“Did you leave your number with the police?” Tom asked. “Are they going to call you back?”
“Yes. Not that I’m holding my breath. It was clear they thought I was a crazy American lady.”
“They wouldn’t listen to me either.”
“You’re a crazy American man. They’re not going to take our word against that of a man with Marc’s reputation, not unless we can prove it. At this point it’s our word against his.”
“And you don’t think there’s enough proof? What about when Nicole wakes up? Won’t they believe her?”
“She’s a child, a child who’s recently lost her mother and her grandmother in violent, unexpected ways. They’ll think she’s fantasizing.”
“I think you’re being needlessly pessimistic. Let’s wake her up, go outside, and get a taxi to police headquarters. We can just camp there until someone listens to us. At least Bonnard couldn’t get to you there.” She could tell Tom was making an effort at being reasonable, but she couldn’t listen.
“No!” she said, fighting panic at the very idea. “I know how charming Marc can be, and when it comes right down to it, I have no right keeping Nicole with me. He could even tell the police that I drugged her, I kidnapped her. They’d take her from me and give her back to him, and there’d be nothing I could do about it.”
“I don’t know if Bonnard is capable of such rational behavior anymore,” Tom said slowly. “He sounded like he’d slipped over the edge.”
“Maybe. I can’t count on it.” She moved over and sank down on the couch, inches from Nicole’s bare feet. Tom had been surprisingly patient all afternoon, calling the police and trying to get through in his adequate French, making tea that neither of them drank, his very presence a comfort, a defense against the forces of evil. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d had enough. After all, he had no ties to her. They were merely chance-met strangers in Paris, and she’d managed to draw him into a web of murder and madness from which there seemed to be no escape. It would be little wonder if he wanted to wash his hands of the whole sordid affair.
“Damn it, Claire, we can’t just sit here …” he began, rumpling his already tousled hair in frustration.
“No, we can’t,” she said, pulling a hard-gained serenity back around her. “And I’ve decided what I have to do.”
“Have you?” His tone of voice wasn’t promising, but Claire ignored it. The sooner Tom was out of this mess, the better.
“Nicole and I are going into hiding. My new American Express card should be ready. With that I’ll rent a car, take Nicole, and go off someplace where Marc can’t find us. Just long enough for the police to realize we’ve been handing them their murderer on a silver platter. Once I read in the paper that Marc’s been arrested I’ll bring Nicole back.”
He’d listened to this all with an enigmatic expression on his face. “And what am I supposed to be doing during all this?”
“Working on your novel. While we’re gone you could keep after the police, tell them how crazy Marc is. With you to badger them, they should eventually see reason.”
“Sounds very efficient. Where were you planning on going?” His voice was mild, and Claire found herself struggling between relief and disappointment. She had thought, had hoped, he’d put up more of a fight.
“I wasn’t quite sure. South, I suppose, maybe near the Riviera. We’d call in, check to see if anything’s happened. We’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be dead,” he said flatly.
“Tom …”
“For one thing, you can’t rent a car without proper identification, and that includes a passport. For another, Bonnard knows the Riviera, you don’t. You’d be much safer in a less-inhabited part of the country. God knows that’s easy enough to find—most of the population is crowded around Paris and the southeast coast. And in case it’s slipped your mind, you can’t speak French. Not a goddamned word of it. So how do you expect to fade into the woodwork for God knows how long without Marc finding you?”
“I can’t involve you in this.”
“I’m already involved. He knows me, he knows where I live. He called you at my apartment, remember? I’m just as likely to wind up with a knife in my throat while you’re off sunning yourself at Cap Ferrat.”
“Don’t.” Claire shuddered.
“Sorry, lady. I’m in this all the way. You’ll find I have my uses. I’m a jack of all trades—I’ll be your chauffeur, your translator, and your bodyguard. And I work cheap. Just an occasional pat on the head, a crumb of affection, and I’ll be your slave.”
“I can’t let you do it.”
“You have no choice,” he said flatly, and Claire wondered how she had ever thought he was easygoing. “It’s very simple. First, I don’t have a car, but I have a friend who has an old Peugeot that simply sits around getting rusty. Second, I don’t think we should bother with your American Express card. Bonnard will expect you to get a new one—it would be his best chance of tracing you. We’ll manage without. I ca
n get plenty of cash, and where we’re headed we won’t need much money.”
“Where are we headed?”
He grinned at her, and suddenly she found herself grinning back, feeling reckless and oddly carefree. Whether she liked it or not, she did have someone to turn to. “We’re going toward one of the darkest, emptiest corners in the back of beyond. A place where the goats outnumber the dogs, and the dogs outnumber the people. The only place in France where grapes don’t grow. In other words, we’re going to my vineyard.”