Mrs. John Doe

Chapter 15

She landed on soft grass, inches from the Vanel mausoleum, her face colliding with black dirt. The strong hands from behind her were now pulling her along the ground toward the little building. She screamed, preparing to kick out with her boots, when one of the hands was clamped viciously over her mouth. In the same instant, she heard a spitting sound from the orchard and the ground near Grand-tante Jeanette’s headstone erupted, sending a spray of earth flying up into the air.

“Stay down, mademoiselle!” The whisper was in her ear, and the hands continued to pull her toward the crypt. Jacques was flat on the ground beside her, urging her onward. Nora crawled to the building and rolled over, leaning back against the marble, wiping dirt from her eyes and mouth. Her little driver was now crouched against the wall next to her, and he had been transformed. He wore a black plastic band around his head, with dark goggles covering his eyes, and he was gripping a large silver gun with a fat barrel in his right hand.

Another spitting sound from the direction of the orchard was followed by another explosion of dirt mere inches from where they lay. She drew in breath to scream again. Again, his hand over her mouth stopped her.

“Quiet! Stay here. Do not move from here,” he whispered, and he was gone. She was alone beside the crypt, her legs dangling in the space formed by three steps that led down to the little door below ground level. She looked at the metal door. Would it be unlocked? Could she slide down the steps and crawl into the subterranean room, to hide among the moldering caskets of dead Vanels? With worms that are thy chambermaids…

No. If someone was after her, and Jacques and his nasty-looking handgun failed to prevent their advance, then a small, enclosed space was the last place she’d want to be. She’d need to be free, in the open, in case she had to run. Better to do as Jacques commanded and stay right here, with the mausoleum between her and-

And whom? The Pakistani? The ugly man from the museum? Who the hell were these people? And who the hell was Jacques?

Whither should I fly? Shakespeare again, some part she’d played a hundred years ago. The silly line arrived in her fevered mind, a familiar sign of panic, but it was appropriate. Where should she go? The rectory? An elderly priest and his no doubt equally wizened servants. The car? She’d never make it, not with that infrared scope to find her in the dark and fix on her as she ran down that long stretch. Jacques would have the keys anyway, so the car was out. Her best bet would be the village; get out through the gate and run, screaming her head off, directly into the center of town. The gendarme was there, and sixty or seventy forestiers, big men with big arms for wielding axes. And guns-they’d certainly have guns…

There was a sudden, ominous silence in the graveyard behind her. No spitting sounds or shouts or breathing-nothing but the constant sighing of the wind in the trees. Where was Jacques? Was he all right? And what about the other man, the shooter? It must be a man; it couldn’t be a woman. Was it the Pakistani? He was in the orchard, but he might have moved. He could be creeping around the iron fence toward her even now, as she sat here, exposed. He would kill her to get what he wanted.

She didn’t have what he wanted, and she very nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. What he wanted was the manila envelope in her shoulder bag, but the bag was lying on the backseat of the car. She’d left it there and brought the flowers here. She must get to the car before he-

A scrape of metal against stone, very close to her. She braced herself and leaned to her right, past the edge of the mausoleum, peering over toward the sound. Jacques was hunched down behind Grand-tante Jeanette’s gravestone. As she watched, he inched his head up over the top to see the orchard. He raised his gun arm to rest on top of the stone, aiming.

The edge of the crypt above her head exploded. She threw herself back behind the wall, out of range, wincing as a tiny sliver of marble embedded itself in the side of her neck. An instant later came the crashing of glass as the bullet that had struck her hiding place ricocheted off to hit the nearest stained glass window thirty feet to her right. She hugged the wall, looking over at the church, watching as a section of colored glass fell away from the upper portion of the window, raining down inside the building with a loud clatter, leaving Our Lady headless.

Pfft. Pfft. The hissing came from beside her this time, followed immediately by a strangled cry and another hissing sound from the orchard. Then she distinctly heard Jacques utter one word.

“Merde.”

She risked leaning out again and peeking around the corner of the crypt to see what had happened. Jacques was on his feet now, standing beside the stone with his back to her, his gun arm still extended, looking off toward the grove. She followed his gaze just in time to see a bulky black shape drop from the branches of a tree and land with a heavy thump on the ground behind the fence. The shooter was down, and as far as she could see from here, he wasn’t moving. Silence.

She crawled out from the shelter of the building and stood, raising a hand to the wetness on her neck. She pulled out the tiny sliver and flicked it away as she moved over to join her driver, who was obviously much more than a driver. A Jacques-of-all-trades. As she arrived beside him, he turned to look over his shoulder at her. He’d removed the night-vision headset, and the expression in his eyes was her first indication.

“Bien,” he whispered, and then he slid down the gravestone to the ground and rolled over onto his back.

“Jacques!”

She was on her knees beside him, reaching out to take hold of him. His leather jacket had fallen open, and now she saw the spot of darkness on the front of his shirt, growing, spreading out even as she stared in the weak light from the broken church window. He moaned and pressed the gun against her hand.

“Take this,” he gasped. “Take it and go. Go now, mademoi-mademoiselle. Vite!”

“Don’t move,” she said. “I’ll get help. I’ll-”

“No! There is not the time. I will be well; it is not a bad one. Le sacristain will come; the noises will have waked him. Go to the car. Go back to Paris. La clé…la clé est dans l’allumage. Your husband…”

She was holding him up now, supporting him. The dark stain widened. “You know my husband? Where is he? Where’s Jeff?”

“I do not know, mademoiselle…You said he would be here…Paris will know, ess-day-ah-tay. Ess. Day. Ah. Tay. They will help you. Jacques will be fine. Go, mademoi-”

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe? Qui est là?”

The deep, angry masculine shout rang out from the direction of the rectory. At the same instant, the entire cemetery was flooded with light. Nora blinked in the sudden glare, looking up at the bright spotlights mounted at the corners of the church building. A flash of lightning, a crack of thunder. The shouting came nearer. Now she saw a flashlight beyond the far fence and a large black shape holding it.

“Qui est là?!”

Jacques had been right about the sexton, or maybe it was the priest. Whoever he was, he was coming this way, and he was furious. Others would be close behind him, and they would get Jacques to a hospital. But she would be detained, and that must not happen, not now. She had to find her husband.

She leaned down and kissed her new friend on the forehead, taking the gun from his hand.

“Go,” he whispered. “Vite, vite! Find your hus…” He shut his eyes and slumped against her. She lowered him gently to the ground.

“Thank you,” she said. It was all she could think to say. Then she was up and running, flying along the walkway toward the open gate. She paused by the back corner of the church, dazzled by the glare, bringing up the hand with the gun to shield her eyes. When she could see again, she ran. Through the opening, down the steps, and she was sprinting along the dark road, her boots crunching in the gravel, blinded by the tears that poured down her face. She became aware that she was making a moaning sound as she moved, and she forced herself to be silent. The car, the car, get to the car. La clé est dans l’allumage…

And there it was, at the end of the lane beside the hanging sign. As she threw herself at the driver’s door, the first warm drops of rain began to pelt her. She was in the car, slamming the door, tossing the gun in her Coach bag, thanking France for left-side steering and right-side driving, just like America. She could do this. She must do this.

The clé was in the allumage, just as Jacques had said. Oh God, a stick shift! She hadn’t driven one in twenty years. Depress the clutch pedal; turn the key. The engine roared to life. Headlights, windshield wipers, release emergency brake. Pull gearshift left; push it forward for first gear. Yes! The car lurched out into the road. She braked, remembering to hold down both pedals so it wouldn’t stall. Where the hell was reverse? There! She backed into the lane, swinging the wheel and yanking the gearshift forward, over, forward for first again, her mind racing faster than the engine. Move right foot from brake to accelerator; lift left foot from clutch. With another roar, the Renault turned, heading downhill, back the way they’d come.

Over the little stone bridge she drove, shifting gears easily now. She sped down the mountainside as fast as she dared, putting as much distance as possible between her and Pinède. She swiped at the tears in her eyes, squinting through the rain-pelted windshield. Jacques might be dead. The other man, whoever he was, was probably dead. Jacques had a wife in Paris, Marianne. This car belonged to their eldest son, who was on vacation with his family in New York City…

Where am I? she thought. Which way did we come? She glanced down at the dashboard, frowning. The navigation app would be in French, of course, but she’d figure it out. Ess-day-ah-tay. S-D-A-T. What on earth was that? He’d said the SDAT would help her find Jeff…

Another flash of lightning, followed by a loud crack of thunder. She could barely see through the windshield now, but she must keep going. Headlights loomed up on her left, and a car whipped by her. A cluster of lights ahead on her right: another village. More thunder, then-

Sirens. More than one, a high-pitched wail and a klaxon. Flashing lights down the road: blue, red, more blue, coming this way fast. She swung the wheel, turning off into the lane that led to the village. She drove a short way down it and stopped, switching off the lights. She watched in the rearview mirror as two police cars and an ambulance came flashing by, rushing up the main road toward Pinède.

When they were gone, she backed out of the lane and continued down the hill, away from the scene of the crime.