remotely possible that he’d have his own son killed to punish me? I can’t let myself believe that…yet this is a man who once threatened to kill Oliver to get me to do his bidding.
My umbrella leans against the tree, its metal tip aimed at the sky. I flip it over and stab it in the ground and tell myself, for god’s sake,
focus
.
I ask Oliver, “Could a tractor leave tracks this deep if the soil’s so dry?”
“Good question,” he answers. “They’re pretty heavy, but I’m not sure—”
“Or maybe the tracks are from ATVs,” I say. “If the police were searching here. Or vintners going from one field to the other.”
I glance east and west. Whatever made the tracks, I have no doubt that the French gendarmes have seen them, not to mention Interpol.
“What do we do now?” I say.
Before Oliver can reply, we hear glass breaking in the distance, followed a split second later by the earsplitting wail of a car alarm.
We cut back through the plane trees and recross the tracks. By the time we reach the platform, the man in the trench coat is fleeing down Rue de Saint-Corbenay with my computer bag clutched to his chest and my backpack swinging awkwardly from one hand.
I’m too stunned to react for a moment, and even after I start to run my legs feel dead—I might as well be running through loose sand. Six days of virtually no sleep, barely any food, my nerves zinging with adrenaline, have left me pathetically frail, at least five kilos lighter. It’s all I can do to keep hold of the flopping purse at my shoulder. In seconds, Oliver’s way out ahead, a flailing streak of red darting through the flap of blackbirds. The shriek of the alarm manages to pierce the acoustic trickery of the place, traveling around walls, down lanes, drowning out the
moutarde
woman in the village square. For a second, I wonder if Benny hears it too.
Despite the rain, housewives begin poking their heads out second-floor windows. “Shit!” Oliver says, kicking at the nuggets of safety glass. “Shit, shit, shit.”
By the time I reach him, I have no breath. The air around my head feels thin, diluted, silvery gray. I can’t talk. I cover my eyes. Even a groan takes effort.
Oliver extracts the keys from my jacket pocket. The alarm continues its wail, yet a woman’s voice somehow makes itself heard. I drop my hand and see a thin, attractive young woman in jeans and a white blouse approaching from the corner house, where the front door stands open. A cell is clutched in her hand.
“Police,” she shouts, the same in English as French. I shake my head no. Wave my hands no. This is the last thing we need.
She chatters on in French as blots of rain darken her blouse, revealing the lace of her bra, and flattening the blonde hair lying across her bony shoulders.
“Police,” she shouts again, and then I understand she’s already called them.
I doubt Moreau could have returned from Zurich so soon. Anyway, he wouldn’t answer a call about a car break-in, would he?
Oliver fumbles with the keypad and manages to kill the alarm. The silence is long, high-pitched, unnerving.
Second-floor windows begin to close.
Oliver opens the rear door, snatches up his backpack and computer bag, shakes the glass free. “He only got yours,” he says.
“This is a disaster,” I say. “We’ve got to get out of here. She’s called the police.”
Oliver appears to notice her only now. She’s trying to tell me something else. The rain isn’t enough to move her to go inside. She’s persistent, shivering, her nipples lifting through the sheer fabric.
I raise my palms and jostle my head. “I’m sorry! I don’t speak French!”
“
Sprechen Sie Deutsch?
” she asks, which surprises me more than anything happening here.
“
Ja
,” I tell her, stunned, lowering my hands. Why on earth would she ask me this?
I’m thoroughly soaked, my umbrella abandoned by the plane tree. All of my clothes are in the hands of trench coat man, my
My umbrella leans against the tree, its metal tip aimed at the sky. I flip it over and stab it in the ground and tell myself, for god’s sake,
focus
.
I ask Oliver, “Could a tractor leave tracks this deep if the soil’s so dry?”
“Good question,” he answers. “They’re pretty heavy, but I’m not sure—”
“Or maybe the tracks are from ATVs,” I say. “If the police were searching here. Or vintners going from one field to the other.”
I glance east and west. Whatever made the tracks, I have no doubt that the French gendarmes have seen them, not to mention Interpol.
“What do we do now?” I say.
Before Oliver can reply, we hear glass breaking in the distance, followed a split second later by the earsplitting wail of a car alarm.
We cut back through the plane trees and recross the tracks. By the time we reach the platform, the man in the trench coat is fleeing down Rue de Saint-Corbenay with my computer bag clutched to his chest and my backpack swinging awkwardly from one hand.
I’m too stunned to react for a moment, and even after I start to run my legs feel dead—I might as well be running through loose sand. Six days of virtually no sleep, barely any food, my nerves zinging with adrenaline, have left me pathetically frail, at least five kilos lighter. It’s all I can do to keep hold of the flopping purse at my shoulder. In seconds, Oliver’s way out ahead, a flailing streak of red darting through the flap of blackbirds. The shriek of the alarm manages to pierce the acoustic trickery of the place, traveling around walls, down lanes, drowning out the
moutarde
woman in the village square. For a second, I wonder if Benny hears it too.
Despite the rain, housewives begin poking their heads out second-floor windows. “Shit!” Oliver says, kicking at the nuggets of safety glass. “Shit, shit, shit.”
By the time I reach him, I have no breath. The air around my head feels thin, diluted, silvery gray. I can’t talk. I cover my eyes. Even a groan takes effort.
Oliver extracts the keys from my jacket pocket. The alarm continues its wail, yet a woman’s voice somehow makes itself heard. I drop my hand and see a thin, attractive young woman in jeans and a white blouse approaching from the corner house, where the front door stands open. A cell is clutched in her hand.
“Police,” she shouts, the same in English as French. I shake my head no. Wave my hands no. This is the last thing we need.
She chatters on in French as blots of rain darken her blouse, revealing the lace of her bra, and flattening the blonde hair lying across her bony shoulders.
“Police,” she shouts again, and then I understand she’s already called them.
I doubt Moreau could have returned from Zurich so soon. Anyway, he wouldn’t answer a call about a car break-in, would he?
Oliver fumbles with the keypad and manages to kill the alarm. The silence is long, high-pitched, unnerving.
Second-floor windows begin to close.
Oliver opens the rear door, snatches up his backpack and computer bag, shakes the glass free. “He only got yours,” he says.
“This is a disaster,” I say. “We’ve got to get out of here. She’s called the police.”
Oliver appears to notice her only now. She’s trying to tell me something else. The rain isn’t enough to move her to go inside. She’s persistent, shivering, her nipples lifting through the sheer fabric.
I raise my palms and jostle my head. “I’m sorry! I don’t speak French!”
“
Sprechen Sie Deutsch?
” she asks, which surprises me more than anything happening here.
“
Ja
,” I tell her, stunned, lowering my hands. Why on earth would she ask me this?
I’m thoroughly soaked, my umbrella abandoned by the plane tree. All of my clothes are in the hands of trench coat man, my
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