Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

Claire was beyond guilt. “What happened yesterday?”

Nicole shook her head. “I don’t remember much. He was laughing, talking about how he was going to hurt me. I couldn’t walk, but I was able to crawl away and hide in the heating duct. I thought he was going to find me but he didn’t. Something must have scared him away. The next thing I remember, you were there.”

“Thank God,” Claire murmured. At least things hadn’t gone as far as she’d expected. Marc had been driven away before he’d had a chance to molest her. She wanted to grab Nicole once more and hold her, to keep away the evil and fear that had haunted her for so long, but she knew better. Nicole was rapidly recovering her prickly self-possession, and she wouldn’t accept Claire’s babying her for much longer. Indeed, the best thing for all of them was practicality, not an excess of emotion.

So Claire climbed down from the bed, shoving up the sleeves of her sweater and addressing Tom in her best no-nonsense voice. “First things first. I imagine Nicole would like to use the bathroom.” At that Nicole nodded enthusiastically. “And then I need something to eat before I fall down and faint from hunger.”

“The first part’s easy. The second part will take a little longer.” Both females groaned loudly. “I have to go into town to find something to eat and a telephone. In the meantime you’ll have to make do with wine and candy bars.”

Claire moaned. “Is that all we have?”

Nicole grinned. “Perfect,” she said with a blissful expression on her pale face. “And bring back some Coca-Cola.”

* * *

Rocco settled in to wait. He was hungry, he was thirsty, but he made it a practice never to eat before a job. He still hadn’t decided whether today’s task was business or pleasure. Maybe a little bit of both.

He’d parked the Citroën in a small scraggly patch of bushes. It gave him an unobstructed view of the stone cottage and the sheds. From the dubious comfort of the small car he could watch and wait until one of those American idiots made a move.

It was a dark, rainy day, with a spring chill in the air that made Rocco huddle deeper into his leather jacket. He hated the countryside, hated being cold, hated being cramped into this too-small car. The sooner this was over the sooner he could get back to Paris. He would have given a great deal to be able to chuck it all, to let Bonnard’s mess sort itself out. But he knew he couldn’t afford to do that. Not if he wanted Hubert’s protection.

In a way it was his own fault, for listening to Marc in the first place. It was his own fault all those years ago. He’d been older than the others, he’d had plans of his own. They’d been doing all right, too, protecting each other, until Marc de Salles had shown up, with his angel’s face and his devil’s soul. He’d been the one to first suggest killing Grand-mère Estelle and Georges. He’d been the one to use the knife, and to take pleasure in doing so. And he’d been the one to suggest the pact, using his mesmerizing personality to convince the others.

Rocco had never thought he’d actually carry through with it. The government had rounded up the orphans and sent them to foster homes. Rocco had ended up with a schoolteacher and his family in Lyon. He’d stuck it out for two years and then taken off, back to his beloved Paris, where he killed for a living, not for pleasure.

It had been a simple enough pact, written in their own blood, signed by the fire. When they grew up they would kill the grandmothers of the world, the evil ones who’d sent them away to the orphanage, the evil ones who kept them there and hurt them and abused them. They would never meet, never talk, never in any way acknowledge each other, but each of them must kill twenty old women before they could stop.

There had been all sorts of rules. Boys on the edge of puberty loved ceremony and mystery. They could only kill in the rain, they must remove the shoes of the old ladies and lay them out as they had Grand-mère Estelle, they must use a knife and one thrust into the heart. Rocco had added that part, being partial to knives, while Yvon had suggested the bit about the shoes and Gilles had just listened and nodded. It was Marc who had wanted them to rape the old women’s corpses.

The other boys had rebelled at that, and he’d given in. They would kiss the dead women, and leave it at that. Rocco always wondered whether Marc had.

In the years that followed Rocco had forgotten the pact, forgotten the orphanage and the other boys. If he couldn’t quite forget Marc, the burning eyes and angelic face, then everyone had their own demons. It had been an accident. A rainy night, and he’d been robbing an apartment in Montmartre, when the owner returned. It was a frail, blue-haired lady, with silver-framed pictures of chubby grandchildren adorning her walls. He’d stabbed her quickly, instinctively, one thrust to the heart, and as the rain beat against the windows he found himself removing her shoes and laying her out on the narrow bed, arms folded across the wound. He’d stared down at her for a long, enigmatic moment, surprised at the joy and power he felt coursing through his veins. Killing had become an instinct by then, but this was different.

Vaguely he had remembered the night in the orphanage, the pact written in blood. And he’d bent down and kissed the dead woman on her slack mouth.

Twenty women, he thought back to the original pact. The problem was, he didn’t know if he could stop. He was already at eighteen—two more and he’d be finished.

Poor Yvon had bungled things quite badly, managing only one. And between Gilles and Marc there were only about twenty-four. The others were dead, and if Marc was helped to retire then none of them had fulfilled their promise. Twenty each, that made eighty old women, and only forty-three of them gone so far. Maybe Rocco would finish things up for the others.

There was movement at the farmhouse, and Rocco pulled himself out of his reverie, wiping the dreamy smile from his face. The American was leaving. In the darkness of the opened doorway he could make out the slender, fair figure of Marc’s mistress. He would have liked a taste of that, but it probably wouldn’t work out. Better to finish her quickly, grab the girl, and head back to Paris. Once he’d bought Hubert’s protection with the price of the old woman’s granddaughter, then he could concentrate on more important things.

The door closed behind the man, and Rocco had no doubt it was firmly locked and possibly barred. He watched the man head to the shed where he’d hidden the Peugeot, and considered cutting him off, killing him there and then. He decided not to bother. The man would be out of the way—he could only be going to the town and that was a good seven miles off. He had more than enough time to get into the house and do his work without bothering with a man who was taller than him and possibly as strong. Rocco was a prudent man, not one to take unnecessary chances when he had a job to do.

He sat in his car, watching the Peugeot

disappear down the rutted, rain-soaked road. He had at least half an hour to do the job, perhaps more, but it wouldn’t do to waste time. Sliding from the cramped car seat, he headed out into the pouring rain, down the rocky hillside to the farmhouse.

Pierre Gauge blinked his eyes in concentration, ran a pink tongue over his thick lips, and broke the point on his freshly sharpened pencil. “One moment, monsieur,” he said laboriously, setting the phone down and crossing the room to sharpen the pencil. He moved back across the crowded room with his usual deliberation, sank back down in his chair, pulled the notebook toward him, perused the name and the opening sentence he’d just transcribed, and then picked up the phone again.

“Yes, monsieur,” he said patiently. “Speak slowly and clearly. I can’t understand you when you yell.” These stupid Americans, Gauge thought, pressing hard with the pencil. Either they speak English too quickly for even a clever man to follow, or they speak French so badly one would think they were speaking Hindustani. They didn’t even have the sense to use the same alphabet, or at least they didn’t call the letters the same things. The Holy Mother only knew if he’d spelled the man’s name right.

The man’s voice was getting angrier, making his French even more indistinct. Gauge looked around him, curious to see if a more efficiently bilingual policeman were in sight, but there was no one available.

“Perhaps you should call back when Inspector Summer or Chief Inspector Malgreave is in the office,” Gauge broke through his tortuous explanations.

He didn’t know the words the man used, but from the tone of voice he expected they were something quite obscene. The man was insisting that lives were at stake, but they all said that. Gauge leaned forward, sighing, and began to write once more, when his pencil broke again.

“One moment, monsieur,” he said, putting the receiver down and ignoring the angry squawking. He crossed the room again, sharpened the pencil, moistened it with his tongue, sharpened it again, recrossed the room, and sat down at his desk. When he picked up the phone the line was dead.