Guilty Wives (29 page)

BOULEZ WAS ON
his third Scotch of the night—or, more appropriately, of the early morning. It was 4:00 a.m. on the button.

He looked at the vanity wall in his office, which was now minus two framed photographs that he’d punched in anger over the last hour. His knuckles were bleeding. It was the least of his problems right now.

“She got on the train,” said LaFave. “There doesn’t seem to be any doubt about that.”

“But then she got off.” Boulez shook his head. The bitter golden liquid in his glass was numbing him, but it only halfway did the trick, like a Novocain shot that didn’t fully take. His stomach was doing gymnastics.

“There’s still hope, sir. The trains are closed to her. The bus station is covered. She’s on foot, presumably—”

“She planned this well.” Boulez waved a hand. “She had nothing but time to plot every step. She knew about the London train, and she made a big show of purchasing a ticket and probably even talking to that train porter. She wanted to make sure we thought she was on that train.” He eased himself out of his chair. “Leave me, LaFave.” He looked over at his special-unit commander. “And don’t stop until you find her.”

When LaFave had left, Boulez opened his cell phone and found the number in his contacts list. It was a call he’d prayed he wouldn’t have to make.

“This is Warden Antoine Boulez from L’Institution de Justice et Réforme pour les Femmes. I need to speak with Colonel Durand immediately. Yes, I am fully aware what time it is. What is the message? You want to know what you should tell him?”

So apparently Durand hadn’t received word yet; he was sleeping, as any sane person would be at this hour. Boulez would have the privilege of delivering the news.

He said, “Tell the colonel that Abbie Elliot has escaped.”

I DROVE SLOWLY
along the A85, following the MapQuest directions, gradually calming as I gained an increasing distance from Limoges.

I was far from safe. I was driving a stolen car that wasn’t registered to me. If I was pulled over by the French police, I was toast.

But I’d stopped worrying about roadblocks. I was too far away. They’d have no particular reason to know that I was heading north.

The truth was, I had no idea what they knew, or how long they’d known it. For all I knew, the guard who replaced Sabine at 2:00 a.m. was still sitting at her station, thinking everything was hunky-dory.

If they’d become aware, then presumably they would have looked at the train station and figured I took the overnight train to Toulouse. I’d left plenty of bread crumbs, all the way up to that porter, who sent me two cars down to the
couchette
. It allowed me to walk through the train cars and disembark from a different car—where the porter couldn’t see me get off—and then head for the exit by the back staircase.

Did it work? Did they chase me south while I drove north? Well, I was still on the run. So I guess it did.

I surely didn’t condone the criminal pasts of my friend Linette and her fiancé, Giorgio. But if they were going to commit crimes, it sure was handy that they became car thieves.

The Audi sedan—the one parked by the train station, with the teddy bear in the back window—drove very nicely indeed. The stuffed animal for the signal had been Giorgio’s idea, a touching salute to Linette.

I stretched my arms, releasing nervous energy. I’d done a good job of thinking this through, but the truth was, I was in way over my head. I had no idea what kind of resources they could employ to find me.

Thanks to Giorgio, I had two hundred euros, two changes of clothes, a box of granola bars, two liters of Vittel water, MapQuest directions to where I was going, and a sleeping bag. The money was awfully generous of Giorgio—more than I’d requested, and tough on him, I knew—but it really didn’t amount to a whole lot. It would run out soon.

All these worries aside, I wouldn’t be denied a small measure of euphoria, a buzz of electricity coursing through me. I had the window down and let the thick air lick my cheek and brush my hair. I was free. I didn’t know for how long, but I was free.

I only knew one thing for sure: between the money running out and the relentless pursuit of me that was forthcoming, I only had a small window of time to figure out what I needed to figure out, and to prove it.

Make that two things I knew. After two and a half hours outside the prison walls, I knew with absolute certainty that I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t live in that soul-killing hellhole for another minute.

I was either going to solve this puzzle or I was going to die trying.

THE TOWN OF ONZAIN,
France, is unknown even to some French natives; I recall getting a blank stare from Linette when I’d recommended it as a honeymoon destination. Onzain is in the Loire region, about two hours southwest of Paris, tucked between Blois and Amboise, just off the A10 on the way to Tours.

Jeffrey and I had come here in 1998, back when Richie was only two years old. We’d left him with Jeff’s parents in Connecticut and spent a week in France. First in Paris, then in the Loire Valley, touring the glorious castles and the vineyards, marveling at the majestic countryside, and getting tipsy on unbelievable wine, including a Sancerre that became my favorite thereafter, mostly because it reminded me of that brief window of time when Jeffrey Elliot and I were insatiably in love.

The MapQuest directions got me as far as the exit for Blois, which is not to say that the directions stopped there, but rather that they stopped making sense at that point. No matter. Once I was through Blois I was navigating tiny roads clustered within a town—maybe that town was Blois, maybe not; it had been thirteen years, after all—and I just kept looking for the large rectangular signs that said
LE DOMAINE
in their elaborate font until I made it through to a narrow, two-lane road that paralleled the Loire River.

It was dawn, that gorgeous interval when the countryside was awakening, when the air still had that slightly crisp feel, even with the extended summer this year. I drove in complete solitude the final twelve miles until I saw the open gates on the right.

Le Domaine was an old thirty-acre feudal estate, complete with an ivy-covered castle and neighboring mansion, which later became a hunting lodge before it settled into its current form, a series of rental cottages. Though the owners had succumbed to modernity and put in tennis courts and an Olympic-size pool, which I could have done without, its true appeal lay in the acres of manicured gardens, the tranquil pond, and the vast swath of untouched forest. It was, as I remembered it more than a dozen years ago, the most romantic place on earth.

The Audi’s tires crunched over the gravel as I made my way through the entrance to the parking area. I tucked the Audi in the farthest corner of the lot, against a row of hedges. I got out and stretched my arms and legs and inhaled the clean air.

“Well, girl, you made it this far,” I said.

I was dressed well. Giorgio had packed one of Linette’s nicest outfits for me, presumably so I wouldn’t look out of place driving an expensive foreign car as I made my way across central France. I was wearing a navy jacket, white blouse, and gray skirt. I pulled my hair out of the rubber band in which I had gathered it; most of it had already fallen loose, anyway, as my dirty locks were barely shoulder length.

Directly in front of me was the castle, which housed the reception area and restaurant. It was bordered with manicured shrubs, its walls covered in leaves that had turned gorgeous shades of auburn and yellow. I could see through the windows that preparations had already begun for room service and housekeeping for the cottages. To my right were the rows of cottages. The fifth from the end was where we stayed, a standard room with exposed wooden beams and flowered wallpaper and rustic furniture. It was where Jeffrey and I spent the better part of three days. It was where we conceived Elena.

I shuddered and snapped into focus. I got into the backseat and changed into the running outfit Giorgio had given me. My wardrobe request had been twofold: first, something nice, so I could walk into pretty much anyplace looking like a relatively normal person; and, in addition, running clothes, which served a dual purpose—I could blend in anywhere, and if it ever became necessary, I could run like hell.

I strolled the gardens in my running clothes, passing a couple members of the waitstaff pushing carts along the stone path from one of the service cottages. My role was simple enough: a tourist staying here who had gone for a morning run and was cooling off with a stroll. I acted as though I were out of breath and smiled at them. They pleasantly said,
“Bonjour,”
and I pleasantly replied,
“Buenos dias.”
I’d come to learn that my dark hair and slightly olive complexion, thanks to an Italian grandparent, allowed me to pass for a Spaniard or Italian, and if anyone were ever trying to place me later, it would be better if they didn’t remember me as
that American.

I walked along the stone paths. The sun had barely risen, so it was nearly pitch-black as I navigated the forest area. The paths wound almost all the way through the acres of forest. Almost. I discovered that there was a decent patch of woodland in the back where nobody seemed to tread.

I looked back to be sure I was alone. It was just me among an acre of quiet trees. The ground was blanketed by fallen leaves that crunched under my feet as I found a secluded spot behind a thick tree.

I took another deep breath and burst into tears. I dove into the leaves, rolled through them, dug my hands into dirt, tasted and smelled and felt freedom for the first time in more than a year. I cried out and laughed and moaned. I looked up through the trees at the morning sky and marveled at its majesty. I could stare up at the sky as long as I wished. I was free.

Finally, I rested my head against the tree trunk and felt my eyes swim beneath my eyelids. I’d been up all night and I wouldn’t be any help to myself if I didn’t catch a little sleep.

Just a little. And then I had some work to do.

Because they were coming for me. And I knew one man, in particular, who wouldn’t rest until he found me.

THE PLANE TOUCHED
down at the Aéroport de Limoges-Bellegarde at a few minutes before seven in the morning. Colonel Bernard Durand—Square Jaw, to Abbie—took the stairs briskly and walked straight into the back of a waiting black car.

“Good morning, Colonel,” said a man named Rouche, the highest-ranking DCRI official for the Limousin region, which included Limoges.

“I want an update,” Durand answered in French.

“Yes, sir. The army is on the ground, fanning out with a hard-target search of every home within a five-mile radius. Her photo has been flashed to all known transportation options. And we’ve alerted the CNI,” he said, referring to the Spanish intelligence agency, the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia. “They’re searching every train, every bus, every car, every plane that crosses the border.”

In addition to Spain, France shares borders with Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and Monaco. Rouche explained that each country’s intelligence services had been notified and were prepared to search vehicles of all kinds at the border.

Spain had been considered the most likely option, given its relative proximity to Limoges and the fact that Abbie Elliot spoke its language fluently, but Durand didn’t buy it. She’d used the overnight train as a head fake, to get the authorities moving south. More likely, he thought, she was moving in the opposite direction.

Or not moving at all. The Limousin region was almost entirely rural countryside, offering countless places to hide.

“She’ll want things to die down first,” Durand speculated. “She’ll hunker down for a few days somewhere before she makes her move.” He looked over at Rouche. “Now explain to me again how this happened.”

Rouche went over it again. It was the third time Durand had heard it. He always liked to hear the explanation more than once; at least one additional fact would emerge with each recounting of the events.

“It was the overnight shift,” said Rouche. “The prison staff is lighter, because the inmates are locked down.”

“And yet she escaped.”

“The first one in twenty-two years, sir.”

Yes. Well, Durand had always found Abbie to be formidable, from the first time he interrogated her at DCRI headquarters to their last encounter, when she was the lone holdout, refusing to confess even with a generous promise of a twenty-year sentence, even after the other three women’s spirits had been broken like twigs.

“I want to know everything Abbie did within the past week,” he directed. “Everyone she talked to. Every visitor. Every phone call. Everything she read. Everything she did.”

“Yes, sir. The warden, Boulez, is overseeing it personally as we speak.”

The warden. He couldn’t keep a prisoner imprisoned, which, the last Durand checked, was pretty much the beginning and end of a warden’s job.

“I don’t want Boulez overseeing his own dick,” said Durand. “I want you handling this. Do you understand, Rouche?”

“Understood, sir.”

Durand leaned back for the first time against the seat. “If she stayed close, the army will find her. But if she didn’t, do you know what that means, Rouche?”

Rouche looked perplexed. He didn’t want to admit he wasn’t following.

“It means she had help,” said Durand. “And that’s how we find her.”

MY HEAD JERKED
forward as I spun out of a dream that drifted away like smoke. My heart was pounding. I held perfectly still and listened until I was satisfied that I was hearing only the sounds of nature, not the urgent footfalls of a nationwide manhunt.

I didn’t have a watch, so I didn’t know what time it was. The sun, filtering its rays down through the tree branches and their few remaining leaves, was high. I figured it was somewhere around eleven in the morning.

I walked about thirty yards or so, back to the stone path. Now I had company. Couples milled aimlessly about, hand in hand, admiring the forest and enjoying their time away from the real world. A few of them looked me over briefly, but they were vacationing, not conducting critical analysis, and I had to assume they would soon forget me altogether.

I took the Audi and spent the afternoon in downtown Blois, first stopping at a café for a croissant and
café américain.
A simple bread twist and basic coffee, but the meal was like a symphony to my taste buds. I had a copy of
Le Monde
laid out on a table along with a notepad. I was facing a wall so I could keep my back to the other patrons. Nobody would expect to see the infamous fugitive sitting in this quaint little restaurant, but I didn’t have to make anyone’s job any easier.

There was a bar in this place, and therefore a television, and the news was all about me. If I turned around I probably would have seen an unflattering photograph of myself splashed across the screen.

The front page of
Le Monde
didn’t cover me; news of my escape had presumably come well after the paper went to press. Anyway, I was concerned with the section devoted to arts and entertainment, where a half page was dedicated to none other than Damon Kodiak. I’d read about him in prison, his upcoming movie about Adolf Hitler. Apparently the opening-weekend box office in the States had exceeded all expectations. Damon was probably happy that Hollywood had turned its back on the project, leaving him to privately finance the movie; all the more money for him now. And this week he was off to Europe, hitting all the major cities. The premiere in Germany was expected to be controversial, to say the least, which would surely translate into millions in box-office receipts. How nice for Damon.

Enough of that jerk. I left the café and walked over to the train station to familiarize myself with it. I wondered briefly if the police would have it covered. They didn’t. There was only a single uniformed officer, whom I avoided.

I found a
pharmacie
in town and got some hair products. I added some basic toiletries and accessories—soap, shampoo, some eyeliner, and lipstick. Then I grabbed a cheap Mickey Mouse watch, scissors, a hand mirror, a small flashlight, sunglasses, and more bottles of water. I went down the street to another store and bought a cheap costume wig that roughly matched my current hair color and a baseball cap bearing the emblem of some soccer team.

On my way back to Le Domaine, I wondered, just briefly, how things were going at JRF.