Fisher

by L. L. Muir

  The way he looked her straight in the eye made her feel uncomfortable, like he was trying to tell her something. But he didn’t know her. They had nothing to say to each other.

  Obviously, he’d taken the Braveheart movie too personally. His dark hair looked a lot like Mel Gibson’s had, but not all one length. His face wasn’t dark and brooding like the William Wallace character’s, though. There were bright, smooth spots where the light lingered on his high cheeks, his chin, nose, and forehead. His bright blue eyes were overshadowed by thick eyebrows. There was no other word for it. He was cute. A big cute lion.

  His nose was large, but proportionate. His open expression almost invited her to talk. Luckily, she didn’t have anything to say.

  There was a difference, though, between him and the Frenchman on the metro. First of all, he hadn’t grabbed her, hadn’t ordered her to come with him. Second, he’d said something kind. And third, he’d walked away.

  “There. See, Julia? Nothing to worry about.”

  Pascal frowned at her. “Excusez?”

  She shook her head.

  He shrugged it off, then checked back and forth between her face and his easel a few times. Finally, he nodded. “Finis.” He waved her around to take a look.

  It was more Julia than Martine, but that didn’t matter. It was pretty as a picture. As accurate as a photograph, only more dramatic. All black and gray and white on a background of gray paper.

  Pascal signed it, then reached for a can of cheap hairspray. He covered the portrait with a fine mist, then waited a minute for it to dry. He added a piece of tissue paper to the top before rolling it up into a tube. Then he sold her a triangular box to keep the tube safe.

  In scattered English, he explained where she could find that elusive statue of Joan of Arc. “Sur le devant de la basilique.”

  On the something of the basilica? Great. Maybe she would have seen it as she’d come up the steps if she hadn’t been running for her life.

  The reminder of her earlier scare got her moving. She wanted to get back to her hotel room, or at least a street she was familiar with, and feel safe again. But first…

  She had to say goodbye to her sister.

  Fisher found it was not difficult to lose himself in the crowd even though he was a head taller than most tourists swarming the narrow streets that surrounded the cathedral. His height allowed him to watch the lass from a generous distance. Thankfully, she never turned back to see if she were being followed.

  She didn’t seem overly worried, so he assumed the Frenchman had been after her and not the contents of her satchel. So, perhaps there was nothing more mysterious inside it than the triangular-shaped box that now poked out the top.

  He was disappointed there might not be a mystery to solve…until she stopped at a shop and perused a collection of brightly colored purses. While she was distracted by the garish colors, her left hand wandered absently to the side of her satchel, felt at the forms hidden within, then patted a large lump as if she were soothing some kitten she kept trapped inside.

  Fisher watched, transfixed, to see if the lump would move in response. It did not.

  The lass adjusted her straps to the right shoulder, tucked the bag under her arm, and clamped onto the front with her left hand as she merged back into the crowd and headed for the front of the basilica. She moved toward the steps but stopped, turned, and looked up at the façade. While she shielded her eyes from the midday sun, Fisher hurried over to the side stairs and hoped he’d go unnoticed.

  For a long while she stared, not at the cathedral itself, but at the mounted riders whose images had been captured in copper statues and placed high above the triple arches, one figure to each side, and permanently aged green. The lass was particularly interested in the one on the right whose visor was raised to show a pleasant face. The one on the left was a bearded figure where the other was clean-shaven. And if the latter was a woman, dressed for war, it had to be a statue of Joan of Arc.

  Again, the lass moved her bag and patted the lump while she murmured to herself.

  Speaking to oneself was nothing new to Fisher. Culloden was visited by many a religious man or woman who prayed as they negotiated the sacred ground. Some even fancied they were speaking to their ancestors who might have died there. And since the woman currently stood on sacred ground, it seemed a natural thing.

  He should have turned away to afford her more privacy at such a time, but he could not. He knew, no matter how foolish, that he’d be disappointed if he lost track of her. If he turned away, those fast feet of hers might take her all the way down the steps before he noticed.

  He descended a dozen of the wider, flatter stairs and stood half behind a tree branch where the colors of his kilt might camouflage his person. But he never stopped watching.

  She glanced around then, like a child with a guilty conscience. Suddenly the woman who had no interest in her surroundings or the people in them, was alert to every detail.

  Had the hairs on the back of her neck warned her she was being watched? Or was she looking for police? Waiting for a friend to join her?

  He could hardly wait to discover what she was up to.

  With supposed indifference, she slipped one of the straps off her shoulder which allowed her satchel to gape open. With one hand, she reached inside while scanning the area once again. Her arm bent as if the item she sought might have some weight to it, then she slowly lifted it.

  Fisher felt every inch of progress in his chest. Surely, she had no weapon. But what, then? Was she about to set a kitten loose on the grounds? Would that be such a crime?

  He held his ground, certain this woman posed no threat to the people of Paris, but at the same time, he prepared himself to run to her if he must.

  She pulled her bag close to her, held it fast with her forearm, then reached inside with both hands. Her triangular box swayed away from her and was forgotten. He could almost imagine her opening some container, preparing to…

  Rage rose into Fisher’s throat, and he found it impossible to stand still. He flew up the steps while he bellowed for her to cease what she was doing. In his mind, he was back at Culloden. But this time, he was neither mute nor powerless.

  This, he could stop!

  “No!” he bellowed as he ran, pleased when his voice interrupted her work. “I’ll not allow it,” he shouted, uncaring how much attention he drew from the crowd scattered on the steps and on the long patch of frosted grass stretching down the hill.

  He’d caught her by surprise. Her mouth gaped as she realized who was running at her. He almost expected her to rip open the sack and spread her precious ashes in one fling, hoping to do the deed before he reached her. But she did not. That consciousness of her own guilt still shown plainly on her face. She knew this was not right.

  As he neared, stumbling across stairs until he heeded his footing, she hurried backward, dropping her precious cargo back into the depths of her bag. Only when that bag was safely clamped beneath her arm did she stop and look around at the faces turned their way.

  “You idiot,” she hissed. “I don’t have a weapon or anything—”

  “I ken precisely what ye have, lass, and I’ll not allow ye to spread yer ashes on someone else’s war grave, aye?”

  She frowned, confused. “War grave?”

  He nodded emphatically and spread his arms to gesture at the battlefield—but they weren’t on the battlefield! He snatched his arms back to his body and blinked, trying to clear his thoughts and the images rising and falling in his mind.

  The lass took a step closer, and though there was still ten feet of space between them, her outstretched hand brought his attention back to the moment. “Are you…okay?”

  “Aye.” He shook his head, partly in denial, partly in an effort to erase what he’d said. “Aye.”

  There was a skirmish behind them, at the opening of the cathedral. Four gendarmes wove their way through the crowd, barking as they headed toward him and the woman, guided by the pointi
ng gestures of concerned Parisians.

  “Crap!” The lass started backing away again. Her arm raised as she went, her finger pointed as if she were just another onlooker, guiding the police to the source of the trouble. She’d been standing far enough away that it wasn’t entirely clear they were together. “I believe he needs help,” she said, in French. “Help him.”

  The officers surrounded him with guns at the ready but not yet pointed at him while they tried to discover the problem. The lass was forgotten as she calmly turned to the stairs and began an unhurried descent. He was almost happy for her.

  Almost.

  Chapter Seven

  Martine tried her best not to draw attention to herself as she descended the long string of stairs that twisted back and forth down the hill. With each step, she was keenly aware of the weight in her bag that shouldn’t still be there. And she was torn—relieved Julia wasn’t completely lost to her, but pissed her one important task had been interrupted.

  The moment she’d been obsessing over, and dreading, should have been behind her now. But no. It was still there, hanging over her head like a cloud of gray ashes.

  Go back, she told herself. Get it over with.

  But she couldn’t. If the police were still questioning the psycho in a kilt, he might just rat her out. To make matters worse, Julia’s voice was ringing in her ears. “You had one job…”

  She hardly noticed her footing as the little fiasco replayed in her head. But how did he know I had ashes in my purse? Was Sacré-Cœur known for it? Were people spreading ashes there all the time? Why had it never been mentioned on the internet?

  No. There was just something wrong about the guy. Off. Or maybe he wasn’t so much psycho as he was psychic!

  Finally reaching the base of the steps, Martine paused and shuddered, but it had nothing to do with the cold. Compared with Michigan, this was nothing. Compared to home, this was nuts!

  “Oh, no!” At some point, she’d dropped the long box that held her portrait! But there was no way she would go back for it. No matter how bad she wanted that drawing that was more Julia than it was her, she couldn’t risk drawing the attention of the police. Not while her sister was still in her purse.

  She wanted to go home! She wanted to take Julia’s ashes along with her and find a nice local place to scatter them. Somewhere she could visit and lay a flower now and then. But even as she thought it, she could feel her sister’s disapproval.

  Julia wanted Sacré-Cœur.

  Julia would get Sacré-Cœur.

  Martine stood at the top of the steps and gazed down into the metro. She couldn’t help imagining that Frenchman down there in the shadows, waiting for her. But she got moving because she was slightly more afraid of a different man at the moment—an angry, possibly disturbed Scotsman.

  He wouldn’t appreciate being sacrificed to the police, which is what she’d done when she’d pointed and backed away. It was a dirty trick, but she’d been in self-preservation mode. If they’d insisted on searching her bag, just because she was talking with the troublemaker, she might have been in all kinds of not water.

  Would they have believed the ashes were from her sister? A giant Ziploc bag bordered on blasphemy, didn’t it? But how else could she have spread those ashes without drawing a lot of attention?

  “Fine,” she told her sister. “You can have Sacré-Cœur, but not until tomorrow. And you’d better appreciate what a pain in the butt this is.”

  A gust of air pushed one of her Macadamia Blond highlights into her face, and she wanted to believe it was her sister, teasing back. But of course it wasn’t. She was on her own.

  And since she was on her own, she wasn’t about to feel guilty for taking off. After all, it was the Scot’s fault she’d had to flee before finishing the job. The guilt rested squarely on those wide shoulders, not on hers. And if she ever saw him again, she’d be sure to let him know how he’d messed up.

  Why couldn’t he have minded his own business? And what was all that about a war grave anyway?

  Remembering that look in his eye made her feel a little ill. Maybe he was a little messed up. Maybe he’d been in Afghanistan or something and suffered from PTSD. Maybe she should have tried to get him help and stood beside him until he got it.

  She closed her eyes and grimaced, realizing how insensitive she’d been. It didn’t matter that she was in a foreign country and needed to keep strange men at a distance. He’d been a fellow human being in trouble. It wasn’t as if he’d tried to grab her like the Frenchman had. He’d probably been triggered by what she’d been about to do. It wasn’t her fault, really, but she should have acknowledged some obligation—

  Julia wouldn’t have run away.

  Of course, her sister was in the medical field, so she would...

  No! Her sister had been in the medical field. There was no Julia around to save the day. The poor Scotsman had crossed paths with the wrong sister.

  With only a cursory glance at the signs, Martine found the right tunnel and boarded the metro back toward her little hotel room, determined not to make eye contact with anyone along the way. To muffle any subtle rebuking from her sister, she took the white hat out of her pocket and stuffed it down on top of the ashes.

  The gesture seemed to do the trick and the noise in her head quieted while she let the sights and sounds of Paris come to her. The flashes of lights through the tunnels, the snippets of conversation murmured now and again, in unintelligible but romantic language. Every now and then, an English word would catch her ear, then disappear as swiftly as the images outside the train windows.

  Since she’d grown up without a mass transit system, she was amused by the way everyone kept a straight face, even when forced to grab onto a chair or pole when the brakes made everyone fight for balance. No one laughed, no one smiled. It was just part of breathing in and out. The doors opened. You either moved quickly or risked getting slammed.

  The tourists were easy to spot. Their timing was never as good as the locals—a sober lot who flowed smoothly through the openings and were well out of the way when the alarm sounded. A well-practiced dance performed in the strangely lit depths of the city.

  This is Paris. A city under ground. A civilization who saw nothing, yet moved in harmony with their surroundings. Seemingly blind in sight and emotions, they reached out with other, less obvious senses to progress through their city.

  Strange animals, Parisians.

  The pace of those surrounding Martine increased as they neared the surface, as if the sunlight drew them, animated them. The adjustment to the light came gradually as she made her way up the steps so that by the time she emerged into the fresh air, she had no need to pause. Like water flowing out of a pipe and into a pool, people dissipated in different directions. They moved away from each other and merged with other flows of bodies with new destinations in mind.

  Martine stepped aside, then moved again to get out of the path of a fast-stepping old man. She paused to get her bearings. Standing like a Star Wars AT-AT Walker at the end of the street, the Arch of Triumph stood watch, anchoring the city, offering a point of reference.

  I know exactly where I am now.

  And thankfully, she didn’t have to cross any streets to get to her hotel. No dodging those strange cars whose back ends bobbed up and down when they took off or stopped.

  In Traverse City, it was rude to honk one’s horn unless it was an emergency. In Paris, it seemed like an everyday tool of communication. But she didn’t like it. Why couldn’t people just stay in their lanes and drive like they’re supposed to? Why did anyone have to honk a horn if everyone followed the rules?

  She paused and took a deep breath. There was no need to rant. She was the foreigner here. Who was she to judge the rightness or wrongness of the way they lived, how they communicated? Why they kept to themselves?

  She was beginning to see that she’d missed the whole point of travel. Julia would have eaten it up. She’d loved change as much as Martine loved stasi
s. Too bad she’d only seen Paris from a Ziploc bag.

  Chapter Eight

  Back at Sacré-Cœur…

  Honed instinct couldn’t be suppressed. Fisher’s hands searched for his weapons when the heavily armed policemen hurried toward him. In truth, it was the lass’ safety that lit his instincts afire, even though it was the accusing point of her own finger that brought the officers to him.

  His mind registered, yet again, that his weapons were missing, so he carefully turned his wrists until his hands lay casually upon his own hips. And with a smile, he greeted the gendarmes in their own tongue. Having spent two long summers with his uncle, in France, he was fairly confident in his ability to communicate without making a dafty of himself.

  “Bonjour, monsieurs.”

  The wary man immediately before Fisher relaxed his expression, though his shoulders lowered not at all. He was the only one not gripping his weapon. The leader, then. “Good day, monsieur. What is the nature of the problem here?”

  The man to Fisher’s right seemed a bit disappointed he had no visible reason to point his gun at him, though he waited eagerly for something to change. The man on his left scanned him from head to toe and back again, as if he were some strange new animal arrived on the planet. And though Fisher offered a cheerful smile, it only made that one’s eyes narrow.

  “The problem,” he explained to the firsts man, “was imagined, I am happy to say. As it happens, I am deathly allergic to bees, and I was certain one was after me.”

  The fourth policeman had gone around behind Fisher’s back, but he dared not turn to see what he was up to. It was clear the wee army was eager to prove themselves, and Fisher was just as eager not to give them reason. Despite that, his instinct—newly intensified by a beating human heart—screamed at him to watch his back.