Seen and Not Heard (30 page)

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.

Gauge shook his head. It was just as well. He worked better making the transcripts, where he could stop and start the tape and not have to worry whether he’d caught everything. And then Malgreave or that puffed-up Summer could track it down at their leisure, and Gauge didn’t need to worry.

He stared at the tape machine that sat prominently on his desk. Even if the man hadn’t given complete details, all calls concerning the Grandmother Murders were automatically traced. They were in no danger of losing important information.

The question was, should he start transcribing the harried
message now or wait till more came in? The line had been very busy all morning, what with the latest information going out over the news last night, and the angry American was only one in a long line of crazies who thought people were after them. The American was at least a bit original—he thought a mime wanted to do him in.

Gauge chuckled to himself. He’d wait for two or three more calls to come in before he changed tapes and began the laborious task of transcribing once more. After all, Malgreave and Summer were out and weren’t expected back till late afternoon. He had plenty of time.

The ground was rocky underfoot. Rocco’s shiny black boots were scuffed and splattered with mud, slippery on the wet earth, and he cursed as he slid down the shallow embankment and moved toward the house. The rain was pouring steadily now, drizzling down his neck, sliding down his back beneath the leather jacket that was like a second skin to him.

The shutters were still tightly shut against the miserable outside world, and a plume of wood smoke sweetened the air. Rocco shivered against the side of the building. Maybe if he hurried, finished the
Américaine
quickly, he’d have time to warm up before heading back out into the rain.

If it weren’t for the brat, he’d have time to enjoy the fire and the
Américaine
before returning to Paris. For a moment he considered the alternatives. He could tell Hubert that Bonnard killed the kid. While Hubert wouldn’t like it, there wouldn’t be much he could do about it. And things had gotten so bad maybe even Hubert couldn’t help.

Paris might not be the answer. He had friends in Marseilles, even a cousin or two. Opportunities abounded in that city, for an enterprising man who didn’t count squeamishness as one of his character flaws. Maybe the wisest thing he could do would be to silence both of them, leaving the bloody scene for the local gendarmes to deal with. They’d be so busy looking for the murderous Bonnard that they wouldn’t even think about Rocco Guillère.

Except for Malgreave, of course. He was like a dog with a
rat, worrying it, shaking it, never releasing it until its neck was broken. Malgreave wouldn’t give up, even if Rocco disappeared into the Marseilles underground. Sooner or later he’d catch up with him.

But for Malgreave, time was running out. He was getting old, too old for this sort of thing. Sooner or later he’d retire, and that fool Summer was no match for him. Once Malgreave was out of the way Rocco could safely return to Paris. If Hubert had suspected something untoward in the death of the little girl, well, Hubert wouldn’t live forever either.

Damn, it was cold. He huddled closer to the building, listening to the quiet voices just barely discernible through the thick stone walls. It was no wonder he was freezing. Those walls still held the icy temperatures of the previous winter, and it was radiating directly into his bones. He looked down at his boots, the pointy toes scuffed and muddy. He was standing directly in a pool of water, and his beloved boots weren’t made to suffer such an insult. Water had already seeped through, and the leather was ruined.

He’d have to throw them out, buy new ones. The thought made him ferocious—his feet were large, and the fancy leather boots he preferred were hard to find. Someone would pay for this, someone with a soft voice and Marc Bonnard in her bed. The thought of wasting Bonnard’s mistress gave him an odd thrill of pleasure and fear. While the anticipation was sweet, the chilly wet air wasn’t. The sooner he iced the child, the longer he’d have to enjoy the woman. He wouldn’t even worry about the man returning. A civilized American was no match for someone who’d grown up on the streets as Rocco had. If he came back too quickly Rocco could make short work of him before finishing up with the woman.

Damn, he wanted that fire. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his custom-made switchblade knife, the one that had served him so well for years. He’d taken it off a Chinese heroin dealer, and the dragons on the ivory handle had always appealed to his imagination. This place must have a back door, a window where the shutters weren’t tightly
latched. His boots splashed through the water as he skirted the house. He’d just reached the far corner when the icy dampness reached down into his bones, and he let loose with a loud, uncontrollable sneeze.

And inside the house, Claire looked at Nicole, and the two of them froze in complete, utter panic.

Tom sped along the rutted roadway, cursing. He pounded the steering wheel in impotent rage, damning the Paris police department, their governing Department of Interior, the local gendarmes, the army, the French, and the world, not necessarily in that order. He reached for the windshield wipers, but instead the lights flashed on through the dark afternoon light, and once more Tom cursed. Typical of the French to put everything in a different place, he fumed.

He skidded in the mud, and the groceries in the back seat tumbled to the floor. He wrenched the wheel, turning into the spin, and straightened the car, slamming down on the accelerator once more. At this rate Bonnard would find them and finish them before the Paris police even noticed something was going on.

It was no wonder it had taken them almost three years to come up with anything near approaching a solution to the Grandmother Murders. It would probably take another two to bring Bonnard to justice.

And to top everything off, he thought he’d seen the white Fiat in the tiny village of Jassy. He’d noticed it out of the corner of one eye as he was talking on the phone, and when he’d finally slammed down the receiver and tried looking for it there was no trace. Besides, it probably meant nothing. White Fiats were a dime a dozen throughout Europe, and a great many men wore hats pulled low over their faces. Still, he couldn’t rid himself of the nagging sense of familiarity.

At least he’d left Claire the gun, explaining the rudiments of how to aim it and fire it. Not that he was an expert himself—he could only hope he’d shown her the right way to do it. She wouldn’t need it—it had simply been a precaution, one to help set his mind at ease when he drove
off and left the two of them there. He only wished it had worked.

The car slid again, and Tom cursed Hélène and her bald tires and an engine that tended to choke and splutter in the dampness. Just let it get him back to the farmhouse, quickly, and he’d ask nothing more of it.

And let Claire and Nicole be all right, he added in a silent prayer, giving in to the indismissible fear that was filling him. And he drove on into the afternoon rain.

Nicole was standing motionless, petrified with terror. All her slowly returning sangfroid had vanished with the sound of that furtive sneeze, and she stood in the middle of the room, pale, silent, horrifyingly resigned.

Well, I’m not resigned, Claire thought furiously. “Hide, Nicole,” she whispered fiercely. Nicole didn’t move, and Claire caught her shoulders in a fierce, desperate grip, propelling her toward the bedroom. The late afternoon was alive with noise, the hiss and pop of the fire, the steady, nerve-wracking beat of the rain against the shuttered windows and the tin roof, the rattling noise of the wind at the door.

But it wasn’t the wind. Someone was jiggling the back door, someone was trying to force his way in. “Go away,” Claire shouted in a panic that almost equaled Nicole’s.

To her astonishment a voice answered, in heavy, guttural French. She stopped propelling Nicole forward, looking down at the child with a questioning expression.

“He says he’s a stranger. His car went off the road and he wants to call a garage.” Nicole’s voice was shaking with terror, her eyes blank.

“We don’t have a telephone,” Claire shouted. “Go away.”

Again the voice came, as the back door rattled noisily. “He says he’s wet and cold and wants to come in till the rain
passes,” Nicole whispered. “Oh, Claire, do you really think it’s Marc?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like him, but Marc’s a trained actor. I’m sure he could disguise his voice if he wanted to.”

“But if he had come to get us,” Nicole said with eerie common sense, “he wouldn’t be making a sound. This man is much too noisy.”

Her words were prophetic, if not reassuring. The rattling turned to a loud thudding, and the two of them watched in mute horror as the flimsy back door began to give way beneath the barrage. Seconds later the door splintered open, and a dark figure hurtled through.