Tom gave up arguing and came with her. The heavy green door stood open into the deserted hallway. There was no sign, no sound, of a living human being anywhere near the apartment.
Claire started forward, and once more Tom caught her arm. “He might be lying in wait for you,” he warned.
She shook her head impatiently. “He’s gone,” she said with great certainty, moving into the apartment with Tom beside her, slowly, carefully, listening for any unexpected sounds, watching for movement out of the corner of her eyes.
She half expected, half dreaded to see blood stains on the floor. There were none. No sign of a struggle. No sign of Marc. No sign of Nicole. The apartment was deserted.
“I’m calling the police.”
Claire barely heard him. “She’s still here.”
“No one’s here, Claire,” Tom said impatiently. “Marc’s taken her somewhere, and the sooner we get help the better.”
“Go ahead and call them. I’m going to keep looking.” She headed back toward the bedrooms, and with a sigh Tom replaced the telephone and followed her. “I thought you were going to call the police.”
“In a minute. If Nicole is here I don’t want you to have to find her alone.”
Claire shivered. “She’s not dead.”
“If you say so.”
“God damn it, Tom, I’d know …”
The sound was very faint. If every nerve in Claire’s body hadn’t been tuned in, waiting for it, she might never have heard it. Just a whisper of noise, calling her name.
“Nicole?” She kept her voice calm, as hope and panic threatened to swamp her. “Nicole, honey, where are you?”
The call came again, so softly she could scarcely hear it. She knew the voice, but the words were distant, incomprehensible.
“Nicole, where are you?”
The voice was louder as they ran toward the bedroom, and clearly in muffled French. Tom shook his head. “I don’t understand what she’s saying. She says she’s in something, but I don’t know the word.”
As they reached her bedroom they were greeted by a loud clang that shook the bedroom floor. Moments later Nicole crawled out of a hole in the bedroom closet, her sallow face pale, her dark hair hanging limply, her eyes still dilated and glassy. She looked up at Claire, murmured something in French, and collapsed on the floor, crying.
Within seconds Claire was on the floor beside her, pulling her into her lap, cradling her, murmuring ridiculous, comforting phrases as she pushed her damp hair out of her face. She rocked her, back and forth, for long, soothing moments, until Nicole’s tears shuddered to a halt, turning into occasional whimpers of fear as she clung to Claire, until she’d drifted back into an exhausted, semi-drugged sleep.
Claire turned and looked up at Tom. “Lock the doors,” she said. “We have to make sure he can’t get in.” And her arms tightened protectively around Nicole’s shivering figure as she jerked in fear.
Tom nodded, heading for the door, when her voice called him back.
“What did Nicole say when she saw me?”
A semblance of a smile lit Tom’s face. “She said she knew you’d come. She knew you’d save her.”
Claire managed the ghost of a smile in response. “I hope she’s right.”
“You’re the last person I expected to see.” Hubert’s voice was chilly with high-pitched disdain as he looked up into Rocco’s face. The old man was wearing mourning—a beautifully cut black su
it with a single white rose in the lapel. Mourning the old bitch, Rocco thought with a sneer he didn’t let show.
“I’m in trouble, Hubert.”
“And? You expect something from me?”
Rocco shrugged. “Information, perhaps. I’ve been useful to you in the past. It might be in your best interests to keep me around in case I could prove useful in the future.”
“It could be that you’ve outlived your usefulness. Things become dangerous when you start enjoying your job, Rocco. You were always such a professional. When you start killing for pleasure you run into trouble. Things are bound to catch up with you.”