Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

“Suit yourself. It’s going to be a long drive.”

Her whole body ached with weariness and pain. She couldn’t remember if Marc had ever been as rough as he’d been last night. He probably had and she’d been too besotted to notice. But she noticed now. At least she’d managed a long shower, but even twenty minutes under a steaming spray hadn’t managed to make her feel clean.

“The longer, the farther away from Paris and Marc, the better,” she said, turning her face into the cracked leather seats.

And without another word Tom pulled into the rush hour traffic with all the reckless self-concern of a kamikaze pilot intent on his mission.

The battered white Fiat looked like a thousand other cars caught in the maelstrom of Paris rush hour. The interior of the car was shadowed in the early-evening light, and the driver wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his face. It would have taken a discerning eye indeed to realize that face was covered with thick white makeup, the mouth painted in a grin of maniacal glee at odds with the stylized tears dotting the clown-white cheeks.

The Fiat pulled away from the curb, following the Peugeot through the crowded streets of Paris, heading toward the northeast. And in the car there was absolute silence.

CHAPTER 19

Claire slept. How and why she couldn’t quite figure out, but when she awoke in the back seat of the borrowed Peugeot she was stiff and sore and it was dark outside. She could hear the muffled noise of the car radio above the raucous engine, see Tom’s profile in the reflected light of the oncoming cars. He looked distant, preoccupied, and once more she was swamped with guilt for having dragged him into this sordid mess.

And then she looked down at the child curled up next to her. Nicole was still asleep, though her breathing was more regular and even in the dimness Claire could see her color had improved. Her skin felt normal, not too hot, not the clammy coldness of earlier. Any lingering guilt vanished. For Nicole she would have endangered anyone. For the pale, helpless, not particularly endearing child still wrapped in a drugged sleep she would have done anything, and to hell with the consequences.

“Feel any better?” Tom pitched his voice low, flicking off the staticky radio.

“I guess so. Nicole seems to be doing okay.”

“Good. If you hadn’t woken in the next half hour I was going to pull over and check on you both, and I’d rather not do that. I’ve already lost one tail, and I don’t want to chance picking up another one.”

“Someone was following us?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I was being paranoid. It was probably just some French suburbanite on his way home for the weekend. He never got too close, but every time I looked in the mirror there he was. You missed my fancy driving—it was pretty impressive. Maybe I should have tried being a race-car driver instead of heading for the arts.”

Claire managed a weak smile. He was trying to amuse her, to lighten the oppressive atmosphere of the car, and the least she could do was show some appreciation. “What kind of car?”

“An old Fiat. White, I think. The driver was wearing a hat.”

Relief washed over her. “It must have been your paranoia. Marc has a Mercedes, and he hates hats.”

“Okay, that rules out Marc.”

“Maybe.”

“How are you doing?” Tom asked.

Claire laughed shakily. “Not too good.” She leaned forward over the front seat, close enough to touch him. “I find the man I’ve been living with, the man I was going to marry, is a crazed murderer. He said he’s been killing those old women, and I don’t know whether to believe him or not.” She pressed her head against the cracked leather seat. “How could I have lived with him and not noticed? I can’t believe he could be that crazy. I keep thinking he must have been lying to me. He always liked fantasy. He could be making this up, just to terrorize me.”

“Do you really think so?” Tom said, his voice noncommittal.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said desperately. “He could be so strange. There were days when he’d be completely silent, moving around the apartment like Marcel Marceau, refusing to talk to me.”

“How did you react to that?”

“It drove me crazy. I tried screaming at him, but it didn’t work. He’d just stretch it out even longer. Do you realize how hard it is to argue with someone who won’t talk, just stares at you and shrugs?” She shivered. “Those were the worst times. I should have realized.”

“When would he start talking again?”

“Usually the next morning. After …”

“After?” he prompted.

“Those nights were very bad,” she said simply, shocked at the belated realization. At the time she’d accepted it, passive, as she’d been passive for so long.

“Why didn’t you leave him?”