Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

The bullet buried itself in the floor beside the man’s head, but she’d still accomplished what she’d set out to do. In his panic he released her ankle and rolled out of the way, slamming up against the foot of the bed and panting in rage and pain. He left a smeared trail of blood on the scrubbed plank floor.

Through a haze of panic and adrenaline-charged determination, she heard the renewed pounding, this time on the front door. Tom’s voice came with it, and for the first time the blind rage cleared a little from her head.

“Go around the back,” she shouted, not daring to leave the wounded snake untended. His knife lay on the floor, out of his reach, and she kicked it away, into the living room, cradling Nicole as they waited for Tom to arrive.

He took in the bloody scene with admirable efficiency. “You shot him?” he asked calmly.

Her voice no longer worked, so she contented herself with a brief nod. The man’s eyes were closed, his breathing labored, but she wasn’t fooled. When Tom started toward him she stopped him. “Let him be,” she said in a raw voice. “He’s too dangerous.”

“He could be bleeding to death …”

“He deserves it. He kills the old women too.”

Tom looked down at him, no surprise showing. “Rocco someone, the radio said. All right. If he bleeds to death he’s no great loss. Are you two all right?”

“I’m okay,” Claire said, lying. “How about you, baby?”

Nicole lifted her tear-streaked face, nodded, and hid once more in Claire’s arms.

“Good,” Tom said. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

“The police … ?”

He shook his head. “Still no luck. We’ll try from our next stop.”

“Do you know where we’re going?” She found she was still clutching the gun in an iron grip. Carefully Tom pried it from her.

“Not really. We’ll just drive till we find a safe place.” He reached for Nicole, and surprisingly enough she went, transferring her limpetlike grip to him with an unconscious show of trust. “At least I managed to get some food. We’ll have

a picnic on the road.”

He headed out the door, and for a brief moment Claire remained behind, staring down at the man she’d shot, the man she would have killed in cold blood if her aim had been better. She tried to summon remorse, triumph, at least a sense of justification. She felt nothing, empty inside, as she stared at the pale, sweating face.

Suddenly his eyes shot open, dark, full of pain and malice. He tried to move toward her, but the effort was too much, and he sank back, panting, his eyes shut once more. Claire ran from the room.

Pierre Gauge finished typing the transcript. He was a careful man, working slowly, steadily, so as not to miss or mistake a word. He worked without using his brain, only his ears and his fingers, not bothering to read what he had transcribed until he’d finished. He sat back, his watery brown eyes moving laboriously over the typed words.

And then he whistled to himself, softly, and allowed himself the luxury of a muttered curse. This one sounded different from the usual crackpots that called in, disturbing Pierre’s peace and distracting his attention from the day’s racing form. He rifled through his copy of yesterday’s transcripts and found what he was looking for. The American, Parkhurst, had called two days in a row. And in print he seemed neither deluded nor attention-seeking.

He scanned the page, coming across the call from Claire MacIntyre. He swore again. Well, it wasn’t his responsibility, his place, to judge whether a call was important or not. Neither of them had mention Guillère, and up to now that was the only thing Malgreave had been interested in. Pierre had placed those transcripts on Josef Summer’s desk. It was up to the bosses to think, not the likes of him. If Summer had screwed himself, well then, that was life.

But Gauge’s ass was on the line, too. He couldn’t just sit there, waiting for someone to pay attention. Neither Malgreave nor his two assistants were back yet, but they would be, sooner or later. And this time, instead of putting the transcript on Josef’s tidy desk, he took the few extra steps and placed it in the center of Malgreave’s mess.

And with the righteous sense of a man who’d done his duty, he reapplied himself to the racing form, ignoring the noise around him.

The goddamned bitch, Rocco thought, pulling himself into a sitting position. He knew from experience that the bullet wouldn’t kill him, but he’d lost a lot of blood and he was weak, weak. It would take every ounce of strength he had left to crawl out to his car and drive to someplace where he could find help.

Probably back to Paris, much as he hated the thought. Marseilles was too far away. Besides, he knew where to find doctors who were as discreet as they were practiced. He’d get patched up, then disappear. He’d screwed things up but good this time. Hubert wouldn’t help him—not since he lost the child. And Marc sounded too crazy to be of much use to anyone.

No, things didn’t look good for Rocco. What with Malgreave hot on his trail, no one would be enthusiastic about hiding him. No one he knew would want to let themselves in for police attention.

He levered himself up to the bed, panting slightly. He was slightly disoriented. God only knows how long ago the Americans had left. He must have passed out. There’d be no catching them now, and he no longer gave a damn. He had his own skin to worry about, a more important issue than revenge.

He’d be lucky if he made it as far as Paris, he thought gloomily. He might very well have to stop on the way, but that would only be a last resort. He didn’t look like the kind of man who shot himself by accident, and he’d face all sorts of difficult questions if he checked himself into some rural hospital.

No, he’d make it. At least the bitch hadn’t taken his knife. She’d kicked it out of the way, but he could see it in the darkened confines of the empty living room. He’d take a minute or two, catch his breath, and then head for his knife.

He blinked. There was no noise but the sound of the rain beating against the deserted farmhouse, but he thought he saw a shadow. He squinted his eyes, concentrating on the knife, watching in shock as a white-gloved hand reached down and picked it up. He looked up as the figure filled the doorway, and a frisson of horror washed over him.