Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

There was no escape. There were dark figures at the end of the alley, milling around. He would have to hide, back among the garbage, and wait for daylight. Wait for them to give up, to go back to their cars and their police station and realize it was hopeless. They were too clever for the police; even hopeless, bumbling Yvon was too clever for them.

He tucked himself back among the battered garbage cans, ducking his head beneath the heavy onslaught of rain. He should have realized, should have planned it better. When they were young he had always screwed things up. The others had teased him unmercifully. Gilles had hit him, hurt him, his brutish bullying somehow less devastating than the quiet contempt of his idol. From him he had suffered pinches, slaps, and soft, jeering laughter.

He would laugh again, if he wasn’t too angry. He would read in the paper how Yvon had once more screwed up, and unless it endangered him he would simply shake his beautiful head, sigh, and say, “Poor Yvon. He never could do anything right.”

Gilles was another matter. If he made it past the police, made it home safely to his apartment just three blocks over, Gilles would find him. Gilles wouldn’t be able to tell what endangered him and what didn’t, and he’d always hated Yvon. No, when it came right down to it he was in as much danger from Gilles as he was from the police milling around.

He must have dozed off. The rain had lessened somewhat, the sky was growing lighter. It must be near dawn. Yvon stirred his cramped muscles, peering out into the darkened alleyway. The police were gone. Standing alone, silhouetted against the street light, was a figure, a man.

It was him. His idol, his hero, the god of his childhood, the one he’d worshiped with blind obedience. He was standing there, waiting, and Yvon could see the gun in his hand. He was there to punish him, punish him for failing in their pact. Yvon hung his head, and the rain sluiced down around his face. His hands were clean of blood now—the steady downpour had washed it away, but his clothes were black with it. He would show him, he would throw himself on his mercy.

But his idol had no mercy. He was waiting there for him, waiting, and Yvon knew he could be a coward no longer. Slowly he rose, kno

cking over the piled garbage, and stepped into the alley.

Suddenly the place was flooded with light, blinding him. Someone was shouting at him, but he couldn’t hear the words. He lifted his arms, and his hand still clutched the knife. And then there was a rushing, roaring sound, a thousand fists struck his chest, and he was hurled backward by an invisible force, thrown against the building. He looked down at his body, and there was still blood everywhere. He would have thought the old lady would have stopped bleeding by now, but there was fresh blood pouring all over his body. He watched with dazed surprise, tumbling forward onto the puddled streets. And before he died he said one word. “Marc.”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Malgreave fumed, watching as they carried the corpse away. The black plastic body bag wrapped up the bullet-riddled remains of a minor bureaucrat named Yvon Alpert. It wrapped up Malgreave’s only chance at finally getting a few answers.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Josef murmured miserably.

“What did the men think? He had a knife, a small knife. He couldn’t have thrown it far enough to hit anyone, even if he’d been a circus performer and not a pencil pusher. Damn their trigger-happy stupidity!”

“They saw what was left of the old lady,” Vidal offered. “Most of them have grandmothers. This has spooked them all.”

“I suppose they think they’ve solved the problem.” Malgreave’s voice was bitter. “That they’ve killed the murderer, that justice is served.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it isn’t. They haven’t. Alpert didn’t kill the nun in La Défense, or the twins, or the old lady last week. Unless I’m mistaken, Alpert never killed anyone before.”

“He won’t kill anyone again,” Josef offered.

“No, there’s that. But he won’t help us find the others.”

“Are you so sure there are others? Perhaps just Guillère … ?”

“More than that, Josef,” Malgreave said wearily. “More than that.” He looked around at the barely discernible dawn. The rain was continuing in a steady downpour, and he felt as old as the women who were being murdered. “I need some coffee,” he said finally, hunching his shoulders and heading back toward the car.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?” Josef scampered after him, miserable and guilt-ridden, and Vidal was already in the driver’s seat. They all knew Josef could have kept a tighter rein on the men who’d surrounded the alleyway. They all knew Josef could have stopped it.

Malgreave paused by the door of the car, the rain sliding off the battered brim of his hat. “Pray for sunshine, Josef. Pray for time.”

* * *

He backed away, into the fast-disappearing shadows of the night, away from the milling police, the curious early risers. His feet were noiseless in the soft-soled slippers, his face under the slouched hat was unnaturally pale, a pure, unearthly white. He faded into the dawn as silently as a wisp of fog, unseen, unheard. Gone.

CHAPTER 8

The day dawned cloudy and overcast, but at least it wasn’t raining. Claire lay motionless in the too-soft bed she’d shared with Marc, thinking of the old ladies who died in the rain. Never again would she enjoy the cozy sound of rain beating against the windows while she sat curled up in front of a warm fire.

Anyway, fires didn’t do much to warm this old barn of an apartment. While no one could deny its ancient elegance, cozy it ain’t, she thought, shifting around in the crumpled sheets. And today wouldn’t help matters. She could see the bare branches whipping about outside the multipaned windows. When the wind blew, there was no way they could warm the old place—they’d have to wear heavy wool socks and layers upon layers of sweaters. She could only hope Nicole’s grandmother lived in warmer lodgings.

Marc had been gone for almost two weeks. For two weeks she’d slept alone in this bed, left her clothes lying on the now-dusty parquet floor, left the dishes sitting in the sink, eaten junk food and starches and dressed in jeans. Each small act of defiance had given her pleasure, a childish, stupid sort of pleasure, she realized now. Marc had been gone two weeks, and instead of missing him, she was dreading his return.

Rolling over, she buried her face in the goose-down pillow. The soft percale smothered her, as Marc smothered her. She flipped back, staring at the ceiling. There were cobwebs lurking there, new cobwebs. God knows, she’d spent more than enough of her time lying on her back to have memorized the ceiling. If Marc saw those cobwebs he’d have a fit.

And there was no if about it. If she hadn’t gotten rid of them by the time he returned he would walk into the room and his dark eyes would immediately go to whatever imperfection marred the bedroom. She could always distract him, leave her clothes lying on the Aubusson carpet, but the very thought turned her slightly ill with apprehension.