Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

“What’s the difference between the police and the gendarmes? I thought they were the same.” Claire pulled the sleeves down on her sweater, shivering in the cool night air.

“Nope. The police are urban, and under the direction of the Department of the Interior. The gendarmes are rural and belong to the army. Needless to say there’s a fair amount of rivalry going on. We might be able to use that competitiveness to our advantage.”

“I’ll take any advantage we can get,” Claire said wearily, reaching for the handle. Nicole had already scrambled out the back door and was busy poking about in the lightly falling rain.

“Come on, Claire,” she shouted over her shoulder. “This is wonderful.”

Wonderful was not the word for the old stone barn, Claire thought an hour later. The place was huge and damp and musty, the catwalks running around the stone walls looked practically suicidal, and it took most of Claire’s concentration to keep Nicole off them. The steep walls disappeared up into darkness above them, and it was apparent from the puddles on the cobbled floor and the intermittent splashes on their heads that the roof was in uncertain condition.

There was hay all right, damp and moldy and smelling of rodents. Tom mounded piles of the stuff into makeshift beds, tossing blankets on top of them. Two beds, she noticed, one large, one much too small for Tom to sleep on, even if he were alone. Clearly he wasn’t planning on sleeping alone.

They made a meager meal of the leftover bread and cheese. Nicole had already demolished the junk food, but even she pronounced Tom’s wine unfit for human consumption. They sat around in the semi-darkness, lit only by a few candles and a quickly fading flashlight, and gradually the wind abated, the rain softened, the night seemed to mellow around them.

“I don’t suppose anyone wants to tell ghost stories,” Tom suggested lazily. He was stretched out on the larger of the two makeshift beds, seemingly at ease.

“No!” Claire said.

“Yes!” Nicole said with equal enthusiasm.

“I think we have more than enough cause for nightmares right now,” Claire added.

“Don’t sound like a repressive schoolmarm,” Tom said, rolling over onto his back. “I sure as hell would rather dream about werewolves and ghosts than Marc Bonnard.”

“I don’t want to dream about anything,” Nicole said, some of her animation leaving her.

“You don’t have to, sweetheart,” Claire murmured. “Why don’t we go find this stream Tom swears is nearby, wash our hands and face, and then settle down for the night?”

“It’s only eight o’clock,” Tom protested.

“The sooner we sleep the sooner it will be daylight, and the sooner we can go find another telephone,” Claire said. “At least the rain’s stopped for now. Which way is the stream?”

“Out the back. There’s a path leading down to it. You shouldn’t have any trouble—you can hear the sound of rushing water even in here.”

Claire nodded, climbing wearily to her feet and holding out a hand to Nicole. She was going to have to get Tom to regroup the sleeping arrangements. Much as she wanted the comfort of his body wrapped around hers, Nicole needed comfort more. Soon, when this was all over, they could sleep together in peace.

Nicole took her hand, making no effort to pull away as they headed for the narrow opening in the back wall of the barn. The fading flashlight provided meager illumination into the rainy darkness, and Claire hesitated.

“Want me to come with you?” Tom asked, pulling himself into a sitting position.

“Nope. We ladies need a little bit of privacy, don’t we, Nicole?”

Nicole nodded vigorously, clearly pleased to hear herself described with such an adult word. “We have to use the bathroom,” she confided.

Tom nodded solemnly. “Give a holler if you can’t find your way back in the dark.”

“I think the flashlight will last that long. In the meantime you can rearrange the beds a bit. I don’t think you’re going to fit too well on that one,” Claire said calmly, trying to stifle her amusement as Tom’s face fell.

Then he sighed in theatrical resignation. “All right,” he said. “Don’t be gone too long.”

“We won’t,” Claire promised. She stared at him for a long moment, wanting to say so much to him, not knowing where to begin. In the end she didn’t have to say a word. He took her upturned face in his two strong hands and brushed his mouth over hers.

“Be careful,” he murmured, his eyes warm and loving.

“We will be.” But in the end it took much longer than she expected. Despite the noise of the rushing water, the stream was quite far away. The path twisted and turned through trees and overgrown bushes, the dirt had turned to mud beneath their feet, and while Nicole had no qualms about squatting in the woods, it took Claire a moment to overcome her New England inhibitions. They washed in the icy, rushing stream, and for a moment Claire thought longingly of a deep, hot bath soaking away the aches, the pains, the sticky grime of two days on the road. And then she shook herself, as the rain began to fall once more.

“Let’s get back to the barn,” she said, pulling herself upright. “This is one day I can’t wait for to end.”

Nicole murmured something in French, adding in English a succinct “me, too.” Going back was rougher—the batteries in the flashlight were ready to give up the ghost, the path was uphill and even more slippery, and the rain grew heavier as they climbed. The barn loomed ahead of them, and the faint glow of candlelight from the open door was welcoming.