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“You’re welcome, chérie,” she said, smiling tenderly.
The silence in the car was smothering, the tension palpable. I got the distinct feeling that Gideon didn’t trust me. I just hoped I could distract him long enough to make my escape.
“What time does the service end?” he asked in a cold, businesslike tone.
“In an hour.” Our gazes connected in the rearview mirror.
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Hirsch?”
He didn’t answer right away, took his time assessing me in the mirror. “I’m Israeli. I was raised Jewish…but I don’t practice.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Another long pause.
“I believe in human nature, Miss Sava. And what I’ve seen of it is vile and selfish. And, as they say, we are created in his image.”
“He also gave us free will to muck around and figure it out for ourselves.”
He shot me a long, hard stare. “Well then, that makes him a slumlord at best, a negligent father at worst––and still unworthy of all the worship.”
The acid undertone in his voice could have melted paint off a car. I finally recognized the shadows in his eyes. I had seen them before, in the eyes of the people in my country, the ones that had survived decades of deprivation or war. Something terrible had happened to Gideon Hirsch.
“You won’t hold it against me if I wait out here,” he said with a cynical smile.
He parked the Mercedes SUV across the street from the quaint little church. I watched people shuffle in, greeted at the door by a white haired priest in his seventies. He smiled warmly and shook hands with a young lady in a wheel chair, then ushered the last of his parishioner’s inside and closed the door behind him.
I stepped out of the car and looked around absently. I was about to enter the church when my eyes landed on inspecteur Tribolet. He stood a block away, staring directly at me. His hand was suspended in midair, holding a croissant, his mouth full.
An insidious unease raced up my spine. I banged on the passenger side window and Gideon slid it open.
“Gideon, it’s that detective that was asking too many questions. You deal with him.”
Gideon jumped out of the Mercedes and jogged to intercept Tribolet. Having memorized the bus schedule, I knew I was cutting it close and this was a complication that could have blown my plans sky high. My pulse jumped around nervously while I watched to make sure Gideon was in control of the situation before I closed the church door.
Once inside, I lit a candle in front of the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary and begged her to forgive me for the sins I had committed and the ones I was about to commit. Mostly, I prayed for Sebastian, prayed for her to heal his wounded heart, to watch over him. Then I slipped a donation in the box and headed straight for the priest. Service was about to begin.
“Father, may I speak to you for a moment?” I asked in French. His gentle, blue eyes searched my face. He stepped down from the altar and met me behind one of the carved, stone pillars. His gaze lowered, falling upon my hand; the one that rubbed the tiny gold cross around my neck for reassurance. “I need your help, father. There are two dark haired men outside…standing next to a Mercedes. They’ve been following me all day. I’m frightened. My husband is a diplomat and I was doing some sightseeing…” My voice trailed off, hoping he would understand the implication. He nodded, a concerned frown hardening his gentle features. I didn’t have to fabricate the anxiety, it was all over me, as dense and dark as mud.
“What can I do, child?”
“I need to get to Geneva without them following. Is there a back door out of here?”
“Yes, and the bus stop is a block away. There should be a bus,” he glanced at his watch, “leaving in fifteen minutes. You must hurry.”
Quickly, he guided me to a small door that led to the church office and opened up into a back alley. Stepping out onto the cobblestone street, I thanked him profusely.
“I’ll contact the police. Good luck, madame.” He waved in encouragement.
I had just lied to a priest…may God forgive me.
Down the narrow street, the bus pulled to a stop. With plastic bag in hand, I sprinted to catch it in time before the doors closed.
“You made it,” said the smiling bus driver in French. I deposited the coins in the machine, walked to the back, and threw myself down in an empty row. Slouching down in my seat, I closed my eyes and wiped the nervous sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.
As I stared out the window, trying to gain control of my breathing, a profound sense of loss was already settling into my bones. And yet, like most of the significant choices I had made in my life, walking away had been easier than I had anticipated.
