Seen and Not Heard (31 page)

“Run, sweetheart,” Claire hissed, shoving her into the bedroom and shielding her with her body as she faced the huge, angry intruder. Where the hell had she put the gun Tom had insisted she keep?

The stranger moved into the room, relaxed now, taking his time as he shook the water from his leather jacket. At least it wasn’t Marc, Claire told herself, holding her ground. The stranger couldn’t have seen Nicole, he would think she was there alone. If he was intent on harming her at least Nicole would be safe.

The man looked up and grinned at her, a terrifying, savage grin that revealed a cruel mouth with several gold teeth. He said something in French, and Claire shook her head.

“I’m sorry, I only speak English,” she said with deceptive calm. She’d left the gun on the table somewhere behind her. If she could just back up, casually …

“I said, where’s the brat?” The man advanced on her, swaggering slightly, and for the first time Claire realized she’d seen that face before. She couldn’t remember where or when, but the effect was unnerving.

“Please leave,” she said, stumbling backward, away from him, part pretense, part real fear. The table had to be somewhere behind her, the gun in reach.

The man smirked, there was no other word for it. “Not until I get what I came for.” He had something in his hand,
something slender and cylindrical, something that looked harmless. Until he snapped it, and a thin, wicked-looking blade snicked out. “I’m afraid you’ve become a problem,
chérie
,” he crooned. “You and the little girl. Not to mention Marc himself. I’m going to clean up a few loose ends. Tell me where the brat is, and when I finish with her we’ll have a few minutes to enjoy ourselves. If you’re nice to me I promise it won’t hurt.”

Claire just stared at him in horror. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her shaking voice belying her protestations.

“Don’t anger me.” The man was enjoying this, she could tell. She edged a few inches further, but the table was still maddeningly out of reach. “It’s not often I get an audience, someone to talk to. Your man’s gone into town, there’s just you and the brat, and no one can help you.”

She didn’t bother to ask how he knew. He’d probably been the one in the white Fiat who’d followed them. “He’ll be back any moment …”

“And he’ll be useless against me.” The man began paring his filthy fingernails with the wicked-looking knife. “I kill for a living,
chérie
. I kill for business and for pleasure. Your American won’t have a chance against someone like me.”

“Who do you kill?”

The man shrugged. “Anyone for a price. Drug dealers, pimps, whores, businessmen, bureaucrats.”

“And for pleasure?” Her seeking fingers caught the edge of the small table.

The man smiled his hideous smile. “Why, old ladies, of course.”

A last, lingering trace of hope spiked through her. “Then Marc didn’t …”

“Oh, yes, Marc did. Just as we killed
Grand-mère
Estelle in the orphanage twenty-five years ago. Of course,” he added sweetly, “we no longer eat them.”

Claire’s empty stomach twisted, convulsed, and she doubled over, knocking against the table, the gun skittering into her desperate hands. She collapsed on the rough plank floor,
rolled, and came up with the gun in her hands, pointing straight at her murderous intruder.

Except that he was gone. She saw his leather jacket disappearing into Nicole’s room, and she didn’t even hesitate. She fired, and the damned thing recoiled on her like an angry serpent. She heard Nicole scream, and she raced toward the room, prepared to fire again and again and again.

The man was lying on the floor, clutching his side and cursing furiously, weakly. Claire could see the blood on his hand as he pressed it against his leather jacket, and another wave of nausea and dizziness hit her.

This time she wouldn’t give in to it. Nicole was kneeling in the middle of the bed, staring at the bloody tableau in horror. Holding the gun as steady as she could in wildly shaking hands, Claire stepped over the man’s writhing form and caught Nicole in her arms. The child clung to her, burying her face in Claire’s shoulder, and slowly, carefully, Claire stepped back toward the door.

A steely, bloody hand shot out and wrapped itself around her ankle, the fingers digging in like claws. She fought back the scream that caught in her throat, and still holding Nicole with one protective arm, she leaned over and pointed the gun directly into the man’s face.

“I’ll count to five,” she said, “and then I’ll shoot you. Don’t think I won’t.”

His glittering, enraged eyes met hers for a long, thoughtful moment. She knew he was weighing his chances of toppling her over, Nicole and all, weighing that against the possibility of another bullet smashing through his skull.

“One,” said Claire, ready to pull the trigger if she felt the slightest tug.

Her ankle was numb, streaks of pain were shooting up her calf and thigh, and Nicole was snuffling into her shoulder, clinging to her for dear life.

“The hell with it,” Claire said, and pulled the trigger.

The bullet buried itself in the floor beside the man’s head, but she’d still accomplished what she’d set out to do. In his
panic he released her ankle and rolled out of the way, slamming up against the foot of the bed and panting in rage and pain. He left a smeared trail of blood on the scrubbed plank floor.

Through a haze of panic and adrenaline-charged determination, she heard the renewed pounding, this time on the front door. Tom’s voice came with it, and for the first time the blind rage cleared a little from her head.

“Go around the back,” she shouted, not daring to leave the wounded snake untended. His knife lay on the floor, out of his reach, and she kicked it away, into the living room, cradling Nicole as they waited for Tom to arrive.

He took in the bloody scene with admirable efficiency. “You shot him?” he asked calmly.

Her voice no longer worked, so she contented herself with a brief nod. The man’s eyes were closed, his breathing labored, but she wasn’t fooled. When Tom started toward him she stopped him. “Let him be,” she said in a raw voice. “He’s too dangerous.”

“He could be bleeding to death …”

“He deserves it. He kills the old women too.”

Tom looked down at him, no surprise showing. “Rocco someone, the radio said. All right. If he bleeds to death he’s no great loss. Are you two all right?”

“I’m okay,” Claire said, lying. “How about you, baby?”

Nicole lifted her tear-streaked face, nodded, and hid once more in Claire’s arms.

“Good,” Tom said. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

“The police … ?”

He shook his head. “Still no luck. We’ll try from our next stop.”

“Do you know where we’re going?” She found she was still clutching the gun in an iron grip. Carefully Tom pried it from her.

“Not really. We’ll just drive till we find a safe place.” He reached for Nicole, and surprisingly enough she went, transferring her limpetlike grip to him with an unconscious show of trust. “At least I managed to get some food. We’ll have a picnic on the road.”

He headed out the door, and for a brief moment Claire remained behind, staring down at the man she’d shot, the man she would have killed in cold blood if her aim had been better. She tried to summon remorse, triumph, at least a sense of justification. She felt nothing, empty inside, as she stared at the pale, sweating face.

Suddenly his eyes shot open, dark, full of pain and malice. He tried to move toward her, but the effort was too much, and he sank back, panting, his eyes shut once more. Claire ran from the room.

Pierre Gauge finished typing the transcript. He was a careful man, working slowly, steadily, so as not to miss or mistake a word. He worked without using his brain, only his ears and his fingers, not bothering to read what he had transcribed until he’d finished. He sat back, his watery brown eyes moving laboriously over the typed words.

And then he whistled to himself, softly, and allowed himself the luxury of a muttered curse. This one sounded different from the usual crackpots that called in, disturbing Pierre’s peace and distracting his attention from the day’s racing form. He rifled through his copy of yesterday’s transcripts and found what he was looking for. The American, Parkhurst, had called two days in a row. And in print he seemed neither deluded nor attention-seeking.

He scanned the page, coming across the call from Claire MacIntyre. He swore again. Well, it wasn’t his responsibility, his place, to judge whether a call was important or not. Neither of them had mention Guillère, and up to now that was the only thing Malgreave had been interested in. Pierre had placed those transcripts on Josef Summer’s desk. It was up to the bosses to think, not the likes of him. If Summer had screwed himself, well then, that was life.

But Gauge’s ass was on the line, too. He couldn’t just sit there, waiting for someone to pay attention. Neither Malgreave nor his two assistants were back yet, but they would be, sooner or later. And this time, instead of putting the transcript on Josef’s tidy desk, he took the few extra steps and placed it in the center of Malgreave’s mess.

And with the righteous sense of a man who’d done his duty, he reapplied himself to the racing form, ignoring the noise around him.

The goddamned bitch, Rocco thought, pulling himself into a sitting position. He knew from experience that the bullet wouldn’t kill him, but he’d lost a lot of blood and he was weak, weak. It would take every ounce of strength he had left to crawl out to his car and drive to someplace where he could find help.

Probably back to Paris, much as he hated the thought. Marseilles was too far away. Besides, he knew where to find doctors who were as discreet as they were practiced. He’d get patched up, then disappear. He’d screwed things up but good this time. Hubert wouldn’t help him—not since he lost the child. And Marc sounded too crazy to be of much use to anyone.

No, things didn’t look good for Rocco. What with Malgreave hot on his trail, no one would be enthusiastic about hiding him. No one he knew would want to let themselves in for police attention.

He levered himself up to the bed, panting slightly. He was slightly disoriented. God only knows how long ago the Americans had left. He must have passed out. There’d be no catching them now, and he no longer gave a damn. He had his own skin to worry about, a more important issue than revenge.

He’d be lucky if he made it as far as Paris, he thought gloomily. He might very well have to stop on the way, but that would only be a last resort. He didn’t look like the kind of man who shot himself by accident, and he’d face all sorts of difficult questions if he checked himself into some rural hospital.

No, he’d make it. At least the bitch hadn’t taken his knife. She’d kicked it out of the way, but he could see it in the darkened confines of the empty living room. He’d take a minute or two, catch his breath, and then head for his knife.

He blinked. There was no noise but the sound of the rain
beating against the deserted farmhouse, but he thought he saw a shadow. He squinted his eyes, concentrating on the knife, watching in shock as a white-gloved hand reached down and picked it up. He looked up as the figure filled the doorway, and a frisson of horror washed over him.

“Marc,” he said, forcing an easy tone of voice. “Old friend, I never expected to see you here.”

Marc said nothing. He was dressed in black—tight black leotards and top and mud-soaked black slippers. Only his gloves were white. And his face.

He glided into the room, the knife held loosely in the gloved hand. Rocco tried again, stilling the superstitious terror that threatened to swamp him. “Thank goodness you’re here. That damned bitch of yours shot me. I need some help. I’m afraid it’s going to have to be a doctor—I’m not sure if I’ll make it to Paris before someone patches me up.”

Marc said nothing. He kept coming, his feet making no noise, almost as if he were floating a few inches off the ground, Rocco thought dizzily. Every motion was smooth, effortless.

Rocco kept talking. His brain was getting a little muddled, but it no longer seemed to matter. “Remember the orphanage, old friend? Remember
Grand-mère
Estelle and that whip she used? I still have nightmares about her and old Georges. I remember how helpless I used to feel, and how I hated them. Sometimes I wake up at night in a cold sweat, remembering.

“Do you remember the smell? The rain and the charred timbers of the old place? And the roses, Georges’s goddamned roses, covering over the stink. I knew a whore once who always wore a cheap rose perfume. I killed her, just for the pleasure of it.”

Marc said nothing. He stood only inches away from where Rocco sat, and it took all his effort to lift his head, to look into that white-painted mask of glee and despair. The chocolate brown eyes were quite mad, Rocco decided. But then, they’d always been a little off. Marc was going to kill
him. He knew what Rocco had been trying to do, knew that Rocco would kill him if he got a chance. He wasn’t going to get that chance.

“Have you ever killed a man before, Marc?” he inquired dreamily. “Of course you have. You were the one who killed Georges, weren’t you? And you’re going to kill me.” It really didn’t matter. He was very tired, and he didn’t want to go out into that cold, wet rain. Better to stay right here.

And then he remembered what Marc had done to the old gardener, his fitting act of revenge for the endless bouts of sexual torture. A last bit of energy filled him. He didn’t want to be mutilated. He reached out a hand, to protest, to stop Marc, but his arms were weak, and Marc was very, very strong. He kept slashing, slashing, and there was nothing Rocco could do but laugh. Marc didn’t realize that he was feeling nothing, cheating Marc of the pain. Finally he was cheating Marc of everything, as the blackness closed in, the thick silence settled around him, and he slumped forward on the bloody bed.

Claire was cold, so very cold. It never stopped raining in France; the steady downpour was a constant companion and reflection of the gloom. Rain and death seemed entwined, inescapable. She sat in the front seat of the Peugeot and shivered.