“It wasn’t that simple. He didn’t hurt me. It’s just … there was a nightmarish quality about it all. An eerie feel to it, with Marc in control and me simply reacting to him. It was weird—sort of a pleasure-pain. And the next morning I’d feel sick to my stomach, and Marc would be talkative and charming and I’d forget.”
Tom didn’t say anything for a long moment, but Claire could see his long fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “You don’t think Marc really murdered the old women?”
“I can’t believe I wouldn’t have known.”
“That’s not an answer. Do you think he murdered the old women? Do you think he’s capable of it?”
“I think he’s capable of it,” she said. “I just can’t think why he’d do it.”
“There’ve been some interesting reports on the radio. Apparently the police believe there are several killers with one thing in common. They all went to the same orphanage in a small town outside of Paris.”
“Are they sure?”
“Pretty certain. Two of the suspects are dead, a butcher and someone who worked for the government. A third, a minor-league gangster, is still on the loose, and they’re not saying much about the fourth.”
“But he must have been in this orphanage? Thank God,” she said, her voice faint with relief. “Marc grew up in Rouen with his aunt and uncle. His parents died in a car crash when he was eight. He never spent time in an orphanage.”
“You’re sure?”
“He would have had no reason to lie to me.”
“Unless lying had become second nature.”
“I’ve seen pictures of him with his aunt and uncle. They look like a very happy family. They took care of him, nursed him …”
“Nursed him?”
“He burnt himself quite badly when he was ten years old. He still has scars on his hands. He’d been playing with matches in the Bonnards’ barn and the hay caught on fire, and he’d tried to put it out with his hands.”
“Interesting,” Tom remarked in a neutral voice.
“Why do you use that tone of voice?” she demanded.
“Still trying to find an excuse for him? What year would he have been ten?”
“Nineteen sixty-three. Why?”
“Because in nineteen sixty-three the Marie-le-Croix orphanage burned to the ground, with an old woman inside. Several of the orphans were suspected of being involved. The same orphan
s that grew up to murder grandmothers.”
“No!”
“Yes. Whether you like it or not, Claire, you’ve spent the last four months making love with a mass murderer.”
And Claire retreated into the darkness of the back seat without a word, hugging her horror to herself.
Tom waited until she fell back asleep before he flicked the radio on again. He couldn’t rid himself of the certain knowledge that he was the world’s worst shit, and half a dozen times he opened his mouth to apologize, to lie to her and give her hope that Marc Bonnard was simply playing some sort of sadistic mind game with her.
But half a dozen times he closed his mouth again. Comforting lies wouldn’t help her, much as he wanted to comfort her. As long as she clung to the ridiculous, infuriating hope that Marc was innocent, she was vulnerable. Bonnard could trace them, show up all charm and sweetness, and she’d probably go to him like the besotted fool she was.
No, that was his own jealousy talking. She was no longer besotted with Bonnard; she was sick and frightened and trying to make some sort of sense of what had happened. If she was looking for excuses, rationalizations, she didn’t need him blowing them all to pieces. She knew, deep down inside, just how dangerous Bonnard was. She was just having trouble admitting it.
And it was his own crazy jealousy that was making him act like such a bastard. He wanted to drive Bonnard from her heart and soul, leaving no room for anyone but himself. And the more he pushed, the more Claire held on.
He had to get himself back under control. No more cheap shots; he had to be strong and supportive while she dealt with all this. In a few more hours they’d be at Jassy. There they’d be safe. The head vintner’s cottage was in reasonably decent shape—he’d stayed there last fall when he went down for a final visit. It would provide a haven, a place to hide while they dealt with the unbelievable events of the last thirty-six hours, while they dealt with Claire’s denial and his own anger. Sooner or later the police had to listen.
And sooner or later Claire had to listen. When Nicole finally awoke from her drugged sleep and told her what she’d seen, then Claire wouldn’t be able to lie to herself anymore. And then he could give her the comfort she needed, instead of giving in to his own frustration and rage.