The American Girl (27 page)

AUGUST 10, 2015

E
veryone loves a carnival, though the masquerade drowning the streets of St. Roch in glitter wasn't a true Mardi Gras affair after a grueling Lenten fast. It was just thrown to keep the tourists happy and the costume salesmen in work.

Still, it was pretty. There was carnival royalty in gold masks and peacock feather cloaks, mermaids on floats, bare midriffs gleaming from iridescent plastic fish scales, and fifty-foot clowns farting fire. Only we weren't in the mood. The masked, grinning world danced past us as we slouched over a sidewalk café table nursing cherry sodas like it was our last meal on this earth.

It felt as if we were a 78 record playing at 45. Everyone else was fast, hard, hilarious, laughing at us from behind rented masks. Leather-clad boys with the faces of devils whirled streamers in our faces. Stilt-clad street jugglers bent low to mock us. Buskers playing Beatles hits on their acoustic guitars were simply oblivious to the gallery of conquests we had seen in the empty apart
ment and what those photos meant. Neither Quinn nor I knew where those girls were now.

I couldn't guess what Quinn was thinking. She stared at the revelers as if they were extras in some confusing foreign film, as if human beings suddenly made no sense at all. Maybe they didn't.

She slipped to the bathroom often, and judging from her red eyes when she returned, she was going there to cry. Each time she disappeared, I fished furtively in my bag and pulled out another of the papers. So far, I'd managed to work out that Raphael had been living in that place ever since he was kicked out of the Sorbonne a year before. He clearly dealt drugs from there for Séverin, too. Séverin's name was mentioned in the notes along with people called Bruno and Léon. His scribbled lists and doodles—organized like a hypermanic double-entry bookkeeping system—showed his incomings and outgoings in a sort of code that I'd sort of deciphered. There were symbols standing in for types of drugs, accounts settled, and people in debt. On other pages were lists of names, including some of the girls on the wall.

The list gave me the overwhelming urge to go home and wash my hands about a hundred times and never go out into the world again. But I knew this nauseous feeling was the feeling of having found something that might help Quinn, maybe other people, too. A sigh at my elbow made me look up. I didn't know how long Quinn had been sitting there, reading over my shoulder. Her face looked ten years older than it had that morning. I folded the papers and stuffed them in my bag.

“No, don't,” she said. “I need to know. Can I?” She took the papers, holding it tentatively. “Is this . . . ?”

I nodded my head. “It's stuff from Raphael's business.”

“What . . .” Her voice was tight. “What was he doing in there?”

“I think that was a place he went to sell drugs and stuff.”

“And these?” She ran her finger over the lines of writing as if she might find Raphael there.

“I think it's something to do with those—”

“Wait.” She held up her hand, her face trembling feverishly. “I know this one.” Her finger jabbed at a line of writing so hard I thought it would tear through the paper.

“Sixty-six rue de Rivoli?”

She nodded. “I think we should go there.”

“Okay, but not tonight. It's late and we need some sleep.”

“Sleep?” She laughed bitterly and grabbed up her cherry soda as if it was liquid peace of mind and tipped it back. A single drop rolled onto her outstretched tongue.

“I'll getcha another one.” I winked at the waiter who was buzzing about in his black apron.
“Gar
çon?”

A man at the table in front of us twisted around. He had on a red mask with a long, phallic nose and high cheekbones. “Fairly certain the waiters here don't appreciate that.” He grinned. His accent was crisp and English. His eyes flicked to take Quinn in. Even though they were partly hidden by his mask, the look of prurient interest that suddenly filled them was unmistakable. “Why, I'll be damned. It's the . . .”

“Come on,” I said, grabbing Quinn's wrist. “We'd better go.”

The dick-nosed man had alerted his companion, a fellow in
a gold cat mask with long, jeweled fangs. “It is! It's that American bitch.”

More people turned around. Of course they all spoke English in this carnival town, this holiday mecca. Of course they'd all seen us on TV. Everyone in the world had. We worked our way between the tables, turning our hips sideways to squeeze past chairs, knocking over empty glasses and toppling cutlery. People turned to complain. Some had their phones out and were pointing them at us. The waiter, all ears now, rushed over with the check in his hand.

“I've done it!” I cried, pointing at the table with its scatter of coins. “I've paid.”

Someone tugged at my shirt. I spun around to see an old guy, a benign, smiling granddad type. “Say cheese, honey!” He grinned, snapping a photo.

Quinn fell against me. I half carried her into the street, but as soon as we got there, a flash went off in our faces.

“How do you feel about the result of the bail hearing, Quinn?” A woman shoved a mike in our faces.

“Fuck off,” I snarled, whisking her away from them and running towards the river of masked faces.

In the manic crowd, I thought we were free of them, but every time I glanced around, all I saw were cameras pointed at us. Finally, we slipped down a cobbled alleyway where the walls were barely shoulder-width apart. Music trickled from an open door. I saw darkness inside.

“Good enough for me.”

When we were safely inside and Quinn asked for something
stronger than cherry soda, I didn't say no. We drank our Cherry Bs and bourbon in the noisy dark of the roughest dive in town. Grubby guys propped up the bar and from time to time they tried to talk to us. I leered back. We'd already made all the wrong choices, Quinn and I. There were no worse ones left to make.

AUGUST 11, 2015

L
ike most people my age, I've been a teenager. In those heady times, I learned many things: to drive a car, to smoke a range of substances, and to dress like my friends and do whatever they told me. When I was done with band camp and its sequel, delinquency, I learned the most important lesson of all: how not to be an asshole. Quinn has yet to study this most vital element in the curriculum of life. Though in the current circumstances, I couldn't really fault her for rolling out of bed in our rented fleapit room and telling me to fuck off, or stealing my cigarettes and locking herself in the bathroom for eternity.

“But I need to pee,” I pleaded.

“Go away,” she said calmly.

I figured she'd be in there awhile, enough time for me to buy cigarettes, anyhow. Working at speed, I pulled on my jeans and sneakers. I ran down to the street, where I spotted a café just opening, and dodged a large lamb kebab that a vendor was chas
ing down the middle of the road to get to it. A weary man let me in the door with minimal protest and seemed not to care when I bolted to the bathroom. Squatting over the porcelain before my bladder burst, I realized how very few fucks I gave about stuff that would have alarmed me a week before. Maybe that youthful wilderness training did me some good, after all.

I walked back into the café and leaned over the bar to order a double espresso and a packet of Gauloises Blondes. The barman looked me up and down with a curious leer and I discovered I was wearing a white strappy tank top with no bra and that my nipples were plainly visible. I couldn't help but laugh.

“Yeah, I wore this to my prom,” I said.

“Well, I wish I had been there that night.” The voice behind me sent lightning bolts to my brain. I spun around. “Valentin?”

“It is nice to see you, Molly Swift.”

“Really. That's not what you said last time,” I said, starting to walk away.

“Maybe I was a little mad.”

I sighed. He'd been pretty mean the last few times I'd seen him, but I guess I'd kind of deserved it. Also, I needed him on my side right about then.

W
E SAT AT
an outdoor table and I kept one eye on the door of the fleapit hotel in case Quinn tried to make a run for it.

“Stalk much?” I asked, smiling at him.

He chuckled. “It is very simple actually to track your phone. You should beware when using Google Maps, for example.”

“Um, okay,” I said, feeling a bit freaked out.

“Hey, I'm just saying. You're playing detective, poking around. Be careful. Don't be a sitting duck.”

I bristled. “Is that what you came here to tell me?
Watch out, little girl . . .”

He sighed. “You think I am being like a dad.”

I looked him up and down—his khaki pants with the crease at the front, his button down oxford and panama hat. “Don't you?”

“Perhaps I just wanted to see you,” he said softly.

“Maybe you should call next time.”

“Sure. I will.” He sipped his coffee for a moment. “Fancy a quickie? Then at least my trip wouldn't be wasted.”

I snorted a laugh. “Actually, there is something.” Scrabbling in my pocket, I found the crumpled sheet of paper with the addresses written on it. “We found this in an abandoned apartment near here. It's some list of Raphael Blavette's. That one there.” I pointed to the one that Quinn nearly put her finger through. “I wondered if you could check it out for me? She wants to go there, but I don't want to just walk in if it's—”

“Dangerous?” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you know what you're doing, Molly?”

“Helping a friend,” I said firmly.

He stared at the paper dubiously. “And if this address is important to the investigation, to finding the Blavettes?”

“Then I know you'll hand it on to the right people.”

“I'll do what I can.” He folded the paper and tucked it into his breast pocket, then lit a cigarette.

“How are things going with the investigation now?”

“Same, I guess.” He exhaled, his eyes avoiding mine. “They looked in the caves again. Found nothing again. That's pretty much all I hear.”

“Is Quinn still . . .”

“A suspect?” He frowned. “They do not have anything solid but they have quite a few circumstantial things. I cannot tell you more than that.”

I nodded, trying to take in what he was saying without getting too freaked out. I decided to change tack a little. “Is it weird to be so far away from it when you were so close to it?”

He shrugged. “The minute they found out I was seeing you, I was off the case for sure. And when they found out you'd pulled the wool over my eyes, that went double.”

Batting my eyelashes, I said, “Aren't you mad at me, for messing up your job?”

He laughed. “I was, but finally I realize I got the better deal . . . no work and the hottest lay.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“Ever the charmer.”

He pulled me close for a moment. When we drew apart, his eyes were sad. He stroked my cheek with his thumb. “I said a lot of bad things to you that I did not mean, but I said one thing to you when we were in the hotel that I did.”

I was embarrassed to feel tears sting my eyes. “Me, too.”

“But you never said anything.” He took my hand and kissed it. “Am I just your holiday romance?”

“You pass the time.”

He cleared his throat. “About this paper, this address. I'm going to check it out, see what is what. Then I will call you and tell you it is nothing to worry about, just a normal house. Then you can stop feeling stressful, okay?” He leaned forward, twisting a lock of my unkempt hair around his finger. “You really are sure about helping Quinn Perkins? I know they've not arrested her, but she's still—”

I stopped his lips with my finger. “She's just a kid.”

He kissed me once more and then he was gone, his panama hat dissolving into the sunlit hustle of the street.

AUGUST 11, 2015

I
t took a quart of coffee to jolt Quinn from her slump. I felt for her, enough that I knew the last thing she wanted was embarrassing grown-up empathy. We grabbed croissants from a
boulangerie
and it felt like a huge victory when she took a few grudging bites of one. It was such a relief to find Stella's car in one piece and graffiti-free that I sent up a little prayer of gratitude, hurling the keys into the well, hearing the smooth voice of the navigator guiding me forward.

And this time we really needed it. Quinn didn't seem to recognize the streets or houses as we wound our way around the suburbs to the wrong side of the tracks. Driving through an industrial estate, flanked by juddering trucks and anonymous white vans, I wondered if the address even meant anything at all, especially when we pulled up in front of a row of blank-eyed storage units, their metal shutters pulled down, their prefab concrete frames squat and identical.

“You think this is it?” I asked, flicking my gaze between Quinn and the navigation, dinging its praise that I'd managed to reach the checkered flag.

Quinn looked a little bit frightened. “I don't know.”

“You recognize anything . . . on the way, or here?”

She shook her head. She looked miserable now and I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. I could tell she wanted this to be the end of it all, the key to the mystery that would simultaneously solve the missing-persons case, unlock her lost memories, and clear her name. I wanted that, too, and I felt the tug of disappointment in my gut, the sense that our quest had hit a cul-de-sac.

“Well, only one way to find out.” The car lighter popped out with a beep to punctuate my thoughts. I lit up a Gauloise and opened the door.

I'd just locked the car when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Valentin.

“Hey. You find anything?” I asked hopefully.

“Yep. Anything and also nothing.”

“How d'you mean?”

“I checked it on the computer and I drove by and took a look, too. It's literally nothing, an empty lot.” I could hear the sound of him inhaling cigarette smoke, exhaling coolly. He sounded sure he had his facts straight. “Yeah, babe. Nothing to worry about.”

I said nothing, leaning against the side of the car, its warmth ticking out of it, just looking at the place, wondering if he'd even checked it out for me. It might not be the right place, but it was sure as hell not an empty lot.

“So anyway, I thought I'd call, save you a trip. Maybe Quinn thought she remembered something and . . . you know . . . the mind is a tricky place.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, glancing at Quinn. Perhaps she was wrong, after all.

“Bye,
chérie
, love you.” His voice sounded far away.

I
F THERE'S ONE
thing a survivalist childhood teaches you, it's how to pick locks. As a kid, I did nothing more useful with this skill than break into the padlocked sheds and outbuildings of the farmers who encroached on my dad's Emersonian independence. Once in, I'd consider how best to sate my desire for petty delinquency, my options ranging from stealing fertilizer with which to mix my own backyard explosives to “rescuing” any neglected-looking livestock I found. Perhaps breaking into places in order to solve crimes was my weird way of making amends.

Inside, the place was bigger than I'd imagined, a long room with dull cement walls and a concrete floor that tapered into darkness beyond the light falling under the shutter.

“Smells weird . . .” said Quinn, shivering.

“Yeah,” I said, breathing through my mouth. “Remember this place?”

Quinn shook her head and folded her arms across her chest protectively. “Maybe you should film it again? In case we find something . . .”

I frowned. She seemed big with the video thing these days. I pressed the Record button, anyway, to humor her if nothing else. “Want to wait in the car while I look around?”

She shook her head. “It's so dark. You think there's a light?”

I groped along the edge of the wall. Somewhere out of sight was the drip-drip of a leaky tap, slow and sad. A grimy switch hung from frayed wires. I pressed the buttons. Fluorescent lights flickered on with a metallic plink, lighting the room about halfway. I tried another switch, but the end of the room remained dark. There wasn't much to see, anyway. I panned the phone's camera across a few piles of boxes stacked against the walls. From one I pulled a cheap china cup with a sketch of the castle and
Visit St. Roch
written on it. I checked another box. The same.

“Tourist tat,” I said. “This place just looks industrial, don't you think?”

Quinn took my hand. “I think we should look down there.” She pointed into the dark half of the room.

“Sure,” I said, trying to sound casual. “There won't be anything there, though. I mean, it just looks ordinary, doesn't it? Unless that stuff is crack cleverly disguised as cups.”

Quinn didn't answer. The further we walked, the more out of it she looked.

“Quinn?”

“Noémie. She came here, too,” she said with that blank, wide-eyed stare that told me she was remembering something.

Slowly my eyes adjusted to see what lay beyond the light, though at first I saw it in fragments. Beside me, I felt Quinn quivering, her flesh shaking so hard it barely looked solid or anything more than a moth's wing fluttering in the gloom. Slowly the outlines of small objects came clear: the spiky feet of
a tripod, the gleam of a camera's glass eye. That's when I knew what the place was for.

“Quinn, I think you should . . .”

She was already running towards the shutters. I heard the sound of her retching on the sidewalk.