by Ritter Ames
Soon I was in my car and, fingers crossed, headed toward my goal. I did call the hospital, but unsurprisingly couldn't get any information about Jack.
Deep down, I knew he was all right. Even though head wounds could be tricky. Besides, he'd brought it on himself grabbing me as he did. The last time we had tangled, I'd been the one to end up on my ass. Sure, I hadn't been knocked out, but I'd been sore and still felt the bruise a couple of days later. He had shown me no mercy. Well, maybe a little. But to be fair, I showed mercy too. After all, I'd called an ambulance, and I hadn't given them his real name. Or at least what I thought was his real name. Who knew?
Yeah, I was feeling guilt. Another emotion pretty much unfamiliar to me since age eight.
I checked the phone to see if Nico tried to get in touch but had little expectations of his doing so. He had his part of the job to do, and I had mine. I was on my own. Usually I liked it that way.
I wasn't sure why I was suddenly feeling very alone.
Several false turns later, the GPS lady said I needed to turn right. Of course, my eyes were telling me the same, nothing different than the last three turns either. The mountain was huge. Several streets seemed to head in the direction of the black estate. Whether or not this mountain was the one I actually needed to be on remained an unanswered question.
The tree cover was too dense to be sure of anything except I was traveling on a winding, narrow road, hopefully leading to some answers. Unfortunately, the reverse was just as possible. This could be another wild goose chase.
The longer I traveled down the road, the more my returning intuition told me it was the one. In the past, intuition had saved my ass too many times to count. I had learned to trust it.
Seven twisting miles later, I spotted the house. I pulled off onto the narrow verge, parking as close as possible to the trees and hopefully out of camera range.
I didn't dare underestimate security. In fact, I may have been under some type of surveillance since turning into this Rue des whatever. The GPS was weirdly silent, but my brain and my eyes busily catalogued how the street dead-ended into my destination.
Up to this point, I hadn't passed one car along this particular stretch of road but counted five possible exits to unknown places. Unknown, since no signs or buildings along the way indicated the reason the other drives existed. This road screamed PRIVATE, but I remembered there had been a street sign, Rue des Plagues or Blagues, or something like that. No gate barred my entrance. The more I thought about the lack of traffic and buildings, the more worried I became about being monitored or trapped. Should I turn around?
My mind flashed paranoia-inducing pictures of the creeps and the dead associated with this case. I remembered the destruction of Simon's office, and the motorcycle bearing down on me this morning. I felt the bullets zinging around me. My arm still throbbed. I probably should have gotten stitches instead of using the butterfly bandage I'd found in Thierry's bathroom cabinet.
Stop it! My mind was wandering, not a familiar event for me, especially during a job. Focus, damn it, focus! I had to know what I was up against before committing to any decision about trespassing.
The house, massive on its own, butted up against the bulky mountain, and heavy tree cover bordered its property lines. A roughly seven or eight-foot stone wall, topped with what looked like razor wire, completed the feel of isolation. Forbidding and completely off limits. A place designed as a fortress. The approaching dusk added to the illusion of danger.
I took a shaky breath and told myself to slow it down, check the place out up close and personal before making decisions of any kind about how to proceed. Unlike most jobs—both the legitimate Beacham Foundation ones and the freelance opportunities I periodically take on—I always researched and scouted things far in advance to prepare for any eventuality. However, since the very beginning this case allowed none of those practices.
There was still enough light to see. The immediate land around the wall had been cleared and was kept mowed. I wasn't sure how far back the clearing went, so I pulled out a pair of powerful but petite binoculars from the glove box. Nico was dependable, thorough, and could always be counted upon to anticipate my needs. Jack would never be that conscientious.
Why I thought of Jack at a time like this, I didn't know. I'd always worked alone. Where was my concentration, my own sense of responsibility, thoroughness and dependability when it came to my job?
The cut lawn perimeter ended at the tree and brush line. The razor wire seemed almost overkill. It could be clipped, but, unfortunately, it sliced and diced before falling apart to allow entry. I didn't see any cameras, but that wasn't unusual. I knew they were there.
I rolled down the car window to listen for sounds. I love dogs but didn't want to run into any of them tonight, and, right on cue, a dog barked and several answered. I used the binoculars to scan as much of the area as I could. When no baying hounds came into view, I concluded they were inside the wall.
I secured the black hoodie over my head, making sure every blonde hair was inside, and pulled on thin black gloves next. The binoculars securely fitted to a special strap on my jumpsuit. I reluctantly glanced over at the duffle in the passenger seat. I added a couple of metal loops onto the bag's handle, ones I could use to connect to the shoulder harness I wore. Free hands were a necessity in rock, and I needed what was in that bag—extra weight or not.
Did I want to leave the bag in the car for this first sighting, knowing it would slow me down? Without a visual survey of the house or the mountain, was I ready to take the chance? Or did I want to bring the duffle now and prepare to leap whenever a possible chance presented itself?
Seconds later, I stepped from the car with the bag hooked to the harness, then eased the door shut and locked it before returning the key to its original location under the fender. If I was caught and searched, I didn't want anyone to have the key to my only chance at getting away quickly.
I shivered as my brain cycled through all possible consequences. I didn't really like guns, but I sure wished I had one right then. Just in case.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Noiselessly, I slipped away from the car, sticking with the brush line. Shadows cast long deep purple stretches. Trees I knew to be thick, green, and beautiful rapidly became large, black and menacing. I was surrounded by lush, abundant groundcover that cushioned my shoes but could hide a variety of problems. The cooling air was fragrant with pine needles and mold. If I'd been allergic, it might have been a problem. Thank goodness for small mercies.
I put aside the fear of being visually spotted, intending to avoid the lawn and stick with the tree line. I was more worried about falling over a root, running into poison ivy or oak. Did they have either of those in France? Or coming across a sharp-toothed animal that wanted me for dinner.
I suddenly realized I had no idea what the wildlife was like in this area. Pretty vital information if one explored at night in a foreign environment. Jack probably knew the Latin and lay names for each genus roaming Massif Central.
A twig snapped to my right. I whirled and breathed a sign of relief as a small Roe deer moved into my sight. It scampered off. My breath whooshed out. For a few seconds, I regulated my breathing to even out my heart rate. Despite the dropping temperature I felt an uncomfortable film of sweat form on my skin. My suit might "breathe" like me, but I still felt wet. I hated the feeling.
With each step I expected to hear the dogs barking or whining, but my ears caught nothing. Maybe the beasts were chomping down on someone else somewhere else. Extreme stress made my macabre sense of humor sometimes get the better of me.
There were no more cracking twigs, other than my own. I walked along the perimeter until the land went vertical. Pretty much where the wall ended as well. I stepped deeper into the trees, following nature's wall to approach the house.
Still no dogs, so I hoped they were busy with dinner elsewhere.
My vantage point sucked, but, as I'd suspected, the house was
built into or dead-ended in the mountain. For further information I'd have to either head back the way I had come or climb.
The rising mountain, hill, volcanic thrust, or whatever the geographical formation was called, towered over me. From my angle it seemed to be the largest mountain ever known. I took off my gloves and ran my hands over the exposed surface, using my body as cover to retrieve a penlight from one of my pockets and get a better look.
The façade definitely looked like it could be bouldered. There were plenty of holds and jutting crags. The outer layer of the earth didn't appear to be too brittle. Although I certainly would have rather bouldered with a buddy during the middle of the day in a place I knew well, I wasn't too worried. I refused to let myself be.
I dropped my bag and stood for a long moment. I turned back the way I had come, and knew I couldn't wait any longer. Throwing caution to the wind, I grabbed the necessary equipment out of the duffle. I kicked off my leather boots and socks and pulled on the rock shoes.
After stretching, I looked up and scouted my way. I would go about fifteen feet before deciding whether to return to the ground or head up and over. The duffle was tightly fastened, and I gave it a wiggle to make sure it didn't move. My hands were dry from the magnesium carbonate. Too pumped to feel the pinch in the shoes, I scrunched my toes, relaxed, and took off.
I wasn't breathing heavy, or worried, as I reached fifteen feet. It was getting darker, but as I moved closer to the top of the tree line everything lightened up a bit. The interior lighting of the house also helped, although it was still a bit too far away to make much difference. I needed to continue up and work my way over. I'd gotten a bit lucky because the house wasn't that far from the perimeter wall, at least on this side, so I wouldn't have too long a stretch horizontally. Unfortunately, the house was at least three stories, and I needed to go farther up if I wanted to get high enough to look at the property.
I chalked up and started "walking."
Before getting more than ten feet, there was a strange high-pitched whirring, followed by an audible click, and the place lit up like a subway station. I fought the urge to panic and push into the mountain. I practiced mental imagery, repeating again and again, "I am a chameleon. I blend in with the landscape."
For a second, I closed my eyes against the light pollution to re-stabilize my plan. At this point, if I kept to easy movements, no one could likely see me. Of course, if a big chunk of the mountain fell on a light, or a person for that matter, the first place they'd look is up. At me.
I could wish to be higher and closer to the house before the lights came on, but, as with anything in life, in a second's tick my task grew exponentially harder. Yet nothing really changed except there was light. And in most circumstances, light equaled a good thing. Unless it interfered with the process of breaking and entering.
The first step was always the hardest. I allowed a few seconds for my eyes to become accustomed to the new environment, then I planned my next three moves.
I chalked for the last time and looked down. From my vantage point I could see pretty much everything on this side and the front. A gabled room split the terrace almost completely in two, with just a wide connecting hallway.
Even if I couldn't make out what was on the other side, I didn't want to climb higher; I wanted to traverse and jump. I was ready to get off the side of the mountain.
I took a few precious minutes to survey the front. Inside the grounds, the drive circled the property, and the borders on both sides were formally landscaped. The razor wire wasn't visible from the house. Instead it appeared to be an extension placed atop the stone and created the illusion of being surrounded by fence rather than an ugly security feature.
Some kind of well-lit water feature sat in the middle of the main yard. It looked slightly oriental, with a short bridge leading to a Romanesque structure that appeared to be surrounded by water on all sides. The building was open on three sides. It did not resemble the estate at all.
In fact, it reminded me of something I had seen before but couldn't recall. I barely made out a large sculpture within the building. Shades of Rodin filled my head. I wanted to get a closer look.
I adjusted my position and raised the binoculars to my eyes. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and I almost fell before steadying myself. In very miniature form, the building resembled certain aspects of the cathedral Jack and I had just visited. I refocused on the Rodin, which of course wasn't a Rodin at all, but a large and vaguely vulgar representation of The Seven Liberal Arts! I had no idea who the artist was, but from there it looked like . . . a big joke?
Could I count this discovery as partial confirmation Moran lived there? Art was his life, but from what I could see the rendering offered little artistic beauty of such a philosophical topic.
My arms and my legs were growing tired from the unaccustomed activity, but cramping hadn't started, so I knew I needed to get off the mountain. I'd been surprised and happy to see a roof terrace, something I had not counted on since the front looked gabled. I hadn't seen any movement in any of the lighted rooms yet, but I checked again to make sure no one moved onto the terrace before I climbed down.
I concentrated on my movements. Mistakes were easy to make at this point, especially in a climb where I had come so far. When close enough to safely land, I braced myself, unhooked the duffle, and let it fall. I was about to take a leap when I saw lights on the road leading to the estate. I reached for the binoculars again. Another pair of headlights flashed. Then another. All coming this way.
I hadn't seen any vehicles, and now within minutes there was a caravan of cars on the road less traveled. My plans changed. Cars meant visitors, and visitors meant an occasion. Maybe, just maybe, I'd caught a break.
Securing the binoculars, I relaxed, pushed off the wall, and tucked my head into a crash position. I rolled along the paved terrace. I retrieved the bag and made my way to the house. The quicker I got out of sight the better. For a second I hesitated and thought about checking out the rest of the space to see what was on the other side of the house. I might be missing something vital.
Suddenly there was a loud noise, as though someone had dropped a heavy ceramic pot. I darted over to the side of a door, hoping I didn't trigger an alarm system. I had a Swiss-made gizmo that would turn off practically any on the market. I grabbed it from the bag to have it ready, then paused to listen. Nothing. Nothing was a good thing, but I still had to force myself to take a few calming breaths. While I had the chance I grabbed a handful of miniature motion detectors from my freelance stash and slipped their receiver in my ear. By systematically sprinkling these as I went, I'd know if someone slipped up behind me.
I pulled on my gloves, and tried the knob. It turned easily. I entered the dark room and silently pulled the door closed behind me, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
The lavish over-decorated bedroom sat empty, as did the drawers and closet. I moved to the bathroom and turned on the light. An overabundance of expensive bath and hygiene products littered the counter; all the brands any woman could possible want decorated the wall shelves, the deep tub, and the counter. But there was nothing personal about any of it. This had to be a guest room.
I stuck my head back into the bedroom. Through the door, the terrace looked fantastic. But the room? No art, no beauty, no taste in any of the furnishings. Something was off. I left a detector on the doorframe.
I stripped quickly and retrieved the extra items I'd hidden with the climbing equipment. I couldn't be sure if this occasion was formal or casual, but I assumed there would be a variety of dress in a place like this. Most anything should work.
Since I hadn't done my usual research on the property, I wasn't too sure about turning on the plumbing. My hand wrapped around the glasses Nico had given me, and I remembered his remark about their heat sensitivity. I pulled them on and looked toward the faucet to see if the hot water spigot registered on the glasses. No heat showed, but a wealth of other information came up as I acc
essed the "for my eyes only" menus. The address of the site, the architectural firm that recorded the blueprints—PA Designs. I'd have to check that name out later.
I shoved the glasses back into their case. There wasn't time for this kind of experimenting, no matter how intriguing. But the glasses had given me what I needed and a bit of information besides. I'd have to remember to credit Nico if the design information led to catching Moran.
After using wet wipes to clean my face, hands and feet, I applied party makeup to match my outfit. I exchanged my jumpsuit for the little black uncrushable dress that could go from office to eveningwear with the right accessories.
I pulled out the wig I'd brought, but I changed my mind about using it and stuffed it back into the bag. Quickly, I undid the pins holding my hair in place, shook it out, and applied a quick brush. For the first time in a long time I thanked my dad for something—the family hair gene. As my blonde curls settled into place around my shoulders and down my back, Laurel Beacham of the Beacham Foundation emerged.
I dove once more into my magic bag and removed a pair of cherry red Manolo Blahnik heels and a matching red clutch that held lipstick, a tiny hairbrush, wet wipes, bling, lock picks, a knife—a woman couldn't be too careful!—cash, gloves, some audio bugs, fake nails to match my pedicure, and my phone. The lock picks and knife were bejeweled and disguised to look like hair accessories.
The bugs went into the carefully designed pocket in my bodice, in case my purse was searched. I pierced, clipped, and buckled the tasteful diamond earrings, necklace, and bracelet and donned the shoes.
With the ease of years of practice, I rolled up everything no longer needed, and returned the items to the duffle. I stuffed the bag under the bed and sat down. The fake nails went on first, then I pulled on a thin cherry red cloak in a synthetic material that looked like expensive silk but didn't wrinkle. I scooped up my clutch.
I wasn't quite ready to join the party but getting close. First, I wanted my own special tour. I cracked open the door and listened for any sounds. I heard none. I moved out into the hallway, closing the door softly behind me.
