by Ritter Ames
He remained in the doorway, all Mr. Calm. "We've been pushing hard for over twenty-four hours. We both need rest, food and time to figure out exactly how we want to proceed."
"I got a good catnap on the Chunnel train," I said. "That's what we pros do. We multi-task whenever an opportunity presents itself."
We needed to go to neutral corners, or I was afraid I would explode, and anger achieved nothing unless I wanted to give him the chance to know more about me on a personal level. Nope, never good. He already knew too much.
Those teal eyes of his held a wealth of sincerity, earnestness and sheer determination as they stared into mine. He should have been on the stage.
He looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I have an errand I must make. I swear I will be back soon. It is a prior commitment, you understand? We will go together to Puy—you know when we talked we agreed two are better than one on this, since so many things have gone wrong."
Nice euphemism for murder in the plural.
"If two are better than one, why am I not going with you? Maybe you or I have become the next target. Isn't splitting up a way to make murdering one of us easier?"
Or maybe you are even the murderer. No, I didn't believe it, he didn't seem like the murderer type, but how would I really know?
Jack left his post near the door and approached me, putting his hands on my shoulders. The grip of his fingers felt strong, powerful and sure. "I don't think either of us is in danger at this moment. I doubt if anyone knows where we are or that we are even together. Except for Nico, of course."
He sighed in such a heartfelt way I almost felt sorry for him. Schmuck.
In his 'trust me' voice, he continued, "I know you're used to doing things your own way, and you've been really successful. I, too, am used to working on my own, but I'm ready to attempt this temporary partnership. Will you at least try to trust me a little?"
I remained motionless and stared up at him. Something uneasy and strange was happening. If I didn't know better, I'd say that somewhere deep inside I wanted to trust him.
For my eighth birthday, my father had promised to take me to the zoo. He had shown up hours too late, and even at eight I recognized when he had been drinking. The last time I'd fully believed a man meant what he said.
I wasn't sure I was ready to break the trend now. I'd learned long ago to go my own way and make my own decisions. But I wasn't sure I wanted Jack to know that. Time to play along and let events take their own nosedives.
"I will try to trust you. It's difficult." I pulled away. Pushing my things to one side, I sat on the bed. "I agree food and sleep are important, but only for me? Where are you going and what's so vital?"
None of it was any of my business, I knew, but if one didn't ask one lost the only opportunity to find out.
"Geneva," he said. "It's a short distance from here. I have a prior commitment I must meet."
"And your rest? Still not answering my questions, Jack? I thought we were partners."
"I'll return in a few hours. We'll make Le Puy by ten tomorrow morning. I see no reason for us to get there earlier—"
"Tomorrow?" All thought of remaining calm flew away in an instant. "Leaving later this afternoon could put us there tonight. Even if we do take some time to rest. I don't want to wait until tomorrow. When Max gave me this assignment, he said it had to be accomplished in two days. Yesterday was day one, and today is day two."
"And that was when you were supposed to meet Simon and do little more than play mule to get the sword back to the States. Things have changed, Laurel, and our plans must change as well."
I hadn't realized I'd risen and assumed the classic Wonder Woman pose, but I could feel the testosterone channeling through my veins. "I want this finished now, Hawkes. Have you forgotten Simon? We don't have time for surprise side trips. If you think your business is more important than a man's life, I think this temporary partnership is permanently dissolved."
His gaze remained calm and watchful. "I've forgotten nothing, Laurel. I know you're worried about your friend, but I must insist we slow down a bit and take time to think everything through. While I don't feel we're in any particular danger here, I don't want to rush into something until I'm sure. Until we're sure," he said, emphasizing the "we're" as though I had any power in this one-sided arrangement, "that we won't be adding to the final body count because we didn't practice caution."
No sense in digging a hole next to the ocean. It'll just fill up with more water.
I looked down at the floor and cleared my expression, deliberately relaxing my muscles of all anger before looking him dead in the eye. "Of course, what you're saying makes perfect sense. You're right, my emotional involvement with Simon is affecting my professional decisions. Thank you for the timely reminder."
I stretched out on the bed, closing my eyes. "I know you drove and did all the work, but you're right, I'm pooped—too tired even to shower. Hope things go well in Geneva. Maybe see you in time for dinner?"
Silence. The old-fashioned clock on the table next to me slowly clicked away the seconds as he stood there. Maybe I had acquiesced too soon, but what did it really matter? The result would still be the same. He would go to Geneva no matter what my argument, and I would be happily stranded at this "great place."
I kicked off my shoes, and their landing clunk sounded loud in the room.
His voice was soft when he said, "Don't wait too long to eat, Laurel. You're looking a little peaked. I should return in time for dinner. Why don't we plan for seven?"
"Whatever you say." I even managed to slur my words a little as I pulled the delicate afghan up and over my legs with my big toe.
The quiet latching of the door signaled his departure. I stayed still, waiting for his next move. His reasoning might have been sound, but I couldn't trust him, and although my body was cold and achy in the certain way that showed it needed rest, sleep offered no temptation. My mind raced at a hundred miles an hour. No way was I waiting until tomorrow to get to Le Puy.
What the hell was he doing in Geneva? Not that I would ever know. Where the hell was Simon? Where was Moran's mysterious estate? Where was the sword? Was there a sword? What were the murders all about? Who in the world was Jack and why in the world was I having a thing to do with him?
I hated when hit by an avalanche of questions without an answer to any one of them. It was time to stop thinking and work to move this investigation forward.
All I knew at the moment was I needed to get to Le Puy-en-Velay and check out the cathedral. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but that was the next stop in my travelogue for this job. Whatever was or was not happening between Jack and I didn't change the facts of this operation. It was time to regroup and regain a lead. I could sleep later.
I'd hoped for more intel from Nico by now, but my phone remained message free. I pulled Hawkes's phone from my bra. Gerry might stink as a pickpocket, but his teaching skills were brilliant. With Jack's hands on my shoulders, and his mind focused on the speech he delivered so persuasively, there was plenty of time for me to get the goods.
I scanned his message menu but the paranoid bastard apparently deleted his messages regularly. I texted Nico and reminded what I needed ASAP. No point in duplicating our efforts, especially since I didn't have any extra time. Who knew when Jack might return, and I wanted to be gone long before then.
I searched our bags for Jack's bugging paraphernalia, and momentarily appreciated his inventiveness while despising his methods. Trust him? Brother! Whatever his game, he played it too close to the chest.
I grabbed my daypack, stuffed in the necessary items for a few days, and stored the rest in the ancient wardrobe. I laid Jack's bugs on top to make sure they were the first things he saw upon his return. If there was a return.
I checked that the door was locked and took a quick shower, carrying everything important with me into the en suite. I left enough money to pay for the room for at least a week in an envelope addressed to the concierge
on the highly polished dresser, with a large tip and note to please hold my belongings for later pickup.
Before I left, I looked around the room with its generous rose-colored recliner complete with quilt and a window view of the mountains, and knew at any other time I would have enjoyed staying here . . . shades of Lake Tahoe and the vacation I still deserved. A bit regretfully, I pulled the door closed and crept down the stairs. I stopped by the kitchen and asked for a portable lunch as though going for a long hike.
The cook and his helper provided me with a cup of the delicious coffee only the French could make, liberally dousing the black richness with the thick farm cream I denied myself when in the States. I sipped the coffee as I waited, savoring each to-die-for sip and desultorily tried to follow the heated discussion about dogs, kitchens, and hygiene between the two men. By the amount of hand gesturing and rising voices, I figured this was a long-standing debate between the pair.
The helper offered to refill my cup, but I regretfully declined, and he handed me the wrapped sandwiches and fruit. Thanking them both in terrible schoolgirl French, I stuffed the sandwiches in my crowded pack to the accompaniment of tongue clicking, scolding and sighs.
"Even smashed it will still taste good," I insisted, knowing the men probably didn't understand. I did my best to ask for some simple directions, and they reciprocated with a lot of hand gestures. I pushed in the two bottles of water they included, wedging the glass past the sandwiches and into some rolled t-shirts. Between my rusty French, their broken English, and a lot of hand waving, they explained how to find the nearest town, as well as several hiking trails in the area. I said my thanks and stepped through the back door, almost getting knocked down by a large, undeterminable breed of dog who rushed past me and set off a cacophony of banging pots and shouts.
I escaped, stepped onto the marked winding drive and headed toward the quiet street. The flowerbeds were overgrown with beautiful but fading varieties of flowers, the grounds glowed with green life, and the surrounding vineyards burst with fall fruits.
I knew from my guidebook the Massif Central area of Auvergne had four departments, and I was in the Haute-Loire. The largest town in all of Auvergne was Clermont-Ferrand, but it was some distance from where I was and wasn't my objective.
Instead, I headed for Brioude, a town large enough to get me to the next stop in my journey. Renting a car with my own identification left too easy a trail for Hawkes to follow. A bus offered the easiest route because it was the least monitored transportation option. I think I was only about an hour away from Le Puy so a bus ride wouldn't be so bad. In fact, I would take the time to doze just as Jack requested. Ha!
It was cool, and I was grateful for my jacket and jeans. The overcast sky matched my mood. I longed for another cup of coffee but pushed the thought away as well as all the other voices in my head, turning on my iPod and blasting myself with Nirvana, System of a Down, Pearl Jam and Sheryl Crow while I focused on the task ahead—getting to Le Puy.
Road traffic was spotty. I caught a ride in a tiny Citroen, but had to be dropped off by the couple when their plans took them left and I needed to go right. I'd walked about a mile and was turning the corner on the deserted road when I became aware of another sound growing in volume over my music. The sound of a motor. I removed the ear buds to see if I could get another ride.
The slight sound turned quickly into a loud roaring. Out of nowhere, a motorcycle hurtled my way. Not a little crotch-rocket, but a heavy, ugly-looking monster, traveling my direction and going way too fast.
I needed to get off the road. I ran into the grass, heading toward a fence. A fence meant people didn't it?
The bike kept coming. My pack felt like lead weight on my back, but I wasn't about to let it go. I shot a glimpse behind, and I saw the cycle leave the road and head toward me. The driver was helmeted and unrecognizable, a big thug of a man. Or a very large woman.
I couldn't see the brand of bike, just a nasty mechanized weapon coming straight for me.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I hit the linked fence, thankful it wasn't barbed wire, and leaped over. If he tried to breach the fence, would the thin wire stop him?
Over the deafening roar of the bike came a louder report, followed by a burning pain in my right arm. He had a gun! I kept running without bothering to look down. There was another shot, and a bullet passed close enough to my ear for me to hear its whistle. What the hell was I going to do?
Damn Jack for leaving me here without a weapon of any kind! I was being used for target practice, and had no way to fight back. I started weaving, and fear helped increase my speed. Several more bullets zipped by, but over the sound of those I suddenly heard a honking car.
The motorcycle revved loudly, but the shots stopped. A quick glance showed the cycle retreat in a flurry of dirt, grass and rock, barely making a fast sharp curve to head back the way it had come. I ceased running, and fought to get enough air in my lungs.
The honking stopped. An older man, wearing one of those textured hats with a small bill that looks like a Greek fisherman's cap, exited the car and called out in a strong baritone, "Mademoiselle, êtes-vous blésée?"
My legs gave way, and I landed right where I stood. My upper arm burned, but I didn't want to look. Instead, I took several deep steadying breaths, trying to get some oxygen into my system and slow my heart rate. The crisis was over. I survived thanks to the old guy now walking my way.
He stopped on his side of the fence and repeated the question. "I'm okay," I replied, my voice a bit shaky. I held up one finger. "Give me a minute, please."
He politely waited until I could get to my feet. I walked warily toward him. I wasn't sure if I could trust him, but his action stopped the person from shooting at me. Though it could just be a ploy to get me into the car.
I halted a few feet away from the fence. He began talking non-stop in French, and wearily I shook my head. "American. I only speak English, and very rusty French."
He frowned and said, "I will take to you to hospital."
"I'm okay. I don't need a hospital."
"But you are bleeding, mademoiselle."
At this point, I knew I couldn't avoid looking any longer. The wound wasn't good, but it wasn't as bad as it felt either. I definitely needed some stitches, but that was so not going to happen. Another jacket ruined, too. There was a big tear, and blood pretty much covered my sleeve. An additional rend on the side caused the material to dangle down past my knee.
The Frenchman pointed to my back. Twisting, I saw it was torn as well. Probably from the fence. I returned my gaze to my arm, which continued to drip blood.
"Not just your arm." He pointed to my face. "There."
I touched the side of my face and found he was right. A narrow abrasion surfaced a little ways beneath my chin. No idea how I'd received that one.
"Please come with me, mademoiselle. My late wife, she would have had words to say to me if she saw me keeping you here, standing and talking rather than helping you. My name is Philippe Aubertine."
I figured if he was going to discuss his late wife with a total stranger, he couldn't be too bad. "I'm Laurel Beacham."
I didn't bother to lie. If he was a dangerous guy, he already knew who I was. If he was a good guy, what did it matter to him who I was? The reasoning seemed sound enough for me to head for the fence. He held the top wire up and helped me through. When he tried to carry my pack we had a little tussle, but he finally understood I wouldn't let it go and assisted me up the verge to his car.
He muttered something under his breath about crazy cyclists. Before loading me into the front passenger seat, he politely insisted on checking my back for injury. I dropped my pack and stripped off the jacket, doing my best to keep my damaged arm from him. If he'd ever seen a bullet wound before he'd know exactly what had happened to me.
The survey apparently revealed no blood or rip on the shirt. He took a bag from his trunk and I shoved the ruined coat inside. A beautifully laundered
handkerchief smelling of lavender was placed into my hands. I pushed it against my arm and worked at not wincing. He helped me onto the seat, and I placed the pack and the bag at my feet. He carefully closed the door.
I swiped at my chin before reapplying the originally bright white, and now red, linen to my arm. My grimace couldn't be held back this time at both ruining the lovely material and the pain of the wound. I did my best to mop up the blood. Although I had ruined his hankie, I didn't want to ruin his upholstery, too.
Between most of one water bottle and his handkerchief, I cleaned up better than expected. To avoid shock, I also forced myself to choke down one of the sandwiches, thinly sliced beef on thick hearty bread that would have normally made my mouth water. Although the food tasted like chalk in my mouth, I knew I needed the sugar and the calories. The adrenalin dissipation had begun. I offered the other sandwich to my rescuer, but he declined with a polite smile.
We arrived at the town of Brioude. He insisted I needed medical help. A short discussion ensued regarding his wants and mine. I made a veiled reference to the incident and made him think someone, probably an abusive boyfriend, was after me. I finally convinced him I was all right due to his help and his handkerchief. He insisted I keep the handkerchief, and I insisted I really needed to get out of town.
Finally, he agreed to drop me where I could catch another ride. Honestly, I'd reached the point I didn't really care where the next objective led. I just wanted to be on my way.
The car stopped, and he pointed out the direction I should take to get transportation. I pushed euros his way, but he refused to accept anything for the ride or the handkerchief and tipped his hat to me as he drove away.
Not surprising, my hands still shook, but I needed to start moving. I'd wanted to be out of the car but now felt slightly bereft, as though I had lost my safe place. I pushed away the feeling and stuffed the bag holding my ruined coat into a trash bin. At least it was still fairly early in the afternoon, and I wouldn't miss the warmth too much.
