Traffic inched forward. A space opened in the next lane and Conor shot into it, ignoring the frantic horn blasts of the car he'd cut off.
Take the initiative, that was the key to survival in Parisian traffic.
In life.
And he was about to do just that.
He'd come to Paris to check on Miranda and he'd done it. Now, he wanted out.
Tonight, he'd order in a sandwich and a couple of bottles of ale—you could find ale at his hotel, it was one of the things that made the place civilized. And then he'd take out his Android, enter some notes and send everything straight to Harry Thurston's office.
Let Thurston give the mess to somebody else. The FBI. The CIA. The French police. Hell, Dick Tracy. Whatever, whoever, he didn't care.
He was taking himself out of the loop.
Harry would phone, try to talk him into hanging in. He'd refuse, head for the airport, buy a ticket on the next flight out and go home.
Maybe he'd give Mary Alice a call.
Maybe he'd try somebody new.
A taxi slipped into a space the size of a shoebox in front of him. Conor stood on the brakes and cursed while what sounded like a thousand tinny horns blared in fury.
He loosened his collar and tie.
Yes sir, he was going home.
No more crazy French traffic. No more smarmy French counts. No more death wishes for nicotine and tar.
And no more Miranda, to screw up his head.
He'd see her one last time, tell her to watch herself, that somebody would be in touch soon. Then he'd wave good-bye, and never look back.
* * *
It was a great plan.
A hell of a plan.
It held up all the way to Miranda's apartment.
But when she opened the door, raised a tear-stained face to his and sobbed, "Oh, O'Neil," as if his name was a prayer, when his arms closed around her and he felt her tremble as he drew her close...
When that happened, Conor knew he wasn't going anywhere until he'd solved a puzzle named Miranda.
Chapter 9
Conor was here.
He was here, and his arms were around her, and she was safe.
Miranda burrowed against him like a frightened animal, letting his heat, his scent, the hardness of his body encompass her. The coppery taste of fear was still in her mouth but she knew she was safe. Safe, because Conor had come.
It was crazy and she knew it, but it was his name she'd invoked moments ago, when she'd come home and found the horror that awaited her.
"Conor," she'd cried, closing her eyes to the scraps of paper that had fallen to the floor, and then the doorbell had rung and, like the answer to a prayer, he was there.
It made no sense but then, after last night, nothing made sense. An icy chill ran through her blood as she imagined the unknown hands that had gone through her clothes, the unseen head that had left its imprint on her pillow. And now there was this, the hideous picture and the sickening note...