbar above his head. “I am sorry!” he said, pausing an instant before bringing it down towards Valerie’s head.

  But Bourbon was faster than Achille. She sprang between them, clamping her jaws around Achille’s wrist so that he yelled and dropped the crowbar. Valerie screamed and ran but the rope yanked her back as it pulled Achille towards her.

  Achille was in shock, rubbing his wrist, unable to comprehend what had happened.

  Bourbon was running around behind them, circling, yipping, urging them back towards the farmhouse, and before long Achille moved in the direction Bourbon wanted him to, and Valerie stumbled along behind, the crowbar left behind in the field to rust.

  39

  Now that the rental season was underway (though bookings were still a little spotty for some weeks) Fridays were the calm before the whirlwind at La Baraque. On Saturdays Molly said goodbye to one set of guests, then she and Constance got everything cleaned up just in time to welcome the next set of guests. So there was no way to do any of Saturday’s jobs ahead of time. Nothing to do but enjoy the easy Friday by puttering in the garden and thinking about how lovely it had been to hold Ben’s hand when they walked in the woods the other day.

  Not that Molly was interested in romance anymore. No, that chapter was closed, and all to the good. I have Bobo to keep me company, she thought just as Bobo came flying around the house with something smelly in her mouth, then leapt in the air and streaked back in the other direction and out of sight.

  She had almost gotten the nasty vines out of the front border. It had taken months, but the border no longer looked like a jungle and it was time to take a trip to a gardening center to see what was available for planting. A lot of the flowers she loved—peonies and poppies, for starters—wouldn’t bloom until next year. Molly wasn’t that great at delaying reward, but she was trying to learn. Or rather, La Baraque was teaching her whether she liked it or not.

  “Molly?” said a hesitant voice.

  She leapt to her feet, startled and on her guard. But it was only Thomas, on his bike, looking sheepish.

  “Good heavens, Thomas, you scared me.” She took off her gardening gloves and tossed them on top of the trowel, then brushed her hands together.

  Thomas smiled awkwardly and came over to kiss cheeks, Molly stiffening at his touch. “Sorry, Molls, I know what you mean, though. Things are unsettled in the village again. I swear, until those women started disappearing, back whenever that was? Before that, Castillac was just your typical sleepy little town. Not murders and abductors left and right like it is now.”

  Molly nodded. “Yeah, it does feel a little like I dropped into the Bermuda Triangle of the Dordogne. So, um, what can I do for you?” She felt a little uncomfortable chatting away with Thomas after the hurt he had caused Constance. Of course, it was none of Molly’s business. But at the same time she didn’t want to act as though nothing was any different, either.

  “Listen, Molly. I…I value your…your wisdom…”

  Molly waited. Thomas squeezed the handbrakes on his bike over and over, and looked everywhere but at Molly.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Thomas, just come out with it!”

  “I want Constance back!”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really! Molly, it was a stupid thing I did. I let Simone…I mean, I can’t put the blame on her, I know it was me…but oh man, I don’t want to be with Simone. We’re not suited to each other, we’re really not—”

  “So you’ve broken up with her?”

  “Well, not yet, I mean, I’m about to—”

  After pointedly rolling her eyes, Molly turned away and put her gardening gloves back on. “Well, what’s stopping you? You want to find out if Constance will take you back before you break it off with Simone? You realize that makes you a—” She stopped herself, realizing that her mastery of profanity was incomplete because she didn’t know the French word for what she wanted to say. “And anyway, this is a conversation you should have with Constance, not me.”

  Thomas was hanging his head. “I know, I know,” he mumbled. “It’s just that I think I might have one more chance—maybe—and I’m afraid I’ll blow it.”

  Molly shrugged. She squatted down and yanked out a vine with more force than usual.

  “Say,” said Thomas, “didn’t you know that kid who disappeared? I thought I saw you talking to him at the market a few weeks ago.”

  Molly was about to give the root a hard wrench but she paused. “What little kid?” she asked, slowly.

  “Name’s Gilbert Renaud. Everyone in the village is talking about it. Why aren’t you coming to Chez Papa as much as you used to? I was there last night—Frances and Lawrence were hoping you’d show up.”

  “You’re saying Gilbert Renaud is missing?”

  “That’s what I heard. Was at school yesterday, got home, hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Thanks, Thomas, for telling me that. I’ve got to go.” And she turned and ran inside the house, looking for her cell to call Ben. A young boy—that was a whole different thing. It didn’t fit with their theories at all, it must be a different perpetrator than the one who took Valerie. She needed to find out what Ben thought, what the gendarmes were likely to do…

  Oh, that sweet little boy. A mischievous glint in his eye, if she had understood him right. It was impossible that anything bad should happen to him. His mother seemed slightly unhinged but Molly had decided she was just over-protective, as any single mother might be. And no
w…either the mother had been correct to worry, or the mother…but no, Molly couldn’t believe she had anything to do with it.

  * * *

  Early Friday morning Perrault and Maron met at the station. They now had both a murder and a missing child to investigate, and sorely felt the absence of Benjamin Dufort.

  “Just call him up,” urged Perrault. “I bet anything he’d be happy to help. From what I hear he’s not exactly cut out for farm work.”

  “He resigned his post,” said Maron, glumly. “I can’t—”

  “Well, I can,” said Perrault. “Tell me what you want me to do this morning and when I’m on my way I’ll call and ask if there’s any way he would at least be willing to consult with us. Informally, of course.” As far as Perrault was concerned, once a detective, always a detective, and she couldn’t believe Dufort wouldn’t want to get in on these interesting cases. And also restore order in Castillac as soon as possible.

  Maron pressed his lips together and looked out the window. They had done everything they could for Erwan Caradec, but so far it was turning out to be a perfect murder: no evidence, no suspects, and no further ideas for where to look for either one.

  He turned back to Perrault with a sigh. She was asking for direction but he had none to give her. “The Caradec investigation is a brick wall, as far as I can tell. Are you seeing something I’m not? Because all I see is a murder with no apparent motive. Like someone in the village or visiting the village just walked down the street one day and decided to snap the man’s neck for fun. What are we missing?”

  Perrault stopped herself from answering too quickly. She sat down and closed her eyes, imagining Erwan’s last moments. Imagined that she was Erwan, standing in the sunshine by the alley on rue Saterne, pleasantly drunk, happy that spring had come. She waited, hoping that her imagination would guide someone into view, but got nothing.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally. “Obviously whoever killed him did it for some reason, we just haven’t been able to figure out what it was. What about little Gilbert? I’m not sure there’s anything else to be gotten from his mother. I guess all that’s left is for us to start searching? I could round up some friends to help, and we could at least cover the Renaud farm and anyplace else you can think of where he might be.”

  “Not yet. First go over to the school and talk to his teachers, the principal, and his friends. Let’s see if they can give us some guidance on where we might look more efficiently.”

  “You’re thinking he’s just run away?”

  Maron shrugged. “Could be.” He narrowed his eyes at Perrault. “I know you’re thinking about Valerie Boutillier, now that we might have another abduction on our hands. But one thing I think I could bet my career on is that the same person did not snatch Valerie and Gilbert. Entirely different profiles, if that’s in fact what has happened to Gilbert.”

  “How lovely it would be if it turned out to be one person doing it all—Valerie, Gilbert, and Erwan.” said Perrault.

  “In your dreams,” said Maron. “Now get going. See if Gilbert had any reason to run away. Don’t be afraid to lean on his friends if you think they know anything. We’ll start organizing the search as soon as you get back.”

  40

  A part of Valerie had wanted that crowbar to hit her skull, had even prayed for it to come down hard and finish her in an instant. But it is not so easy to wish for death, even when your circumstances are horrendous and have been so for what seems an eternity. So even as she prayed for deliverance, another part of her rose up to fight against the assault. Bourbon had saved her, but making the effort—struggling to live—had woken her up and brought her back to herself.

  No longer lost, not drifting, but once again fiercely clinging to the faith that she would—somehow, some way—get out of the root cellar and away from the disturbed man who had held her prisoner for so long.

  Achille came in the next morning after the milking, as he always did, bringing her breakfast of fresh milk and toast with strawberry jam, her favorite. He did not look her in the eye and when she reached out for the jug of milk he startled violently.

  “Achille,” she said softly, trying to soothe him, thinking correctly that a nervous Achille was more dangerous than a calm one. “It’s all right. Nothing has changed between us. I’m still your Valerie.” She worked to arrange her face in an affectionate expression and he flicked his eyes in her direction but then looked away again.

  “It’s just…” he started to say, and then stopped, because the memory of raising the crowbar over her head burned in his memory and in the moment he could think of nothing else. “I do love you,” he said softly, and the words seemed to cause his insides to sag, almost to collapse, and now instead of the crowbar what he saw was his mother’s drooping shoulders as she was led to the car for the last time, being taken to the hospital where he wasn’t allowed to visit.

  It had been the last time he saw her. She hadn’t turned to wave, or given him a hug or kiss goodbye. He understood, now, that she was lost in her thoughts and that her thoughts were racing and racing and it was like being a passenger on a runaway train and there was no way to stop or control it.

  And then in a burst of shame and horror, Achille suddenly remembered Gilbert. He had given the boy no dinner and nothing soft to sleep on. He had chained the boy to the bolt in the floor and then forgotten all about him.

  He mumbled something to Valerie and hurried off.

  Valerie heard him running to the barn and wondered what was going on. I don’t have much time, she thought. He’ll try again, and next time I might not be so lucky.

  And then she saw something that she hadn’t seen in seven years. At first she couldn’t believe it. Had Achille really, after all these vigilant years with never a mistake, just left the root cellar without locking it behind him?

  Slowly she crept towards the door. It was not even latched properly, and an inch, a whole inch of sunlight was pouring through the crack between the door and the sill. She stared at it.

  Valerie listened. A rooster crowed in the distance, the cows mooed in the west pasture, birds were singing their hearts out in the May sunshine. She hesitated. She thought she could hear talking but that too was unimaginable and she wondered if all of it—the open door, the sound of talking, the birds—was a hallucination.

  Long moments slipped by in the damp root cellar as she stood looking at the cracked-open door and the light coming in.

  And then she gathered every bit of strength and hope that she had, put her hand on the door, and pushed it open. She looked around the farmyard but did not see Achille or Bourbon anywhere. But there was the tractor, its snout pointing towards the road, to freedom. She had never driven one before but she knew how to work a clutch. All she had to do was run and get on it and drive away, out of this nightmare and back into her life.

  She ran as fast as she could though that was no longer very fast at all. Her legs were weak and shaky and her heart thumped. She swung up into the seat easily enough, almost choking with emotion. The key was in the ignition and she touched it with her fingers, then quickly settled her feet on the clutch and accelerator.

  She turned the key.

  The tractor sputtered to life and then died.

  Valerie knew the sound would bring Achille running from wherever he was. She turned the key again, and again the engine caught. She eased up on the clutch and pressed the accelerator but too hard. It coughed twice and went dead.

  “Come ON!” she said. She turned the key again and again, flooding the engine so that it no longer even sputtered.

  When she looked up, Achille was already halfway across the farmyard, Bourbon at his heels. Valerie thought she heard someone shouting, someone inside the barn? But Achille never allowed anyone in the barn, not even the men he sold his milk to.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he said to her, not sounding angry so much as wounded. “Where do you think you’re going, Valerie? You know you belong here with me. With
me always.” He pried her fingers off the ignition key, wrapped one arm around her and lifted her off the seat like she was no heavier than a sack of feed.

  In their seven years together, Achille had never touched Valerie except incidentally: brushing against her while moving around the small root cellar, or when she would stumble into him while on one of their walks. It had been one thing she could be grateful for. But now Achille put both his arms around her and hugged her. His head dropped onto her shoulder and she could feel him trembling, as though his insides were shaking and would not stop.

  More than anything, Achille wanted control over his world. And now any semblance of that was splintering into a million pieces, and he felt nothing but dread. He would lose Valerie, Aimée, and Bourbon. His girls. He would lose them all.

  They would come for him just as they had come for his mother.

  He let out a cry of anguish and hugged Valerie more tightly before leading her back into the root cellar, and this time, he made sure the padlock was secure before he went away.

  * * *

  Molly took her time at the market that Saturday. She was feeling a little annoyed at Ben, thinking that he must know about Gilbert’s disappearance but had not called to tell her about it or discuss whether it was connected to their investigation of Valerie. She knew she was being childish but she didn’t want to call him first and hoped she might run into him at the market.

  She had a long talk with Manette about her mother-in-law’s latest ailments (which Manette was positive were more imagined than anything else), another long talk with Rémy about the problem of soil depletion and what needed to be done about it, and yet another with Raoul, the pig farmer, about the best way to roast pork, as well as the latest decisions of the government that were too atrocious to be borne.

  The whole time she talked with her friends she was aware of an undercurrent of anxiety, felt not only by her but by the other villagers too. In the last week there had been a murder and then a child had disappeared. The illusion of safety felt irreparably torn and all the friendly conversations in the world weren’t going to repair it, though they all persevered, because what else could they do?