But pray God he didn’t know about the old heating duct in her closet. She’d pulled the grate off years ago, and sometimes she used to crawl in there and hide, curled up in her own misery, missing her father, hating the interloper who smiled too much and watched her in her bath. She was bigger now, and it might be a tight squeeze, but she could pull the grate after her, hide back there, and he might not find her.
She could hear his voice, getting higher, louder, saying things she couldn’t understand and didn’t want to. Her legs were getting stronger, finally beginning to respond to her brain’s orders, and she scrambled into her bedroom, across the rug, and into the closet.
For a moment the grate stuck, and she panicked. Someone must have found it was loose, must have put new screws in. But then it moved, and she yanked it open, crawling into the narrow chute.
Her numb fingers could barely lift the heavy grate. It made a loud, clanging noise as she pulled it into place, and the silence from the hallway told her Marc had finished with Claire. Had he seen where she went? Had he heard the sound and recognized it? Was he just behind her, watching her, about to reach for her with those long, cruel fingers?
She let go of the grate and tried to scramble backward into the narrow tunnel, but the heavy iron began to fall forward, and she caught it just in time. She had no choice. She would have to sit at the end of the tunnel, holding the grate in place, hoping Marc wouldn’t be able to see her pale fingers through the hatches, wouldn’t yank the grate open and grab her before she could edge away into the narrow ductwork.
And if she was able to get away, into the maze of tunnels, what would happen? What if she got stuck, and no one ever found her? She’d starve to death, stuck in the heating vent, trapped, unable to break free.
She heard a whimper of terror, and knew it was her own. And then, in her room, close, too close, came the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps. The footsteps of a man used to silence.
She stopped breathing. He made no sound, the madly cheerful voice stilled. She heard the rustle of bedclothes, the creak of an old floorboard. He was looking beneath her bed, in the corner
, behind the curtains. She could sense him moving closer, toward the closet, and she knew if he opened the door he would see her pale white fingers against the gray iron of the grate. She had no choice, she would have to release the grate and scuttle back into the tunnel.
Light flooded the end of the duct just as she released her death grip. She held still, waiting for the heavy iron to fall, exposing her hiding place. She held still, waiting for death.
The hangers rattled overhead. The neatly polished shoes in front of the grate were kicked by a slippered foot. And the grate, held by an uncertain gravity and her terrified prayers, stayed in place.
The closet door remained open, but the footsteps edged away. She leaned forward, watching his shadowed figure as it moved toward the hallway, and as she did so her forehead brushed the iron grate, sending it tumbling toward the wooden floor.
She caught it, inches from the floor, clenching the heavy piece of iron in impossibly weak hands, half in, half out of the vent, not daring to move, waiting, waiting for Marc to come back and find her.
But he’d already gone, moving into the hallway, intent on his own hunt, dismissing her room as a possible haven.
Slowly, silently, she sat back, pulling the heavy grate with her. Her fingers were clutched so tightly around the iron that she found she couldn’t release them. She no longer cared. She leaned back against the cold metal sides of the vent and shut her eyes. She would wait until someone found her. If it was Marc, so be it.
Claire didn’t wait to see if Tom was following her. She raced down the flights of stairs, holding on to the railing to keep herself from falling in her unthinking panic. The late-morning streets were crowded on the first sunny day in ages, and she careened into passersby, bouncing off them without so much as a mumbled apology.
She didn’t bother to look for a taxi—with the traffic it would take less time to run. And run she did, numbly aware of Tom’s long-legged figure keeping pace with her, numbly aware of the burning pain in her heart as she gasped for breath. And all the time she prayed, a silent litany begging a heretofore unfriendly God to keep Nicole safe. She promised everything in a tumbling flurry of rash thoughts. She’d become a nun, she’d die herself, she’d go back to the States and face charges, she’d never go near another man again. But please, dear God, let Nicole escape from that madman.
She half expected the street outside Marc’s apartment to be jammed with police cars and ambulances. As she stormed into the ancient brick building she had a split second to marvel at the ordinary charm of the day, the tourists crowding the streets, the elegant Parisians taking the infrequent sunshine to heart.
Tom caught her halfway up the broad marble stairs, jerking her to a halt, and for a moment all she could do was lean against the walls and stare at him as she struggled for breath.
If Tom wasn’t equally winded it was probably due to his six flights of stairs. Even so, it took him a moment to be able to speak.
“We can’t just … storm in there,” he said. “It might push him over the edge.”
“He is over the edge, damn it! Didn’t you hear what he said? He’s going to kill Nicole.”
“I heard him. I heard what he said in French, too, and it was far worse than what he was threatening in English. He told us exactly what he was planning to do to Nicole, and then what he’d do to you when he caught you.” Tom’s face was pale beneath the sweat, and Claire shivered.
“I don’t care. We can’t wait …”
“We have one advantage,” Tom said ruthlessly, holding her still when she tried to break free. “He only uses a knife. That’s what he was talking about, that’s what the papers have said. So he’ll have to get fairly close to either of us to hurt us.”
“The papers,” she said numbly. “Do you really think he’s the one who’s been killing these old women?”
“Do you really think there’s a chance he isn’t?”
“God,” Claire moaned. “What sort of monster have I been living with?”
“I don’t know. But I think we’re about to find out. Carefully now. Stay behind me. It’s you he wants to hurt. He seems to want to prey on women. Maybe he’ll think twice about hurting me.”
“Bullshit.” She pushed herself away from the wall. “You heard him. I don’t think he’s capable of thinking about it one way or the other. He’ll go through you to get to me. And I don’t give a damn. Anything to get him away from Nicole.” She yanked herself out of his grip and started back up the stairs, moving swiftly, dreading what she knew she’d find in the apartment.