AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Were they both taken? Or was Yavuz part of the plot?”
JL shrugs. “I’m wondering the same, but I have no idea. We need to go back to the hotel and wait for the dénouement.”
The trudge down the short distance is like plodding through mud. My feet, in the fancy red high heels Cress gave me last fall, drag and wobble, but JL keeps a tight hold on my arm. Grateful for the support, I lean in. The scent of birch, cardamom, vanilla, and oud from Tom Ford’s London calms the goosebumps that erupted all over. In the courtyard of Le Pavillon de la Reine, I collapse onto a chair, unable to take another step. I picture Cress tied to a chair, a gunman standing over her. My head drops to the wrought iron café table and I sob.
* * *
JL
As we move toward the hotel, Micki says she thinks Yavuz had a gun, but in all the confusion she isn’t sure. My arm grasping her bicep, we slog down the arcaded walk past a line of police officers, our feet as heavy as our hearts. At the hotel, we sit in the courtyard and wait and wait and wait, wondering who is alive and who is not.
Micki has kicked off her shoes and alternates rocking and pacing, tears pouring down her cheeks. I want to hold her. Still her incessant movement. Assure her everything will be fine. But of course, I have no way of knowing if that’s true or just a forlorn hope.
I sit in a moderately comfortable chair, the sensation of pins and needles attacking my arms, my legs, and the back of my neck. I try shaking them away, to no avail. Max hasn’t called. I wonder where they are and if they’ll be in time.
When Poulliot was talking earlier, all I heard when they ran off was Goussainville, which I assume is a place. I google it, and blink at the photo on the web. About thirteen miles from the capital and spitting distance from Charles De Gaulle, the old city is a ghost town with a modern village next to it.
I look over to where Micki is pacing again. “Come here, ma chouette. I’m looking at where Poulliot thinks they were taken.”
She moves like a sleepwalker, glancing at my screen. Seeing the abandoned site, she draws in a breath and snaps into the present. “I’m sure Yavuz is behind this,” Micki snarls, eyes still wet but burning like brands.
“Why do you think so? Because you thought you saw a gun?”
“Yavuz is out for Yavuz. If he’s not involved, I’m sure he would have left Max to take care of Cress.”
A reasonable assumption.“Maybe he wants something from Max and is using her as bait.”
Eyes spangled from the courtyard lights, Micki’s face is thoughtful. “What if he’s working with Nasim Faez?”
My face muscles tighten. “That would be a twist.” She might be on to something. All these fortuitous meetings. Perhaps not so coincidental after all. Max said there had been a traitor in their group in 2003. Yavuz? No, they killed his sister. He constantly shows how important his family is to him, so he wouldn’t have wanted that.
Looking at the ruined grand maison, little more than a façade, next to a creepy overgrown graveyard. Behind is a church that at least looks intact. What happened to this place? I’ve seen a lot of scenarios, both in the army and since, but this is one of the most unsettling in my memory. I put down my phone and hug Micki, love and comfort enveloping me as I try not to reflect on possible endings.
As we try to blot out what we imagine happening in this macabre setting, I read her the story about the plane that crashed in the village during the Paris Air Show in 1973. The crash killed all eight on board. This catastrophe and construction of Charles de Gaulle Airport, with the noisy flight path over the village, ensured almost all the remaining inhabitants moved away. The authorities left the houses to rot, even though the airport had signed a contract agreeing to maintain one hundred of them.
“Do you want to see more photos of the village?”
Her face screws up. “I don’t know. Maybe… Yes. Let’s pull off the bandages and see what’s there.”
“Or what’s not.” I pull her into my lap to look at a website filled with pictures of the abandoned old village. Occasionally, a photo is so moving she runs a finger down the screen. Oddly enough, the modern city that has grown up around it has train service for the popular tourist attraction, for the ghouls who want to gawk at the site of a tragedy.
I check the time every few minutes on my phone. When it rings, the sudden sound of “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” makes my stomach jump into my throat. “Max, is that you?”
“We’re on our way back. Hold tight.”
“Are Cress and Yavuz with you?”
He’s terse, but I hear an underlying hint of satisfaction. “Cress, yes. Yavuz is dead.”
Urgently, I ask, “Faez?”
“Dead too. It’s a long story. Talk when we’re there.” He cuts the call.
I caress Micki’s tear-stained face, pull her close, kiss the tears away, and whisper, “They’re on the way back. Everything is all right.” We hold each other until footsteps sound on the flagstones. Then Micki pulls away. Unconcerned about the ruined makeup, she rubs at her face, wipes her fingers on her elegant silk cocktail dress, and tries to put on a cheerful expression.
Standing, I move toward the quartet that has just come through the archway. Micki pushes past me, seizing Cress for a long, tight hug.
“Oh my God, Cress. When you disappeared, I…” She can’t finish the sentence. Instead, she takes a lingering inventory of her friend. Voice clouded with suppressed emotion, she gives an assessment. “I see you broke a nail. And your clothes, well you won’t be wearing that dress again. Too bad because it was perfect for you.”
