Malgreave had looked tired before; now the last ounce of life drained from him. “In that case,” he said, sitting back down again, “there’s no need for me to go anywhere.” And picking up the top folder, he stared once more at an old lady’s corpse.
Yvon Alpert worked late that night. He usually worked late. He was an ambitious man, eager to please his employers, eager to get ahead in the world and make a name for himself. With his wedding coming up he wanted to make all the extra money he could, so that he could treat Jeanne to the kind of honeymoon she deserved.
When the days were bright and sunny, when the nights were calm and clear, he could forget his burden. Forget the past, think only of the bright, wonderful future that lay ahead of him. The orphanage in Marie-le-Croix was a distant memory, something that happened to someone else, and he would always hope that the next time it rained, he wouldn’t even notice.
It hadn’t worked that way. Each time the rain fell it called to him, louder and louder, called to him so he couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t escape. But still he hoped.
He headed out of the square, ugly building that held the ministry. Jeanne would be waiting at his apartment, dinner ready, that pouty little look on her piquant face, ready to play the game once more. Tonight he had energy, tonight he would throw himself into the charade, woo and cajole her into bed where she’d turn into a tigress. For a moment he wondered how she’d respond when there was no longer any game to play, when her legal and moral place was in his bed. Would she be complaisant, would she lose interest?
Yvon noticed the evening paper as he headed down the street, the dark headlines a screaming blur. He ignored it, knowing there couldn’t have been another murder, not with the sky so clear and calm. There was no need to buy the paper, no need to turn around, fish in his pocket for a few coins, and toss them to the news dealer. It would be a mistake—what he didn’t know couldn’t possibly hurt him. Still, he couldn’t resist.
He stood in the middle of the almost empty sidewalk, staring down at the headlines, and his tense shoulders relaxed. More bombings, he read. More terrorists infiltrating the city. Animals, he thought contemptuously, folding the paper. And then he grew very still, as his reluctant eyes caught the weather forecast up by the masthead. Clear and cold tonight, it read. Chance of rain by Friday.
And once more the darkness closed in.
He liked watching the children. Even more, he liked having them watch him. He’d been doing it more often recently, putting on whiteface and his baggy clothes, leaving the tiny hotel room and showing up in some of the small parks that dotted Paris, the parks where the children played. He liked them much better than the parks where old people congregated. The old ones never paid him proper attention.
The children were different. They would flock around him like pigeons around a bag of peanuts, and he would string them along, play them, tease and entice them. Like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, he could lead them down a narrow path to the sea, and they would go willingly, happily.
But not yet. He had other things to do first, a covenant to keep. Later he would turn to the children.
Claire wasn’t sure why she’d come back to the old people’s park. She’d picked a lousy day for it—after six days of sunshine the sky was dark and overcast, threatening rain. She should have come back several days ago, after she’d gone to the U.S. embassy. But then, several days ago she hadn’t been so lonely, she’d been riding a high of complete relief. Several days ago she hadn’t had such a frustrating, confusing conversation with Marc on the telephone with the best long-distance connection she’d heard since she moved to France.
She almost wished there’d been more static on the line. He’d been brief, almost monosyllabic, and for the first time she realized how little he usually spoke. He communicated more with his mobile face and expressive body than with words, and over the telephone it left something to be desired. His long silences left Claire feeling uneasy, oddly guilty, and inane attempts to fill that silence with breathless chatter only increased her disquiet.
He’d had nothing to say about the current tour, ignoring her when she’d asked where he was. He had no desire to speak with Nicole, who clearly had no desire to speak to him, and he had nothing to say to her. It was an odd, meaningless conversation, made even worse by his final words.
“Don’t worry, darling,” he murmured with some of his usual sweetness. “When you least expect it I’ll be back.”
She’d had nightmares that night, with Marc looming over her, a dark, silent shadow, tracking her every movement, never saying a word. Nicole was there, equally silent, making no noise but to scream whenever Marc grew too close. They were running, running through a dark forest, with fire all around them, and the fire turned into a score of funeral pyres, and at the center of each conflagration was an old woman, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Someone was standing at the edge of the forest. As Claire ran she dragged Nicole behind her, all the time knowing that Marc’s shadow was following her, looming over her like a bird of prey. The man ahead of her was Marc, the other Marc, gentle, loving, protecting her from the hideous mistakes of her past. She reached him, and it was the American she’d met in the park, smiling at her, a coffee ice cream cone in one hand. In the other, he held a gleaming knife to plunge into her heart, and once more he was Marc, and he was going to kill her.
Claire sat bolt upright in bed. The room was dark, the curtained windows letting in only a sliver of moonlight. Her body was covered with sweat, her hands were trembling, and panic still beat against her eyelids. She reached for the phone, then drew her hand back. Whom could she call?
It had been almost dawn before she slept again, and when she finally awakened, Nicole was dressed and gone. Another layer of guilt, Claire thought as she made herself a pot of coffee. Nine years old was too young to arrange your own life. She’d make it up to her. She’d go to the confectioner’s shop and buy some of the apricot creams Nicole loved so much, even if she had to use sign language to get her meaning acr
oss.
She pulled on blue jeans and a heavy cotton sweater and slipped her narrow feet into the pair of Reeboks she’d found in a little store on the Champs Élysée, of all places.
She’d done better than expected. There was a new girl working at the confectioner’s shop, one who spoke English, and Claire was able to get Nicole everything from a packet of Gummi Bears to a chocolate Easter bunny. Trying to buy the love of a sour, unloving child, she chided herself. There was no better bet than chocolates for someone of Nicole’s insatiable sweet tooth. She’d tucked the package in her purse and headed on, feeling absurdly confident and optimistic.
The park benches were nearly empty when Claire reached the entrance. White posters were affixed to several trees, and she remembered Marc had told her they were going to post warnings. It certainly had an insalubrious effect on the elderly inhabitants of the park. Even on a warm, slightly overcast day the park was sparsely inhabited. The ice cream vendor stood by his cart, staring disconsolately at the pigeons.
Claire’s happy mood began to flag, and it took all her determination to pull it back. She was going to get herself an ice cream cone and enjoy the day, she told herself, come hell or high water.
Maybe the ice cream vendor would respond to charades, Claire thought, walking down the winding pathway, her sneakered feet crunching agreeably on the gravel. He’d been friendly enough to the American—maybe he’d be patient enough with her, too. She’d been good at games as a child. Maybe, when Marc returned, she could have him teach her how to be a mime. She could go around Paris in whiteface and no one would ever know she couldn’t speak or understand a word of French.
She laughed aloud at the absurd idea. There was someone sitting on the park bench, engrossed in a newspaper, but the sound of her voice must have startled him, for he dropped the paper and looked up, directly into her eyes.
And then Claire knew why she’d walked blocks out of her way to get to a park that held no interest for her. She looked down into Thomas Jefferson Parkhurt’s eyes, smiling in pleasure and relief. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said, suddenly knowing it was true.
A range of emotions crossed his face. For a moment Claire thought she saw anger, disappointment, and regret. And then he grinned back, and the skin around his blue eyes crinkled, and he got to his feet, all shambling grace. “And I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, his voice that slow, pleasant drawl that she found so attractive. “For a while there I wasn’t sure if you were ever coming back.”
She shrugged. “I’m here,” she said simply.
“I know why, too.”