The Body in the Vestibule

“I'd like to go somewhere we've never been before, either of us. Is there anyplace the Albigensians used to hang out that you'd like to see?" Faith felt it was important for a wife to occasionally take an interest in her husband's work. The problem was that having had a grandfather and father in the trade, it was hard to drum up much enthusiasm for prayerbook battles or the rewording of certain hymns. The Albigensians were something new to her, though, and she could listen intelligently without resorting to internal list making or dreaming up yet another creative use for phyllo dough.

Tom's face shone. "Well, I'd love to go to Carcassonne. It was one of the centers of Albigensianism and, while I wouldn't say this to Paul, we can thank Viollet-le-Duc for saving it. Maybe he did restore it a bit too neatly, but it's supposed to be wonderful. Very romantic, too. The citadel and walls are illuminated at night. We could stay in the old city—and it's in the Southwest, so that means great food.”

His enthusiasm was catching and the idea of getting out of Lyon very appealing.

“When do we leave?"

“We could get an early start on Saturday and I wouldn't have to be back until Tuesday morning, so it gives us almost three full days."

“Great, and you can tell me all about who lived there on the way."

“More like who died there. Poor, noble Raymond-Roger Trencavel—what chance did he have against all those Northerners? And believe me, it was no religious crusade; they wanted his land, pure and simple.”

Once he got going, Tom could talk about the wrongs done to the Albigensians for hours, and Faith was getting sleepy. She stifled a yawn and got up from the table.

“You're quite a lovely nobleman yourself. Now why don't we clean this up and go to bed."

“The sooner the better, milady.”

Absorbed in hearkening back to the strife of the Middle Ages, Faith had ahnost forgotten the present turmoil, but on the way to the garderie the next morning she was still startled by innocent events: a dog racing across her path as she walked down the street, a sudden squeal of brakes, or raised voices from a doorway. She was definitely getting too schizy, she told herself, and longed for Michel Ravier's return or their trip to Carcassonne—whichever came first. Ben was going to his beloved friend Leonard's house for lunch and an afternoon of blissful play. Leonard, at four, was a year older and Ben worshipped him. Leonard's mother, Chantal, lovingly referred to the young amis as the "two naughty boys" of the garderie and seemed more than able to cope with them, despite her diminutive size. There was no question that Chantal could have taken on tigers in the zoo or anywhere else—staring them down like Madeleine, her compatriot, and saying, "Pooh pooh.”

This left Faith with a large block of time and she decided to get all their clothes in order for the trip, which meant the real thing—a visit to the lavomatique, the laundromat—and not a tub wash.

Laundromats were as scarce as peanut butter in Lyon, neither having captured the French imagination, unlike microwave popcorn, nor did they promise an elevation in a quality of life that placed pate de foie gras well within the reach of the average citizen. After consulting the telephone directory and asking friends in vain, Faith had finally spied behind a storefront a telltale row of washers and dryers on rue Chapeaux, not far from the Place des Jacobins. The laundromat was usually deserted except for some of the prostitutes who frequented the area and squeezed in a load of wash between clients. The first time Faith had ventured in, she had not brought nearly enough one-franc pieces—it took almost a laundry bagful to pay for the washer and dryer—and after unsuccessfully asking at the bar/tabac next door, solicited help from some of the girls, who were only too happy to oblige. It seemed to be her lot in Lyon to frequent the same neighborhoods as her otherwise-employed sisters. She had also made the mistake of trying to obtain some monnaie, change, from a man passing by. At first, he could not believe the low price she was offering, then once the mistake was explained, he did not know whether to be angry or amused. He chose the latter and Faith had the distinct impression he would be dining out on the story for months—the belle Americaine who wanted monnaie to keep her clothes clean but would do nothing for the favor. There were also a number of clochards in the area and Faith could see they had plenty of change, yet she was loath to approach one.

The faux clochard had disappeared from the front of the Eglise St. Nizier and apparently no one else wanted to take his place too soon. Remembering the violence of his temper, she didn't blame them. But then, that had been the real one, she reminded herself.

As she sorted her clothes into the washers and added detergent, she was lulled by the familiarity of the routine and settled down to watch the garments spin about through the glass doors. She was feeling better—if not exactly ready to whip her weight in those tigers, at least able to go a few rounds with their cubs.

She opened an ancient Tauchnitz edition of Trollope's The Small House at Allington. Her quest for English books at the bouquinistes on the Quai de Pecherie near the apartment had turned up an astonishing number of books by Stephen King, Pearl Buck's The Good Earth, ancient Fodor's to everywhere, and this. She was up to chapter three and the radical contrast with her life at present—or any other present—was entertaining. She was soon engrossed until the lines "Let her who is forty call herself forty; but if she can be young in spirit at forty, let her show that she is so" leaped from the page. Faith didn't intend to call herself forty for at least two decades, and when appearances did force the matter, her youthful spirit with some help from Canyon Ranch would show it without any advice from Mr. Trollope. Somewhat disgruntled with the intimations, she shut the book and decided to take a walk. The doors on the washers locked until the cycle ended and it had another thirty minutes to run. She could get a coffee.

It was a beautiful day, warm and filled with what Faith thought of as a Mediterranean light—clear, sharp, and bright—catching the strong colors of the stone buildings. Everybody in Lyon is always looking at something, she observed as she walked along. Shop windows, something in the street, and often you suddenly become aware that everybody is staring in the same direction. You stare, too, and it is a car being towed, garbage collected, a minor car accident, a helicopter—but it all has the feel of an event because everybody watches.

And the light: She was constantly amazed at the beauty it imparted to the city, masking its flaws and, especially in the late afternoon, bathing vastly disparate neighborhoods in the same long, soft glow.

She passed the large Beaux-Arts Prisunic department store building and a few clochards who were leaning up against its walls, sunning themselves like cats, their faces turned upward. One was asleep. An old lady sat with her knitting. It seemed to be some sort of scarf. Faith saw her at this spot frequently. She always seemed to be at the same stage and she always had a different color yarn. In front of the group a young man was drawing an elaborate chalk portrait of the Last Supper on the pavement. His casquette, seeded with a few coins, was placed next to his chalks. He had written, "I am hungry. I am German. I want to go home" in several languages on a small card. Faith dropped some coins in the cap.

She bought a newspaper and settled down at a table facing the rue de la Republique. It wasn't long before people-watching became more engrossing than the news. She was surprised to see Christophe walk by. It was early for lunch and he should have been in school, she supposed. He walked directly over to one of the dochards by Prisunic and soon the two were in deep conversation.

She finished her coffee and went over to them, intending to ask Christophe if he or one of his siblings could stay with Ben the next day. Her arrival sent a look of panic into the clochard's eyes, and surprisingly, Christophe's. His "Madame Fairsheeld, how are you?" lacked a certain warmth.

Faith was intrigued. From the tone of the boy's voice as she approached, this did not seem like the acolyte at the feet of the master. It seemed like business, but what possible business could Christophe have with a clochard? The man appeared younger than most and, if cleaned up, quite presentable. He was not as far gone as some and although his hair was in tangles, his face covered with some kind of rash, and his clothes filthy, there was the look of earlier prosperity about him. He was wearing a camel's hair coat cut like a bathrobe, even though the weather was very warm. Possibly, there wasn't much underneath. The coat had been a good one and she wondered how he had come by it. He sat without moving and kept his eyes on the ground. Beyond the initial greeting, Christophe had said nothing and was plainly waiting for Faith to leave. Instead, she asked the man where he was from. She wondered whether he was French or, like the sidewalk artist, from someplace else. This openly irritated Christophe.

“It is not advisable to speak to these people, especially for someone not from France. The clochards can sometimes be quite crude and even violent."

“But your mother has told me they are harmless," Faith protested.

“Oh, my mother," Christophe answered, the words speaking for themselves. Faith realized she had to get back to her clothes and reached for a coin. As she put it in the still immobilized clochard's outstretched hand, she noticed he wore a ring on his right hand. It was a heavy silver one, and when he put the coin into a small box by his side, she saw that it was a signet ring with a crest—three small birds against a background of diamondlike shapes. It might have been stolen, but he would have been more apt to sell it than wear it. The mighty fallen or the black sheep of a noble family? The whole thing was odd. She said good-bye to Christophe, noted the relief in his eyes, and went back to the laundromat.

She transferred her wash to the dryer. What was the relationship between Christophe and the clochard? And the ring. If slipped off, it would leave a mark.

And the nails on both hands had been bitten until bloody—just like the nails of the faux clochard.

She struggled up the stairs with her clean wash and was glad they were going out for dinner. She'd made reservations at Cafe des Federations—a bouchon, that Lyonnais institution not exactly a bistro and not a restaurant, either. A bouchon—literally a cork—where Tom would drink deeply of Monsieur Fulchiron's Morgon and they would eat quennelles in Nantua sauce—those delicate, lighter-than-air fish dumplings floating in lobster sauce—or maybe andouillette, the Rolls-Royce of chitterlings.

Feeling virtuous, she put away the wash and went back down the stairs to get Ben. It was still sunny and beautiful and she decided to walk to the Croix Rousse plateau, where Leonard lived. The exercise would be good for her. She knew she must be gaining too much weight, and even if Baby Fairchild was getting unheard-of nutrients, Faith had better keep herself in shape.

The tour of the traboules and montees of the Croix Rousse was something she had meant to do since she'd arrived, but she hadn't had the time. She took her guidebook and set out. As she crossed the Place des Terreaux, the spray cascading from the horses at the Bartholdi fountain fell in a mist on her face. The afternoon had grown warmer and it felt lovely.

Faith began to make her way slowly up the incline, passing through the traboules, to emerge blinking into the daylight of the courtyards that were bordered by a series of long staircases crawling up the hill. Sometimes the steep stairs were set in long zigzags against the crumbling walls of the old buildings, which seemed ill suited to shore up the colline. Other staircases ran straight up to the next level in hundreds of small steps. Several times, she had to stop to catch her breath. It was like a labyrinth and she hadn't thought to bring any string. The Royalists had used these pathways and, more recently, the Resistance during the Second World War. It was said a man could live in the traboules indefinitely, always keeping one step ahead of his pursuers—able to duck into the apartment window of a sympathizer, then to emerge from another into a further series of stairways and tunnels on the other side. As she followed the route suggested by the guide, the images of these desperate men and women became increasingly vivid in Faith's imagination. She began to worry about getting lost. Suddenly, she thought she heard the cries and running footsteps of those long-ago fugitives.

There were cries, and she froze against the wall for a moment, before smiling in relief as a group of schoolchildren came racing around the corner. She emerged into the daylight at Place Colbert, noted an interesting-looking fro-magerie, and sternly reminded herself she was there to get Ben, not Brie.

Chantal greeted her at the apartment door and said the boys had had a wonderful time playing cowboys. Judging from the state of the kitchen, which was also Leonard's playroom, they had been riding the range hard. Faith collected Ben, stifled his cries of protest with a firm "If you cannot leave nicely, you cannot come back," which—amazingly—worked, and thanked Chantal, arranging for Leonard to come to them on Tuesday.

She put Ben into his stroller—Chantal had used it to take him from the garderie—and pushed him to the metro. It was one thing for Faith to do the circuit of the traboules and montees, but she shuddered to think of Ben on all those stairs. They arrived home quickly and Faith was folding the poussette up to put in the closet when Jean-Francois d'Am-bert came down the stairs, carrying his briefcase.

“Bonjour, Faith." He kissed her soundly on both cheeks. "Let me do that for you." He flourished a massive key ring that suggested either a life of crime or extensive holdings. He saw her glance.

“It's ridiculous, isn't it, but I need them all—for the apartment, our small maison secondaire in the country, my office, the cave for the wine, of course, and voila, this little, so very convenient placard." He opened the closet door and carefully placed the stroller inside.

“Bouf, it stinks. They really must do a better job of keeping this place clean. I will speak to the regie tomorrow."

“The regie?" Faith asked.

“Yes, the—how do you say?—agents.”

She was quickly thinking of some way to extend the conversation, for as soon as he had taken his keys from his pocket, she'd noticed his hand and wanted a longer look.

“Will you be going to the country this weekend?" she asked, moving closer to him with what she hoped was unobtrusive scrutiny.

“No, it's too far for just a weekend trip and nothing is prepared. We will wait until the children are out of school. Now, you must forgive me, I am late for an appointment.”

It was all right. She had seen enough. The heavy silver ring he wore on his left hand was not a wedding band. It was the twin of the one the clochard she'd seen talking with Christophe had been wearing. Three small birds couchant against a field of diamonds. What did it mean? And whom was Jean-Francois going to meet? A business appointment so late in the day?

“Merci, madame, I would love another cup," Faith said the following afternoon as Madame Vincent profferred the elegant Sevres, or perhaps Limoges, pot of steaming tea. The day had been another warm and sunny one. The rainy spell was broken. But it was not too warm for the tea and it seemed exactly right to be sitting on one of Yvette Vincent's velvet and gilt chairs, drinking cup after cup in companionable conversation. Solange and Valentina, obviously old friends, were making madame laugh hilariously with their gossip.

“Tiens! I shouldn't laugh. You two are terrible. And what do you say of this poor old woman when her back is turned?"

“That she makes the best macaroons in Lyon," answered Solange, taking another from the cake stand.

“A recipe of my grandmother. A tyrant in the kitchen, she was. 'The eggs must be lighter, Yvette,' she'd say, 'keep beating.'“

Faith thought she saw an opening in the conversation.

“Speaking of ancestors, is that ring Jean-Francois wears from his family?" It was clumsy, but it would have to do.

“Ring?" For a moment, Solange looked puzzled. "Oh yes, of course. It is not his marriage ring. That"—she paused to roll her eyes at Valentina—"I can never get him to wear. But the ring of his family he does wear sometimes. It was his father's. All the men of the family have the same.”

So the clochard was a d'Ambert. A d'Ambert probably not on the A list of Lyon society and a d'Ambert certainly not frequenting these d'Amberts' Sunday dinners, Faith suspected. Curiouser and curiouser. The clochard with the ring, posing as the dead clochard, connected to the d'Ambert family. The pieces of the puzzle were all on the table, but there was still a lot of sky to fit together.

“Your face looks so odd, Faith. You have wrinkles in your forehead. What is troubling you?" asked Valentina.

“Nothing really, though I suppose I am bothered by some of the things that have happened this week. You know—the clochard and that poor girl's suicide.”

Madame Vincent looked at her sharply. "I have heard of your clochard. Do you think the two had anything to do with one another?”

Things were going much too fast.

“Oh, no," Faith protested. "How could they be?"

“Well, they are both gone now," said Solange, "so it's best to put it out of your mind and enjoy being here."

“Which is exactly what I intend.”

The talk moved on to babies. Solange's sister had just had a sixth—obviously a prolific family. Faith was happy to hear all three women were convinced she would have a girl from the way she was carrying. It wasn't that she didn't adore Ben, but a girl would be a set. Like bookends or salt and pepper shakers or... Her mind was wandering and she reined it in to listen to the next conversational turn.

“They broke into the de Roulets last night. Jean-Fran-9ois is nervous about going away and says we must find someone to stay in the apartment this summer. And you, madame, aren't you worried here by yourself?"

“But I have Pippo, who I assure you can be very fierce." Faith looked at the fat little pug curled up on the Aubusson carpet and doubted it. Wave a hunk of filet mi-gnon at him and he'd help carry the furniture. "Besides, I am seldom away and I doubt anyone could get into the apartment."

“This is true," Valentina said. "They come in from the fire escapes or the balconies and Madame Vincent has neither so far up in the clouds here. I think she is quite safe. I worry for my pictures, you can imagine, yet so far they seem interested only in jewels. I will have to ask Michel if there are any changes in what they have been taking. Of course, the newspapers are allowed to say nothing."

“He's away. I have been trying to reach him," Faith said before thinking better of it, but having called his house virtually every hour on the hour, the mere mention of his name caused this reflex response.

“Michel is away?" Valentina asked.

“Is this Michel Ravier you are speaking of?" Solange asked.

“Yes," Faith answered, glad to take the conversation into other waters. "Do you know him also?”

Solange laughed and reached inside her pretty Long-champs bag for her cigarettes. "Everyone knows Michel and many wish they did better." After the laughter died down, she said to Faith, "He was at school with my husband and we have known him for many years."

“Sometimes I think all the men hi Lyon were at the Marists together," Faith commented.

“Ah, so you are acquainted with the Marists. Yes, it does seem that way. Jean-Francois was very disappointed when Christophe left the school. He wanted to go to this one on the Croix Rousse that is so popular these days. But since the Marists are taking girls, all the other children are with them and I pray they stay there for their father's sake. Amelie has been talking of Lycee du Pare; I am not listening."

“Children will do what they want," Madame Vincent said emphatically. "We wished for them so long, but now I think maybe it was a good thing. Pippo is far more obedient and life has been simpler.”

Faith looked at Valentina, wondering whether she, too, would attest to the benefits of the childless state, but she was looking very pensive and perhaps her flippant answer about Georges being enough was not the true key to her feelings.

“Well," said Solange, "I speak as an authority. Children are nice, especially when they are babies, but it is a frightening thought to have five teenagers. Perhaps if he had known, Jean-Francois would not have been so eager." She stood up and picked a crumb from her bright blue Sonia Rykiel outfit, looking very beautiful and very complacent. If anyone's children were going to frighten their mother, it wasn't going to be Solange's. Faith was reminded that she wanted to get the name of Solange's hairdresser.

“I like the way your hair is cut so much, Solange. Where do you have it done?"

“A wonderful man, Italian, of course—they are the best coiffeurs—named Giovanni. He works at the Quick Coupe hi the Place Sathonay, not far from here. Just at the foot of the Croix Rousse."

“I know where it is, behind Ben's school and near the covered market at Place Rambaud.”

Valentina laughed. "You know the markets of Lyon better than we do.”

Faith was thinking out loud. "I'd love to get my hair cut before we go to Carcassonne."

“Oh, Carcassonne. My husband and I went there often. It is so beautiful," rhapsodized Madame Vincent.

“When do you go?" Solange asked.

“Tomorrow morning," Faith answered. "Just until Monday."

“If you like, I can call Giovanni and see if he can take you early before you leave, or perhaps you would prefer to wait until you get back?”

Faith was filled with a great longing to have her hair done. She'd go this instant if she could. There was nothing quite like the feeling of all that pampering and the resultant new look.

“Could you call? I can be there when they open.”

Madame Vincent waved Solange to her telephone, which nestled behind a line of leather-covered, gold-embossed classics of French literature on a marble-topped chest. It was quickly done and Faith was signed up for a coupe and brosse at eight o'clock. She was amazed they opened so early.

“At Carcassonne, you must search out what is left of a bust of Lady Carcas," Valentina instructed Faith. "It is not so interesting artistically as historically. She was a Spaniard, a Saracen, who outsmarted the great Charlemagne himself. The town had been under siege for five years and the entire garrison dead of hunger. Lady Carcas made some dummies and arranged them on the ramparts, then went from one to another, shooting arrows at the enemy. Finally, she took the last remaining pig,, let it eat all the grain left, and threw it from the top of the tower. Of course when Charlemagne split the belly open and saw it was filled with grain, he gave in and left. Some say the town is called Carcassonne because when she sounded trumpets to call him back to reveal what she had done, satisfied with the glory of it, he didn't hear. But an equerry did and said to him, 'Sire, Carcas te sonne.' Personally, I doubt whether a woman like that would have called her enemy back, unless she could gloat over him in some way."

“What a wonderful story. I'll tell Tom and we'll be sure to pay homage to Lady Carcas," Faith said, thinking at the same time that the whole thing was very like something Valentina might do. She pictured her running along the battlements taking aim, much as she sized up prospects at her gallery.

“Now, cheries, this has been such a nice time with all these stories and so forth, but I must go. Next time, you come to me," Solange announced, and moved toward the door.

Faith stood up also. "It has been lovely. Thank you so much, Madame Vincent.”

Solange looked surprised. "But you do not have to leave yet, Faith. Amelie is so happy to play with Benjamin."

“Do stay," Madame Vincent said as it became apparent that Valentina was also leaving.

“Only for one more cup," Faith agreed, realizing how lonely Yvette Vincent must be up among the chimneys.

The others left and as Faith sipped her tea, Yvette reminisced about her husband and all the traveling they had done together. "But we never got to your country, mal-heureusement," she said.

“Perhaps you will come yourself," Faith said, getting up this time in earnest. It was almost six o'clock.

“My travels are finished. A short trip to my sister in Narbonne, occasionally. It is enough. And sometimes a few days in Paris. That is always necessary.”

Faith totally agreed.

At the door, madame kissed her on both cheeks with a heartiness that surprised Faith. As Faith returned the salutation on Yvette's velvety soft, wrinkled skin, she realized madame was whispering something to her.

“Go to Carcassonne with your lovely husband, cherie, then do not stay in Lyon long. It is not a place for everyone.”

As she went down the stairs to her apartment, Faith wasn't sure whether she had imagined the warning or not.

Like the body in the trash, it would disappear if mentioned aloud.

When he got to the bottom of the fire escape, he took off his gloves and shoved them in his pocket together with the black knit hat that had covered his hair. He knotted a red bandanna casually about his neck before strolling out to the street. It was late and there weren't too many people out. He passed a young couple, entwined together, with their hands in the back pockets of each other's jeans. They didn 't even glance his way. Lovesick fools, he thought. What did they know of life? For an instant, he thought of emptying the shopping bag he was carrying with such apparent nonchalance in front of them. He could hardly stop himself from laughing out loud as he pictured their astonished faces when they saw what was wrapped in rags under the old clothes.

He was almost there. He crossed the avenue Marechal de Saxe to Place Quinet and placed the bag in the trash basket closest to the entrance to the playground. Then he slipped into the darkened doorway of the Lycee Edouard Herriot, on the opposite side of the square, and waited. It wasn't long before he saw a lone figure shuffle into sight and take the bag from the trash, adding it to others grasped in his hands. The clochard paused, reached into one of the bags, and took a long pull from a bottle he'd found there, then moved slowly off again.

Benoit's part was over. He ran down rue Bossuet toward the river as fast as he could, his heart pumping and every nerve stretched. It felt glorious. He continued to sprint toward the pedestrian bridge arching and swaying in the night breeze before him. He wanted to get home. He was starving.

Seven

The Cafe des Federations was as crowded as usual and the Fairchilds were obliged to share a table with a happy group of wine merchants from Beaune. The men were teasing Monsieur Fulchiron, the patron, about his Morgon, only a Beaujolais. He was retorting that all that mustard from Dijon had seared their palates. During the course of her meal, Faith learned more about the growing conditions in various parts of Burgundy and the relative merits of the resulting vintages than she'd ever thought possible. The Burgundians' criticisms did not impede their consumption, and Frangoise, the pretty blond waitress who had told Tom and Faith she had been there forever—in which case she must have started at age four—was kept busy replacing empty pots, the old, thick-bottomed wine bottles that were standard in Lyon's bouchons. The meal ended with a large slab of tarte aux pommes, thick slices of juicy apples piled onto a shortbread crust.

“It's heaven," Faith said to Tom with a sigh. "Literally. I'm sure this is what it will be—good bread, cheese, lots of happy people, and no frozen foods."

“At the moment, I agree with you," he responded, and called for the check. They said good-bye to their amis for life from Beaune as business cards and invitations to stay were pressed upon them, marveling once more at all those silly people who insist the French aren't friendly.

Back at the apartment, Tom had finished packing for the weekend quickly and was in bed reading. "But you're not packing for two," Faith pointed out. Although packing for Ben was easy. You took everything. The problem was finding space in the bag for one's own modest requirements.

She looked at Tom. He'd fallen asleep over the Miche-lin guide. She gently took the green bible from his hands, turned out the light, and kissed him. He mumbled something she interpreted as an endearment and was down for the count.

Faith, however, was wide awake. After she finished packing, she went into the kitchen and made herself a tisane—camomile. At home, she now drank Sleepy Tune tea, which was much the same but, with a bear in a night shirt on the box, lacked some of the eclat of the French brew.

She sat down at the dining room table and looked out the long windows across the narrow side street into the school opposite. It was completely dark. The windows were arranged in rows as tidily as the desks within. Tomorrow the scene would be filled with the children and teachers she had become used to watching every day except Sunday. It was like a play and she had their routines down pat. When they would stop for gouter—a snack—when they would go outside to the blacktop next to the car park by the river, which served as their playground, and when they would finally get to go home. If she looked out the front windows of the apartment, she saw different productions—weddings, funerals at the church, an occasional manifestation in the street, with marchers protesting the latest indignity toward the Algerian-French community or demanding a stop to the importation of foreign cabbages or some such things. She would like to be able to sit by the windows for an entire year and watch the events and changes each month brought. She took a sip of the hot tea. Of course, one change had already taken place. The dochard was gone.

She took another sip.

Who could have murdered him?

She had been assuming that it had to have been someone associated with le milieu, because of the way Marie had worded her warning, but the three women stood on the corner and observed everyone in the neighborhood. It could just as well have been locals. Faith sketched out a possible scenario. The clochard is lured into the vestibule by the promise of a drink or whatever, killed for some reason as yet unknown to her, and placed in the dumpster for safekeeping while whoever goes to get transport or waits until it's late enough to take the body out to the river undetected and throw it in. Clochards were pulled out of the Saone and Rhone with some frequency, and the police wouldn't bother with an autopsy. Which, it suddenly occurred to her, they may not have done with Marie, either. Knowing her profession, they probably assumed it a suicide and decided to save a few francs. The policemen, Martin and Pollet, had mentioned an autopsy, but she didn't put much stock in what they said. Just placate Madame Lunatique any way possible. She wished for the thousandth time that Ravier were back. She'd tried again when she'd returned from the tea party. And she could try again now.

Faith went to the phone and, after dialing, listened to ring after ring with a growing feeling of helplessness. But, she thought, she could write a letter and leave it at his apartment on the way to Carcassonne, after she got her hair cut. This way, if he came back before she did, he could start things moving. She especially had to tell him what she suspected in case an autopsy had not been performed.

She got some writing paper, an envelope, and a pen and sat down again. What to say? The most important things were her discovery that the man posing as the cloch-ard was a fake—her discovery of the corpse had apparently made it necessary—and that Marie had been killed. She started to write. The whole thing sounded incredible, but she kept going. After she mentioned finding the hair at the hotel de ville—she enclosed the strands—and wrote, "I'm very much concerned that an autopsy was not done, or perhaps just a cursory examination made. Even if they did do one and found water in her lungs, she could have been drugged before being pushed down the tunnel—to make it look like drowning." She was on her third sheet of paper.

What else? Her suspicion that the man playing the clochard was a relative of the d'Ambert's? No, best keep to the two main points and she'd tell him more when they could speak in person—not an unpleasant prospect. She gave him the name of the hotel where they would be staying in Carcassonne—the Hotel du Donjon, which the guidebook had praised for cassoulet and comfort, despite the suggestions to the contrary implied by the name—and signed the letter "Sincerely, Faith." The standard French closure for friends, embrassons, seemed a bit too—well, what? Intimate? Maybe honest? She smiled at herself, sealed the envelope, and put it in her purse.

Tumbling into bed, she drifted off to sleep with images of Carcassonne drifting through her mind: bright pennons flapping in the breeze, the sound of trumpets, rough cobblestones, and high fortress walls overlooking the plain where the enemy was fleeing in disarray.

At eight o'clock sharp, Faith was leaning back in a chair, luxuriating in the sensation of the warm spray of water on her hair as Giovanni rinsed out the shampoo he had vigorously massaged into her scalp. He squirted some conditioner on and it felt cold, then more of those magic fingers and her hair was rinsed again. He put a towel around her head and motioned her to another chair. It wasn't a particularly elegant shop, and Giovanni and his receptionist seemed to be the only people working today, but it did sport an espresso machine. She sipped some as he combed her wet hair and stared at her in the mirror with intense concentration. She set the cup down and he went to work. More hair than she thought she had on her head fell to the floor as he snipped away. She had a moment of panic, then remembered how Solange looked—and also that hair grew back, eventually. So far, Giovanni had not said a single word to her after asking whether she wanted coffee. Now, he stood back, apparently satisfied with his labors, and reached for the blow-dryer. She followed his every move in the mirror so she could try to duplicate the style later. There was no question. It looked great. She thanked Giovanni profusely and went to the door.

“Madame Fairsheeld?" It was the receptionist, whose black dress had a high neck but barely covered her thighs. She wore a long strand of oversized pearls and had neatly coiffed bright orange hah- with one white streak down the side. There was something feline about the whole effect.

“Yes?" Faith replied.

“Your husband has called with a message. He is going to get gas and will pick you up in front of the art museum at Place des Terreaux, since it is so hard to park here.”

Faith thanked her. That made sense. They should have arranged it in the beginning. She hoped Ben was cooperating; the prospect of a long car trip in his beloved Deux Chevaux probably had him hastening Tom along. Normally, getting the three-year-old to dress himself was prac- tice for sainthood. He'd get one sock on, then sit and hold the other, gazing at something, anything, nothing in total concentration. "Your sock, Ben," she'd remind him gently, or not so gently if they were in a hurry. He'd look at the odd bit of clothing in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. "Sock?" It was Tom's turn today, Faith thought happily as she left the salon.

Out on the sidewalk, she walked quickly toward the museum, aware that the sun was shining down on her own shiny coif. She passed a window and admired the way her hair moved when she tipped her head. Ah, vanity, vanity, thy name is ... She hoped Tom liked it. Husbands tended not to like any changes in their wives' appearance. "But I liked you the way you were!" In addition, Tom fell under the Rapunzel rubric and would have Faith's tresses falling in golden waves to the floor if it were left to him.

She crossed the street and walked down rue Terme, past a toy store whose windows never failed to fascinate both mother and child on their way home from school. There was a new display of small, brightly painted knights in armor. Ben would love it—a large castle with some knights manning the towers and others on horseback in front of the drawbridge. It seemed appropriate and auspicious. She could hardly wait to get to Carcassonne.

A car pulled over to the curb, someone wanting directions. It had happened before. It was easy to get lost in Lyon. Faith walked over, starting to tell them apologetically that boy, did they have the wrong person, when the back door opened, a man in a ski mask jumped out, grabbed her, and pulled her into the car.

She wasn't the wrong person at all.

After a second of shocked disbelief, Faith started to struggle. The car was speeding up toward the Croix Rousse and her assailant had a firm grasp on her wrist. She started to scream and banged on the window with her fist, hoping to attract attention. The driver hadn't turned around. As the car slowed slightly for an intersection, she dove down and bit her captor on the wrist with all the force she had. He cried out and instinctively pulled his hand away. She already had her other hand on the door handle; the moment she was free, she pushed it open and ran down the street. He was after her in seconds, but she had sprinted ahead, getting a good lead. As she ran, Faith looked wildly around. The street was empty. It was also familiar. She'd been here on Thursday when she'd gone to get Ben at Leonard's. She remembered it from the tour in the guidebook, rue Bur-deau, and there was a traboule somewhere. If only she could find it, she could lose her pursuer, she was sure. Her heart pounded madly. How long could she run this fast?

Up ahead, she saw the entrance to the covered passageway on the left. She plunged into the dark tunnel and ran on, stumbling until her eyes got used to the dim light. The traboule would take her to the next street and there had to be someone there, or she would be enough ahead to find a place to hide.

Faith could hear the footsteps following her. She realized she couldn't wait. She had to hide now. At the next bend, the traboule branched in two directions and she went to the right. Soon she saw there was a stairway at the end. She threw herself underneath and crouched down, hoping whoever was after her would assume she had gone up it or that he would go the other way.

He did take the other way. She heard the footsteps stop for an instant as he considered, then get fainter and fainter until she couldn't hear them anymore. He was gone.

She took several deep breaths but stayed where she was. It was only then that Faith allowed the image of the hand that had grasped her wrist in the car to rise to consciousness. It was his right hand. The fingernails were bitten and bloody. The fourth finger was bare except for a band of white where a ring had been. A family ring.

It was the d'Ambert clochard.

She'd never have been able to get away from anyone eise so easily, she reflected. The clochard. She had drawn blood when she bit bun and was aware that she had been spitting out the bitter, filthy taste as she ran. She took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her mouth.

And what about the message from Tom? She felt in a muddle. It was obviously a fake. The receptionist wouldn't have known his voice. But how had they known where Faith was? Unless they'd been watching her. Watching her for days, just waiting for the chance to grab her. She felt cramped and queasy. It was all too obvious what the main use of her hiding place was and she cautiously crept out.

She went up the staircase, which led to another tra-boule. It was silent. The only sound was her own footsteps. She could see the daylight ahead and moved toward it slowly. She looked out. No cars in sight. No people, either. This was the wholesale garment district, bustling with activity during the week and deserted on the weekend. Weak with relief, she saw there was a phone booth at the corner. Seventeen, the police emergency number. That was all she had to do. One seven. Push the buttons and the nightmare would be over. She began to walk quickly down the uneven cobblestones, afraid she might trip if she ran. She put one hand on her rounded belly. It would be all right. It had to be all right.

A few yards away, a man stepped from the alley. Before she could make a sound, the blow came and she was in darkness again.

“But I don't understand. There must be some mistake," Tom Fairchild said in bewilderment to the young woman whose bizarre orange hair seemed only too appropriate to the strangeness of the situation.

“I'm sorry, monsieur. I can just tell you what madame said. That she preferred the train to a long drive and would meet you in Avignon for aperitifs opposite the Palais des Papes."

“But we hadn't even planned to stop at Avignon.”

The young woman shrugged. "Sometimes when like this, women can get sudden impulses. She called for a cab and left for Perrache."

“Where's Mommy? I want Mommy!" Ben began to cry.

Tom picked him up. "Hush, sweetheart. Don't worry. Let's go to the train station and see if we can find her." He thanked the woman and left. As he strapped Ben into his car seat, he thought, "This just isn't like Faith. Or is it?”

The young woman watched the proceedings from the shop window. Tom had been able to park right in front. Giovanni would be coming back soon from the cafe down the street, where he'd gone for the first of his morning machons and the accompanying glass or two. She waited. She wasn't about to leave the store wide open. That would be a crime.

He arrived a few minutes later. "Ciao, I have to leave now," she told him, and did.

The Reverend Fairchild stood overlooking the platform at the station in despair. He had just missed the train for Avignon, which had pulled out only a few minutes before. He returned to the main part of the station and asked at the appropriate guichet if the ticket agent remembered a young woman with blond hair—newly cut—blue eyes, of average height, who had purchased a ticket for Avignon about thirty minutes ago.

“Maybe ten looked like that, monsieur. Now where is it you want to go?"

“I don't want to buy a ticket. I'm looking for my wife." "Well, I cannot help you there. I am selling tickets. If there is some problem, you must go to the office."

“Are you sure you did not see her? She's an American. Her French is not very good."

“This is not unusual. If monsieur will please move— there are others here to buy tickets.”

Ben tugged at Tom's hand. "Mommy, where's Mommy?"

“I don't know, but don't worry. We'll find her." And Tom strode across the station to get help.

Faith opened her eyes. Where was she? She tried to sit up and discovered that she was tied at the ankles and wrists like a fatted calf. She was in the back seat of a rapidly moving car, completely covered by a blanket. Tipping her head back and away from the rough wool, she could see nothing out the window but blue sky. The movement made her dizzy. Her head felt like it was splitting open. The blanket felt very warm—safe almost. She closed her eyes again and drifted back into unconsciousness.

Tom had no luck with the stationmaster, who suggested he call the police. Stopping only to buy the increasingly frightened Ben a package of Gummi Bears, Tom called the Le-blancs instead. They arrived in what seemed like minutes, Ghislaine took charge. "I will take Ben home with me while Paul goes to the police. They can arrange for the police in Avignon to meet the train. Obviously, Faith has become upset at this whole clochard business and has had some sort of fugue. She was talking about it on Sunday and I should have paid more attention to how upset she was."

“No, I should have. It's been going on all week. She even had some idea that the clochard outside the church was an imposter. My God, what if she was right! We have to tell the police everything. Can you get a hold of your friend Ravier?"

“Tom, mon ami, you must be calm. The best thing is for you to go to Avignon to be there after she arrives. You must take our car. It is faster. Go straight to the police and I know she will be waiting there for you." Paul tried to reassure him. "Meanwhile, I will call Michel and, yes, tell him everything. Now, Benjamin, would you like to play with Pierre? He has some new cars to show you.”

Ben had been clutching Tom with hands sticky from the rapid consumption of the whole package of candies. He looked up at his father, unsure what to do. The cars would be nice to see, but one parent had vanished today and he wasn't about to let go of the one remaining.

“Sweetie, you go with Paul and Ghislaine and have fun this afternoon. I'm going to go bring Mommy back. We'll all have supper together. How would that be?”

Ben was reluctant, but he did not protest at being swung up onto Paul's shoulders, and they all left the station for their various destinations.

The car door opened with a jerk. An arm reached in and roughly shook Faith on the shoulder, yanking the blanket off, which she realized had not been draped over her out of kindness, but for concealment. She raised her heavy eyelids, aware that she had been on the edge of consciousness for some time, loath to leave her unknowing state. Her bonds were being cut and she rubbed her painful wrists. She sat up slowly.

Her captor was wearing a black ski mask. She could tell nothing about him. In the dim light, she could see the car had been driven into some kind of shed. It looked like an old farm building. "Venez!" the figure demanded, pulling her from the seat. Faith thought she would pass out again when she stood up and fell heavily upon the figure next to her, who immediately shoved her against the car. After a few minutes, she found she could stand. No sooner had she done so than she was pushed forward and made her way, staggering in pain, out into—what?

Where was she? And what time was it? It was dark, but Faith had no idea how many hours or days had passed since she had been abducted. Had she been drugged? The cool ah* hit her and she shivered. She wished she had thought to wrap the blanket around her shoulders. She was wearing a thin T-shirt and short skirt, donned in the expectation of southern sunshine.

Across the yard, she could make out a small stone house surrounded by trees. The night air was still and it was quiet except for some faint stirrings—the flight of birds, a nocturnal creature, a slight breeze, soft sounds accompanied by two others—the rapid breathing and insistent footsteps a few inches behind her. The idea of escape was impossible without some knowledge of the terrain. Besides, there was a gun to her back.

After the door was unlocked, they entered the house. A gloved hand closed hard upon her wrist and he pushed her into a chair while he quickly lit an oil lamp on the mantel, producing a dim light. It was very cold inside and the room had a musty smell, as if it had been closed up for a long tune. The shutters of the windows had not been opened and a thick layer of dust covered a long table in front of the fireplace.

If he was going to kill her, why was he waiting? Was she being held for ransom? She doubted it. If she'd been kidnapped because of what she knew about Marie and the clochard, it was her silence, not money, they wanted. These thoughts were rapidly supplanted by one other and she turned and spoke. "Please. I must go to the bathroom." She tried to convey her urgency, aware from her slightly damp pants that in her previous state she'd already had one accident. It was horrible enough to be in the position she was without adding total loss of dignity.

He motioned her out the door again to an outhouse at the edge of the yard, beyond some large evergreens. The moon had risen and she could see mountains not too far away. The house seemed to be at the bottom of a gorge.

When she got closer to the trees, she could hear a stream. The privy was very clean and there were cartoons by Sempe clipped from magazines taped to the walls. Hard to imagine gangsters with such a well-developed sense of humor and housekeeping. What they didn't have was toilet paper, and as Faith searched through her pocketbook for tissues, she found the letter she'd written to Michel Ravier. She could use it now, for all the good it would do her, she thought, before finding a packet of paper mouchoirs at the bottom. Holding the letter in her hand, she finally broke down and began to cry. She was all alone in a French outhouse, about to die.

Chief Inspector Michel Ravier had returned from Marseille at nine o'clock on Saturday night, looking forward to nothing more—or less—than a very good meal and a good night's sleep. But he'd dutifully called headquarters to report his return and that was why he was in his office drinking abominable coffee from a paper cup, reading with mounting exasperation the brief reports Louis Martin and Didier Pollet had filed on Faith, instead of consuming warm saucisson with plenty of mustard at La Mere Vittet. He grabbed the phone and demanded the two men's presence immediately. He also told the sergeant on duty to get him some food, preferably edible, but even a burger from FreeTime—though it pained him to think of comforting his hunger pangs so inadequately.

Michel had spoken to Paul, and he and Tom were on their way in. Ravier closed his eyes and thought back to the week before when he'd met Faith at Valentina Joliet's gallery. Madame Fairsheeld had seemed delightfully unseri-ous, bright, and very pretty—all the things he liked in a woman. There had been no suggestion of instability, apart from the clochard story, which was a bit odd but could no doubt have been explained if they'd questioned the man the next day. Or it may have been true. In any case, Martin and Pollet's conclusions that her pregnant state was causing her to fantasize were absurd. Although this represented sophisticated thinking for the team. He would have thought the two, with a combined chronological age near Michel's own and combined mental age near Stephanie Leblanc's, still believed in the "bebe under the chou leaf theory.

There was a knock on the door and it opened almost simultaneously. Tom Fairchild walked over to the desk, grabbed a chair, sat down, and started talking. Paul was not far behind.

“You've heard, of course, the whole story from Paul. What can possibly be going on, damn it! Where can she be!”

Tom was angry and frightened. He'd driven to Avignon and gone straight to police headquarters. There they'd told him that they'd met the train from Lyon and Faith hadn't been on it. They'd questioned the servers at the buffet and the conductor and shown them Faith's picture, which had been faxed from Lyon. The Leblancs had given it to the police. It had been taken the Sunday before—a laughing, smiling Faith sitting in a lawn chair next to Paul's father. No one remembered seeing anyone resembling her. Avignon was the first stop after Lyon, so there was no way she could have gotten off the train. They were continuing to meet the trains coming from Lyon, but Tom had left quickly after reporting back to Paul.

When he'd arrived at the Leblanc's house, Ben had greeted him tearfully. Tom had told him Mommy was visiting some friends and would be back soon, yet Ben knew something was wrong. Soon after, Pierre had tucked him into his own bed and stayed with him until he fell asleep. The call from the police telling them Inspector Ravier had returned came soon after.

Ravier was as puzzled as Tom. He'd gotten the name of the owner of the hair salon where Faith had been seen last, but it was Saturday night and Giovanni Cavelli was out on the town. Michel had sent a team to search the various bars and bistros in Giovanni's neighborhood. Until they found him, they couldn't get in touch with the receptionist, who might be able to add something. Tom had called Solange d'Ambert; however, she did not recall the young woman. "Of course I might know her. They change their hair so often, but the last time I was there, the girl helping was short and a bit heavy." She had not heard Faith say anything about going to Avignon at tea on Friday and could add nothing to what they already knew.

“First," Michel said, "let me reassure you that a description and picture of your wife have been circulated all over the country and the newspapers will also carry the information tomorrow morning. Now, let's go back to the beginning, Reverend Fairsheeld."

“Tom, please call me Tom."

“Thank you. Well, Tom, what has happened obviously must have an explanation in something that has occurred since your arrival. I am assuming she has never done anything like this before?"

“Never," Tom answered.

“Then try, if you can, to relax a moment and tell me everything your wife has been doing and how she has been feeling since coming to Lyon. Has she made any friends? Become involved in any activities? Paul, perhaps you can help.”

Tom was suddenly so tired, it seemed almost impossible to talk. Friends, involvements? This was what Faith lived for. Slowly, he began to list what he knew. When he got to Faith's experiences the night of the dinner party, Michel interrupted him. "She told me about this the following evening and we have the report of the two men responding to your call. What has been plaguing me all night is that she may, in fact, have found a corpse. But then how did he come to be outside the church the next morning? I am waiting for the men who responded to her calls. According to their report, she seemed to think it might not be the same clochard."

“Faith definitely thought he was a fake. Sunday night, she told me she thought the body of the clochard she found on Saturday had a scratch on the back of the hand. The man outside St. Nizier the next day didn't." Tom stood up and walked up and down the room. When he next spoke, his voice was thick. "I suggested it might have been a piece of string or something from the trash. I didn't want to believe it. Everything has been so wonderful. He looked the same to me. And she accepted that, but I know Faith. She must have kept poking around and now ..." He couldn't finish.

“Vite!" and a loud banging on the outhouse door startled Faith from her misery and she quickly finished. Descending outside, she took a good look at her captor before the figure, all in black, still masked and gloved, moved behind her and jammed the barrel of his gun into the small of her back. He was certainly dressed for the weather, she thought enviously as she began to shiver again. Her spirits had lifted slightly and she took it as a good sign that he retained the mask. If she was to be killed soon, it wouldn't matter if she saw him. And the wool, though warm, must feel scratchy on his face. He was taller than Faith but slight and moved with agility. They walked back to the house and once they were inside, he motioned her back to the chair, locked the door, and started to build a fire. After he got it going, he opened the shutters covering the windows. Was he watching for someone?

Things had gone far enough.

“I am an American citizen and I demand to know what is happening. I think you have mistaken me for someone—" she said, cut off abruptly by his "Ferme-la!" She did, and after he poked at the fire some more, he collapsed in a chair opposite her, with the gun trained somewhere on the vicinity of her womb. She didn't open her mouth. Neither did he.

Ravier sent Tom home with Paul. There was nothing more he could do and so Michel urged Tom to try to get some sleep. It had been a long drive to Avignon and back. "Sleep?" Tom had repeated, and Michel realized what a ridiculous suggestion it had been. "Then pray, mon brave. I know le bon Dieu will not let anything happen to Faith.”

A trace of a smile had crossed Tom's weary face. "I have been doing nothing else since this morning.”

After they left, Michel sat with the files in front of him. It wasn't simply the business with the clochard. There was Faith's second call reporting that she had information regarding the suicide of the prostitute, Marie. Michel had been on vice not too many years ago and he remembered Marie well. An intelligent girl from the Midi. She would be away from the city on occasion and told him once she used to go to visit her family. He wondered what she told them— that she worked in a boutique, perhaps. Her carte d'identite listed her full name as Marie-Claude Laval, and he sensed she came from a decent family. Like her two friends, she was addicted to various things, but in the last year, she had told him she was straight and hoping to get off the streets. He had wished her well, yet knew it would not be so easy to accomplish. She probably owed her pimp money and he would see she continued to work off her debt until she no longer served his purpose. Then she'd be left with nothing. He felt the angry frustration that had never left him since his first days in the district, talking to the girls. The pimps, working from Italy, Switzerland—and now South America—grew rich. Parasites. The only consolation was that when they did get caught on French soil, they faced long sentences and stiff fines.

So Faith had come to know Marie, too. But how? What would they have in common? The French women he knew did not chat with thefilles dejoie on the corner but walked quickly past, perhaps a nod of the head to indicate they were sympa.

Faith had told Martin and Pollet that Marie was supposed to meet her at the hotel de ville, and earlier Marie had given her some sort of warning. Faith was convinced Marie had been murdered before they could meet. The notes were disgracefully vague and his conversation with the two officers, while making him feel better for letting off steam, didn't garner much more information. They thought her scatty and hadn't paid much attention to what they clearly thought was an overactive imagination, the product of too much American television. The inspector from the police judiciaire, Ravier's own division, had not thought it worth his time to go up the stairs to speak with Faith when they found the trash bin empty, but had sent the two gardiens de la paix as a formality. Probably also wanted to stick them with the paperwork. Michel had let off some steam on him, too.

Marie's body had already been released to her parents. There had been what Michel suspected was a perfunctory autopsy, as was usual in this type of case. He looked at the few lines in front of him. She did have water in her lungs, indicating drowning. Still, there were ways to do this—if she had been alive but drugged when she entered the water, for example. Even if the autopsy indicated the presence of drugs, it would be assumed she had gone back to her old ways—or never left.

Michel didn't think Faith was scatty. If she thought Marie had been murdered, there must have been a reason— even if Madame Fairsheeld had cried murder once before. But how would Marie have tied in with the clochard? In the morning, he'd go to the Place St. Nizier and talk with Marie's friends. It would be pointless to try to find them tonight. Clochards and whores, both on the street and both knowing what went on in those streets better than anyone.

It was possible this knowledge had gotten the two of them killed, which left Faith trying to tie the threads together.

His phone rang. Giovanni Cavelli had been located. Faith had not said anything to him about Avignon—or anywhere else, for that matter. He didn't like to talk with his clients, he told the officers. It distracted him from his work. The receptionist was new. She'd only been there a month and was Italian also. He'd liked having someone around who spoke his language. Her name was Gina Mar-tignetti. She was from Rome and he had an address in Lyon for her on the Croix Rousse. She'd left about eleven that morning and never come back. He was prepared to take her back, but not until he'd said a thing or two, and judging from the rehearsal the police were forced to listen to, it would be a wonder if the woman would continue to work for him. After they finished talking to Cavelli, they'd gone to the address he'd supplied for Gina. It was a rooming house. They proceeded to rouse the owner, who was displeased at being awakened and obviously cherished little affection for theses. She told them Mademoiselle Marti-gnetti had stopped by her apartment at noon, given her what she owed, said good-bye, and left. She didn't know where Gina was going. That was the girl's business, not hers. She'd been a good tenant, paid on tune, wasn't around much.

Ravier ordered them to circulate a description of Gina Martignetti, particularly at the Italian border, and he had had a call put through to the police in Rome. Her disappearance at the same time as Faith's and after having delivered what was obviously a phony message to Tom, was no coincidence. He also had Giovanni put under surveillance. He'd already been told not to leave Lyon.

The inspector's phone rang again. It was his mother. Did he want to speak with her? He glanced at his watch. She was up late, but then she slept very little. Of course he would take the call. Since his father's death, she had moved into the city and she missed her old friends and neighbors.

“You had a good trip, monfils?"

“Oui, Maman, and you? Keeping busy?"

“But of course. All the things an old lady does. A little walk. Mass in the morning. And I cleaned your apartment. It was disgusting, Michel. That woman is not worth what you pay her.”

His mother had a running battle with the woman who cleaned and, when told, left dinner for him. Neither thought the other adequate for his needs. "Oh, Maman, really you mustn't do this."

“It's no trouble. Oh, and while I was there, a very nice foreign lady called. Her name was Madame Fairsheeld. I told her you were away and she said you must call her as soon as you get back, so please do. I promised you would."

“Madame Fairsheeld! When was this?"

“It must have been Wednesday. I remember I went to your apartment after confession."

“You are sure?"

“About my confession, bien stir!"

“No, cherie, about what day Madame Fairsheeld called," he said patiently, wondering not for the first time what his mother could possibly have to confess. Impure thoughts? He hoped so.

“Yes, yes, I am sure. Is it important?"

“Perhaps. Now, I must say good night. Go to sleep. I will call you tomorrow."

“A demain," she agreed in her soft, slightly chirping voice.

He picked up the file on Marie. Her body had been discovered on Wednesday. It had been on Wednesday that Martin and Pollet had responded to Faith's call. Obviously, she'd called him first. But she hadn't disappeared until two days later. What had happened in between? He looked at the notes he had taken while Tom talked. The lavomatique, the marche, a tea party, dinner at a bouchon.

It would not be light for some hours and he was eager to start questioning everyone Faith had come in contact with during those days—and the days preceding. She'd visited one of the shelters for the clochards on Monday, Tom had said. To learn what the French were doing about the problem, she'd told her husband. Yet, Faith had not struck Michel as a woman who told her husband everything as it happened. Not that she lied, but perhaps there was more than one reason for her visit.

He stretched out on his couch to get some sleep. Soup kitchens, the hotel de ville, the prostitutes on the corner, and at the beginning—the clochard of St. Nizier in the poubelle. The answer had to be somewhere among them.

Faith Fairchild had gotten to know Lyon very well indeed.

Faith was getting restless. She wasn't tired. She'd slept enough for a month and the silence was beginning to drive her crazy. Maybe that was the idea. She wasn't going to be killed outright, merely driven insane.

“Do you speak English?" she asked.

There was no reply. She knew her French wasn't that bad. He'd understood her other question. She wondered what would happen if she stood up and calmly walked out the door. Whoever it was seemed passive enough. Still, she didn't want to chance a sudden spurt of energy that might lodge a bullet somewhere about her person. Looking around the room, she'd noted there was another door and, to the right of it, a stone stairway. The stairs probably led to bedrooms or a loft of some sort and the other door no doubt to the kitchen. Kitchen! She was starving. She hadn't had anything since her hasty breakfast. She thought longingly of the picnic she'd packed for the trip to Carcassonne. A huge marguerite—crusty rolls joined together in the shape of the flower. Instead of "he loves me, he loves me not," you pulled a hunk of bread off and, in today's case, slathered it with Normandy butter, pate, or cheese. She'd also packed some salads—tiny vegetables in vinaigrette and hearts of palm with endive. Faith firmly ordered her mind to turn off before she got to dessert, but the chocolate cake with a hint of orange from Tourtillier pushed through insistently.

“This is ridiculous. I am hungry and cold. I am going to have a baby and I must have some food." The sentences were non sequiturs, but she didn't care.

She accomplished one thing. The immobile figure leapt out of the chair, causing her to draw her breath in sharply in fear. Was it the end?

But he simply proceeded to pace up and down the small room, pausing only to throw some more logs on the fire. He appeared to be muttering under his breath. After what seemed like ages, he stopped abruptly in front of her and pulled off the mask.

“What can I do? Merde! This is a hopeless situation!”

Faith gasped—not at his words. At his face.

It was Christophe d'Ambert.

Eight

“Christophe! Is this some kind of joke?"

“No, I assure you it is not a joke at all." Faith had felt a wave of relief sweep over her when she realized who was behind the mask. It was absurd to think that the teenager—the boy next door—would harm her in any way. But the relief was short-lived, and the possibility of her own reduced life span more distinct, when she heard the tone in his voice. This was not the nonchalant, slightly teasing adolescent of their encounters on the apartment staircase. This was a deadly serious, possibly crazy man.

Keep them talking. Wasn't that what all the books, not to mention Geraldo and Oprah, advised?

“Can you tell me where we are?" A neutral topic, a logical question for a tourist to ask.

He seemed surprised. "We are in the Cevennes. This is the country house of some friends of mine. They are in Canada for the year and asked me to check on it occasionally. They worry since it is so far away from any other houses or a village," he added pointedly.

“Oh, I thought perhaps it might be your family's house." She'd had a thought that if Christophe was gone, the d'Amberts might think to look for him at the maison secon-daire. Jean-Francois had said it was closed up, as this place had obviously been. Christophe could be lying about whose house it was. He'd never struck her as Eagle Scout material and now she was beginning to think he could walk into a role in Bad Boys without any rehearsal at all.

Her comment had produced a smile—not a nice one. "I'm afraid my mother would find the Cevennes a bit boring." He ran his knuckles across his cheek in a shaving gesture, rasant, which Faith had observed was the way to express ultimate ennui. "Our house is closer to St. Trop.”

Unfortunately, it made too much sense. But if Christophe was taking care of the house, the d'Amberts would know.

“So, this belongs to friends of your family. It looks very old." Act casual. Try to get more information. Stall.

“Friends of mine, Madame Fairsheeld, and yes, a very old house, but I do not think this is the time to tell you the history of the region, interesting as it is," he said sarcastically.

What a prick, Faith thought, a few tears starting to burn. She wasn't sure whether they were due to fury or fear. The whole thing had been a stupid idea to start with. It was obvious Christophe kept his own hours and own company. The fact that he was away when she was missing would mean nothing. She imagined the search that must have begun. Everyone would be so busy trying to find her, they'd forget Christophe even existed.

Christophe was talking to himself out loud. "It's all tonton's fault."

“Tonton?" Faith asked. It sounded like a pet: Ron Ton Ton, the wonder dog.

“It means 'uncle,' " he explained impatiently, "in this case, my father's youngest brother. The one most d'Am-berts don't like to talk about."

“You mean the clochard?"

“I mean he chooses to live his life as he pleases without being weighed down by bourgeois ideas and possessions." He'd raised his voice and each word was dripping with scorn.

Faith gave a passing thought to Christophe's wardrobe—the Tissot watch she could see between the end of his sleeve and the band of his glove, the Girbaud jeans he wore.

“I am not criticizing him," she placated.

“Well, I am." Christophe suddenly became a teenager again. "The dumb fuck. He was supposed to finish the job, then what does he do but get cold feet and jump out of the car. Next time I see him, he's going to hear about this. I took care of Bernard and he was going to take care of you. That was the deal." He was almost whining.

Nausea and what was certainly now fear threatened to overwhelm Faith. I mustn't start screaming. I mustn't throw up. I mustn't upset him. She repeated the sentences over and over like a mantra.

Bernard. Bernard was the clochard's name, Lucien at the shelter had told her.

Which meant Christophe was the murderer.

It was too much to suppose otherwise. Christophe lived in the building and was rapidly displaying the tendencies necessary for the crime—means, personality—but what could the motive possibly have been?

Faith was reeling. He'd "taken care of" the clochard. His uncle was supposed to do the same for her, but had fled, leaving... Christophe. A funny thing about murder: Everything was out of focus until the end.

He was pacing again. Faith watched him cautiously, waiting for him to spring. His eyes were directed away from her for the moment, considering some inner view. She could make a move, but the front door was locked and if the kitchen had a door to the outside, that would be locked, too—if she even made it that far. There was no way out.

Keep him talking.

“Christophe, I'm sure there is a logical explanation for all this and if you will just take me back to Lyon, we can straighten everything out. I'll say I bumped into you after I got my hair cut and decided on a whim to come with you while you checked on your friends' house. Women in my condition are supposed to be a little erratic." That sounded good.

He laughed disagreeably. "You think we can go back and I will get a little slap on the hand. No, cherie, I think not. And as for being thought 'erratic,' we have counted on this. It's possible the hunt for you has started already, but I doubt it. You took the train for Avignon, and remember, the police think you are crazy to begin with.”

Faith was truly startled. What was he talking about? Avignon? And his use of cherie had more in common with Cagney's sweetheart than Solange's and Madame Vincent's use of the endearment.

“Why would I go to Avignon? Everyone knew we were going to Carcassonne."

“But you left a message for your husband at the salon that you preferred to shorten the long car trip by taking the train as far as Avignon. I believe you were to meet in front of the Palais des Papes for drinks. Malheureusement, you do not show up, but then les femmes, especially attractive ones such as yourself, often disappear. There are a lot of nasty people around." He was obviously enjoying this, definitely a nasty piece of goods himself.

His words made it sickeningly clear. He and his uncle; had worked it all out. Tom would go to Avignon, and even if he did get in touch with the police, they'd assume it was another one of her "fancies." By now, Tom knew she wasn't in Avignon, but would the incredible idea that she had been kidnapped occur to him? Yet what else? That she had simply run away? Women did it all the time, and sure, she'd had her moments when driving alone in the car. How easy it would be to just keep on going to, say, sunny California instead of Shop and Save.

Still, Tom would know she hadn't run away. And Tom would start moving heaven and earth to find her.

Now what next? Christophe's uncle had botched it, so here they were, Plan B, in a cold, drafty farmhouse somewhere hi the Cevennes, which she knew was considerably southwest of Lyon and very sparsely inhabited. She didn't need a lecture from d'Ambert the younger. The Leblancs had already related the rise and fall of the area. It had been a prosperous center of the silk industry in the eighteenth century, then in the nineteenth and twentieth had become an empty landscape. First the silkworm disease attacked, and when that crisis had passed, competition from foreign silk and artificial textiles finished the job. Phylloxera destroyed the grapevines and a fungus killed the chestnut trees. Not exactly the luckiest place to live in France. People left in droves. Christophe couldn't have picked a better place to take her. Now the question was, what did he intend to do with her?

It was as if she had spoken aloud.

“You present a curious problem," he said, pulling a chair uncomfortably close to hers and lovingly stroking the gun with his left hand. "I do not mind to eliminate an adult. You have had a taste of life, although madame is not such an old lady, bien sur." So polite, these French teenagers, even when engaged hi major crime.

He looked straight into her eyes. His own were puddles of amoral sincerity. "The problem is the baby. I cannot in good conscience kill him. Who knows what he may accomplish? A cure for SIDA? Overthrow the Republic?" If Faith had had any doubts about the basic immaturity of Chris-tophe's level of moral development, they vanished as quickly as socks in the wash.

He stood up. "Yet it is difficult to imagine how I can keep you here for, how long? Five, six months?" He directed a studied and impersonal look at her body. She could just have easily been a car he was considering buying, a piece of saucisse, or a painting in Valentina Joliet's gallery. She was amazed at the accuracy of his appraisal, then remembered all the little d'Amberts and accouchements he would have observed. She didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.

“It just needs some thought. I will keep you alive until your time comes, then kill you and take the baby to a priest. These details can be worked out." He sounded very definite. Still, he wasn't going to do anything immediately and the relief she felt was genuine at last. Four and a half months was a long time. She ought to be able to get away by then. She had a sudden vision of her delivery on some lonely Cevennes mountaintop with the maniacal Christophe waiting to cut the cord and her throat. She placed her hand on her abdomen to reassure the baby—and herself. It wasn't going to happen. The boy had to go to school, for goodness sake. He couldn't disappear to play midwife for the next few months.

“Fortunately, I will be taking the bac soon and then school will be over. Until then, I'll think of something." Faith was horribly afraid he would. "And, of course, if you try to escape or do anything else so very foolish, I will have to forget about the child and you both will die.”

He seemed genuinely sorry. It was chilling. All this concern for the unborn. His early years with the Marist fathers, an unconscious desire for his own rebirth, the stir- rings of paternity? She'd hate to be the one to spoil the two or three good apples left in the barrel, but there were limits.

He seemed almost cheerful, having gotten the unpleasantness out of the way, and turned in a typically French manner to the demands of the flesh. "I am very hungry, and tired, as you must be also. First, I think food. Then sleep. Tomorrow, we will take a trip to get provisions and I must find a phone. I am afraid you will not be in a position to see the beauty of the countryside, however. Now, s'il vous plait, the kitchen.”

Bearing the lamp aloft hi one hand, he nudged her toward the door with the gun firmly clenched in the other. The kitchen was large and when they entered, the light was reflected in the soft copper burnishings of the pots hanging on one wall. Like the other room, it had a stone floor, and without the fire, it was very cold. There was a gas stove next to the sink, stone also. It appeared that the early inhabitants of the region had simply walked into their backyards and constructed whatever they needed from the mountains of rock there. She dismally noted the tap over the sink. There was running water. So she could rule out giving Christophe a quick shove at a well.

“Open the closet over there. I think it is where Danielle keeps supplies.”

The closet was full of baskets and boxes that once contained potatoes, onions, and other vegetables, judging from the shriveled evidence. The shelves were stacked with brightly colored pottery and, in one corner, they found a few dusty cans of what turned out to be corn kernels.

“Ah, metis. My friend Benoit was sent last summer to practice his English with a family in Iowa, do you know it? All he ate was mais. It was some kind of farm and he did not go well there. His parents are cochons.”

Faith doubted that Benoit was descended from porkers, but she got the message. All this farm talk was increasing her hunger and the corn in the can was calling to her as succulently as a fresh cob plucked from the stalk, raced to a pot of rapidly boiling water, cooked for four minutes, and consumed immediately, dripping with butter, salt, and, in Faith's case, pepper. She was salivating.

“They must have a can opener. I'm sure it's safe to eat if they were here last summer." She tried to steer him away from a potential diatribe on the inevitable shortcomings of the older generation and back to the matter at hand.

“Bien sur, and here is a packet of pates. I understand you are a good cook. See what you can do with this.”

She couldn't do much, but shortly after, when she dug into the macaroni and corn, she decided it was one of the best meals she'd ever tasted.

Christophe had lighted some more lamps and a pair of candles that were on the kitchen table. He'd found a bottle of wine and sat holding a full glass up to the flame, regarding it intently. The light cast ruby flickers on the gun by his plate. Maybe he'd get drunk. Faith took a sip of the water. The situation was very intimate—and unreal.

It didn't seem the moment to ask why he had killed the clochard in the first place—the question that was at the front of her mind. Was it for kicks? If so, then what was Marie talking about and how did his uncle figure in all this? Obviously tonton had been the person impersonating poor Bernard. Did Marie know? She wasn't going to mention Marie, though. Faith didn't want to let Christophe know how much she knew, which, after she'd learned he'd murdered the clochard, was not much.

She ate some more pates a la Fairsheeld. Even after assuaging the initial sharp pangs of starvation, the mixture tasted surprisingly good. All she had to do was add some pieces of slightly charred red peppers, a hint of garlic, some summer savory, and maybe a round of warm fresh chevre on top. . . .

She opened her mouth to speak. After all, what could it hurt?

“Christophe, I don't understand. I know the clochard was a violent man." She recalled the scene she'd seen only a week or so ago from the apartment window. "Had he been threatening you in some way?"

“Bernard? No. Do you think an old drunk like that could frighten me? Cretin! He was stupid and nosy.”

Not what she would categorize as the best possible defense for justifiable homicide. She decided to ferme-la. Her colloquial French was increasing by leaps and bounds and she desperately hoped she'd be able to display it for Tom.

Time went by. Christophe poured himself another glass of wine. It was producing no discernable effect. He lit a cigarette and Faith noticed the pack was almost empty. She hoped he had more. She didn't want him to be forced to quit now, however beneficial that might be to his health and hers. Irritability from nicotine withdrawal might just send him over the edge. But at the moment, lazily blowing smoke toward the ceiling and sipping his wine, he seemed at peace with the world—the world that appeared to owe him a living. She regarded him for some time in silence.

But there were simply too many questions.

“So, where were you when I came downstairs and how did you get him away so quickly?”

He laughed reminiscently. "You can imagine that I was surprised to see my neighbor come to dispose of her garbage at such an hour. But my father's office is just there, you know, and I have a key. It was very fortunate. Then when you left, I returned and put old Bernard in that small closet by the stairs. We got rid of him later.”

The placard, of course. That extremely convenient place for Ben's stroller—or a dead body.

“It was no easy job getting him in the poubelle," Christophe bragged. "They were late and I could not take the chance to leave him in the vestibule. Then, because of you, I had to lift him out again and up the stairs by myself. Ouf!"

“Eh bien." He wolfed the rest of his food down. "Now, bed.”

Bed. And all that suggested. Maybe there was a way out of this.

Back in the main room, he bent down to pick up something at the door, then said, "Upstairs. Allezl I'm tres fatigue. “

Thoughts of seducing her way out of the situation were quickly dispelled in the bedroom when he tied her wrists and ankles together again in the same way as before with the ropes he'd brought in from the car. As a final touch, he looped another length around her, securing her to the bed. Unless he was into bondage, her vague plan to charm him into submission would have to be scrapped.

“Bonne nuit, Madame Fairsheeld. Sleep well.”

Faith did not wish him the same. She was thinking of Sartre's famous remark: "Hell is other people.”

A bird cried sharply in the night and Faith opened her eyes in sudden panic. Where was she? She remembered and the panic did not subside. Christophe had spoken of the cloch-ard as a mere encumbrance, something to get out of the way, a fly buzzing on the wall. Yet it had to be more than that for him to take such a risk, and she still didn't know why he had killed the tramp. It was a point she hadn't wanted to press. It was dangerous to know too much. Although how she could be in more peril than she already was with what she'd learned was a moot point.

Christophe, acting with his uncle and some others— those references to "we" and "they"—had murdered the clochard in the vestibule. Something put in the tramp's beloved bottle, since there were no marks or blood on the man, apart from the scratch on his hand. Then, when she arrived on the scene, Christophe had repaired to his father's office, more than likely made a call or two about what had happened, then reappeared to spirit away the evidence as soon as she went back upstairs.

In the old Cevennes farmhouse, it had become very quiet. The door was open, but she could not hear anything from the room across the hall where her captor lay soundlessly in a deep and dreamless sleep. Soon she did the same.

The early morning sun streamed in the chambre's one small window. Faith opened her eyes. The room was charming. There was a large rustic armoire against one of the whitewashed walls and next to the bed, a round table covered with bright Provencal fabric was stacked with books. Across the room, a comfortable-looking chair draped in the same fabric sat next to an old marble-topped nightstand holding an arrangement of dried flowers in a turquoise vase. The door in the nightstand gave an urgency to her needs. Damn these ropes. She needed to get over there and see if there was a chamber pot behind the marquetry.

“Christophe! Christophe!" she called, waited, then tried again. He came stumbling into the room after her fourth attempt. His hair was rumpled and he was rubbing his eyes. The gun was shoved in the waistband of his jeans.

“What do you want?" he asked angrily. Christophe was obviously not a morning person. Neither was Faith under ordinary circumstances, whatever those had been in the past—& past that had receded so swiftly in the last twenty-four hours, it was beginning to take on a medieval character. Her immediate present contained but two thoughts: I am tired and I have to get out of bed.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

He grunted and untied the knots. She stood up stiffly. The baby gave a little flutter. The sensation did not bring the joy of previous days. She took the blanket and wrapped it around herself. She had no intention of answering nature's call under the scrutiny of this eighteen-year-old. Let him take her to the outhouse.

To his credit, Christophe had piled blankets and a down comforter on Faith's immobilized body the previous night—out of concern for the future luminary she was carrying, no doubt. Without that drift of warmth, she was shivering. Her two thoughts were joined by a third, which she said out loud. "It's so cold. Do you think there are any jackets or sweaters in the house?"

“Perhaps in the armoire. It is always cold in the country in the mornings. You had better become used to it.”

So whatever plan he had hit upon involved keeping her here. She didn't know whether to be glad or sorry.

She opened the doors to the armoire and was rewarded by the sight of what was obviously the country wardrobe. She took a heavy Irish fisherman's sweater and some corduroy pants. Christophe grabbed a well-worn shearling jacket. Faith was annoyed she hadn't spotted it first. She put the sweater on and immediately felt more optimistic than she had since arriving. It was lovely to be warm again.

They did the Siamese-twin walk across the yard to the trees. It was beginning to become a familiar routine, but Faith would rather not have been joined by a gun. She slipped on the pants before leaving the privy. They were too long, so she turned up the cuffs, but otherwise they fit fairly well. She couldn't do up the button on the waistband, but the sweater hid the fact, and besides, she wasn't exactly worried about making a fashion statement at the moment. Now only her feet, clad in a thin pair of Bennis/Edwards flats, needed attention. Socks and boots of some sort were what she had in mind. Also a toothbrush.

As they walked back across the yard, she looked around her. It was beautiful. The house had been built on one of a number of deep terraces she could see covering the mountain. The others were marked by low, crumbling stone walls. Once they had been filled with rows of carefully tended green vines. Now they were yellow and purple with spring wildflowers. Below the house, the land continued to slope sharply, ending hi the stream she had heard the night before. Evergreens and deciduous trees stretched out on either side of the small area marked by civilization.

“It's beautiful here," she said to the air.

Behind her, Christophe agreed. "I like the Cevennes very much. It has not been spoiled like the rest of France.”

A nature lover. Go figure.

“It's Sunday, so we must wait for the old woman who keeps the shop to say her mass and come home. Say ten o'clock.”

Christophe did not appear to be hi the mood for conversation and sat stolidly in the chair across from her. He'd tied her wrists together behind her back again in preparation for the car trip. The fact that he wasn't in a chatty mood didn't bother Faith. She was preoccupied with trying to decide whether it made sense for her to kick the gun out of his hand as he bound her ankles together, but the odds did not seem good. Given that she aimed accurately and accomplished the first part, she still might not be able to grab the gun with her hands tied. Could she hold it in her mouth? It wasn't a large gun. But how would she fire it? It was more likely that he would get to it before she did and shoot her. Such an attempt would certainly fall under the rubric of one of the "so very foolish" things he'd mentioned. Yet there had to be some way out of this and the trip to the store offered the first real opportunity. She continued to devise alternatives.

The tune dragged like school in June and she tried not to think how hungry she was. She thought instead of Tom and what he might be doing. He'd enlist the help of the Leblancs immediately and they might think to call Ravier— if he was back. She sighed. Christophe stood up.

“It's time. We can go now. If we wait too long, all the bread will be gone.”

This was serious.

As they were about to open the door, they heard a car coming up the drive.

“Merde! Who can be coming! Into the kitchen. Vite!" He grabbed the ropes. Faith was desperately praying he might forget, but he was very efficient. He'd trussed her up, pulled a bandanna from his pocket to gag her, and pushed her into the kitchen closet just as a car door slammed. Then another. So it was more than one arrival. The closet door opened again and he threw her pocketbook in after her. "Your sac!" Dreadfully efficient.

But not infallible. He'd neglected to close the closet door completely the second time. Faith was able to wiggle closer and, by wedging her foot in the crack, succeeded in opening it. The door to the other room was firmly shut. She lay still, listening.

It wasn't hard to hear what was going on, even through the closed door. Two people in addition to Christophe, and all three were shouting at the tops of their lungs.

“You salaudl You are not fit to wipe my ass! And you thought we would never find out! Imbecile!" It was a female voice, an extremely enraged female.

“How could you possibly think Dominique wouldn't tell me! Or didn't you care!”

Christophe was just as furious. "How did you know I was here and what business is it of yours what I do! We live our own lives and I can fuck anyone I want!"

“Yes—and tell her she's the only one!" The girl started to cry.

“Come on. Let's go get something to eat. There's nothing left in the house. You both need to calm down.”

Faith could have told him these were the words most known to have the opposite effect on women in any language, and the explosion almost shook the beams of the kitchen ceiling. They would not calm down. They were not hungry and they were not leaving.

“And why are you so eager to get rid of us? You know, Berthille, I think the little shit is waiting for someone. Zut! He certainly brought me here enough times last fall."

“And moi. I am sure you are right. Look at how scared he looks.”

Berthille and Dominique—Ghislaine's niece. The one whose mother was so worried about her, and now, it appeared, with good cause. The two girls Faith had seen at the gallery. And Christophe had been sleeping with them both. Another thing women tend to frown upon—one's boyfriend cheating with one's best friend. Christophe had a lot to learn.

But, Faith told herself, this was no time to get caught up in the adolescent intrigues going on in the next room, however interesting they might be. She had to decide whether to make her way across the floor and bang on the door or try to get the ropes untied, escaping out the back door. That was the best plan. She didn't think Christophe would do away with her while the others watched—or kill all three of them—but she didn't want to find out.

And maybe the girls, in their rage, had left the keys in the car's ignition.

The closet was narrow and she was finding it hard to get to her feet. Finally, she succeeded in rolling to her knees and stood up, bent over because of the rope that was strung from her ankles to her wrists. She looked at her purse on the floor. There was nothing much inside to help her. It was a small summer shoulder bag, not the capacious Coach saddlebag she carried at other times, which contained everything from toys for Ben to sustenance for them both—and a handy Swiss army knife. The only thing remotely resembling a tool in this one was an emery board. But, she thought, as she hopped awkwardly out of the closet and, having kicked off her shoes, silently into the room, she was in a kitchen! And kitchens, especially French ones, had sharp knives.

The fight in the next room had not abated. Christophe had apparently decided the best defense was offense and he continued to yell at both the girls. They had been lucky to be with him at all was the gist of it.

Faith tried to spit the uncomfortable gag from her mouth, but it was too tight. She hopped from drawer to drawer, turned around to open them, and, after locating where madame kept her dishcloths, odd bits of string, flashlight batteries, and coffee filters, hit pay dirt—three Sabatier knives in graduated sizes. She gripped the black handle and worked the blade back and forth on the rope binding her wrists. It wasn't exactly making carrot-flower decorations for sushi or deboning a turkey, yet it required the same precision if she wasn't going to open a vein inadvertently. She was almost free when a sentence came through the door that made her stop in amazement.

“And if you think we're breaking into any more apartments with you, you're crazy. I don't care about the clock-ards. They could get jobs, my father says. They are just too lazy and drunk.”

Breaking into apartments! The apartments of their own friends and relatives! But who better? Inside knowledge of not merely who had what but who was where. Have a nice time skiing at Val D'Isere, ma tante, and by the way, why don't you leave that too-heavy and inconvenient gold necklace at home?

And what was she saying about the clochards? Faith would have to think about that one later. At the moment, she didn't plan to stick around to hear anymore. Maybe sweet Dominique and Berthille were only part of the break-in scheme—and maybe not. At the moment, she didn't trust any of them.

Faith cut through the last of the rope, quickly freed her ankles, and untied the gag. Just as she was moving across the room to retrieve her purse from the closet, she heard Christophe's voice.

“I want some water.”

She didn't wait to watch the latch on the door move, but heard it as she raced to the closet, pulling the door shut behind her. Obviously, he was coming to check on her and obviously he wasn't going to find her as he had left her. She stuffed the gag in her mouth again, lay on the floor, quickly wound the ropes approximately back in place, and held tightly to the knife. If it came to that, she'd have the element of surprise. A nick just to get the gun; she hoped it wouldn't have to be anything else. She rolled on her back, so he wouldn't see the ropes had been cut, and started praying. She was in the middle of "Our Father" when she remembered.

Her shoes.

Sitting side by side on the kitchen floor right outside the closet. She quickly switched to "Please, God, don't let him see my shoes" and held her breath. She was so frightened, her heart seemed to stop beating.

“Water! Since when do you drink water? No, my boy, you sit here. We haven't finished with you, have we, Ber-thille? Maybe the thing to do is to leave him here for a nice long vacation. You take his car while I drive mine. How would you like that, you fumier!”

The kitchen door was slammed shut.

Faith was out of the closet and into her shoes instantly. She exchanged the paring knife she'd been using for the largest one in the set, placed it in her bag, and slung the bag around her neck to leave her arms free.

She'd already noted the door to the outside. It was covered with a long curtain of brightly colored plastic strips that were supposed to keep winged pests out of the kitchen when the door was open on hot summer days. She unlocked the door, noiselessly pushed aside the fluttering screen, and stepped into the backyard. There was a small lawn, bordered by a flat court for petanque, then the rest of the property dropped precipitously down to the stream. There was a well-worn almost vertical path to its banks.

However, that was not the way she planned to go. Somehow she must get to the front of the house and check out the car. It was a risk she had to take.

There were two windows on either side of the front door and a smaller one to the left of the fireplace. This was the one she had to worry about, since it overlooked the drive where the car was probably parked. But by crawling along the ground, she might avoid detection. Besides, she was fairly certain no one was looking out the windows at the moment.

Faith crept along the side of the house, careful to stay in the shadow. When she got to the chimney, she dropped down as flat as her body allowed and pulled herself along on her belly. She could see the car ahead of her. A shiny new red VW Golf convertible, number one on the most-stolen list. But Papa would have plenty of insurance.

The earth was still damp and had the rich smell spring brings. The promise of growing things. It was not unpleasant. She was almost to the car. Her knees were starting to get sore. She was really out of shape. Of course, Chris-tophe's rope tricks hadn't helped. She reached up and cracked the driver's side door open. She was breathing more rapidly in anticipation.

No keys.

She was so disappointed, she almost collapsed. She'd been counting on finding them there. It appeared even in the country, Dominique reflexively pocketed her keys. A girl who didn't take chances—chances of this sort. Now there was only one thing to do. Go back and make for the woods on the other side of the stream, away from the road.

Easing the car door shut, Faith crawled back across the yard. She'd almost made it to the corner when the front door banged open.

Nine

Berthille came running out the door, dragging Dominique by the wrist behind her. She'd obviously reached a decision.

“I did not think it was possible to insult us even more! If you wanted to get rid of us, this was the way! You are lower than a snake. Your bed! We wouldn't even stay in the same room with you! Breathe the same air—" She stopped abruptly as she saw Faith's fleeing figure.

“He did have a woman here! I knew it! Who is the bitch?”

Christophe pushed them aside and started to run after Faith, who looked over her shoulder to make sure he hadn't pulled the gun from his pocket. It was an incredible scene. Christophe's face was contorted with rage—and fear. He was rapidly gaining on her. The two girls, both dressed more for a night of jazz at Lyon's Le Hot Club than Sunday in the country, were at his heels, screaming.

Suddenly, Berthille kicked off her high-heeled platform shoes, put on a burst of speed, and threw herself forward, tackling him. He fell heavily to the ground face first and Dominique piled on them both.

“So, you thought you could join your whore and get away from us!" Both girls began to laugh triumphantly, as astride they pummeled his back. Swearing continuously, he was trying to get up, but it was hopeless.

Thank God there were some things you could depend on in life, Faith thought as she reached the top of the path at the rear of the house and started down toward the stream. The wrath of a woman scorned—fortunately complicated in this instance by there being two women.

The path was very steep and she was forced to go slowly. The jeunes filles, weighing in at about ninety pounds each and with arms and legs like elegant pipe cleaners, wouldn't keep Christophe pinned for long. But Faith was afraid to go faster and fall. It wasn't just the baby. Twisting an ankle at this point would be fatal.

She could see the path continued into the woods on the opposite side of the stream, but the logs that had been fashioned into a crude bridge had been pulled apart by the ravages of winter, so only one remained completely in place. Grateful for at least this means to cross, Faith gingerly stepped up onto it. It had been soaked by the melting snow and felt spongy. She hoped it wouldn't give way in the middle. The water wasn't deep. She wouldn't drown, but she'd get very wet and the rocks below the surface looked slippery. It would be hard to get a footing in the swift current.

The commotion up at the house sounded closer and she half expected the three dervishes to come whirling down the hill.

She made it safely to the other side of the brook and reached down to toss the log into the water. Under her weight, it had already started to break and might go completely when the next person trip-trapped across, but she wanted to make certain. Anything she could do to slow Christophe's pursuit.

Running down the path into the dense forest, she was glad for the training she'd done in the last weeks walking up and down the stairs at St. Nizier several times a day, usually as burdened as a pack mule.

The path ended in a large clearing. It was obviously the family's picnic area. A crudely fashioned brick barbecue was surrounded by logs, dragged from the surrounding forest to provide seating. The undergrowth had been cleared and it was a beautiful spot. Beyond the tall trees, Faith could see the pink and gray granite crests of the mountains surrounding the plateau.

She still wasn't that far from the house and the shot she heard propelled her from the clearing. What did he think he was doing? If he was trying to frighten her, it was working, but how were the two girls reacting to Christophe's Jekyll and Hyde transformation? Another shot rang out and she could hear his voice. He wasn't looking for partridges.

She struck out in what she judged to be the same direction as the driveway, which she assumed led to a larger road. She didn't want to get too close to it. Christophe would soon give up tracking her—she hoped—and take to the roads. But she didn't want to get too far away, either, and roam deeper and deeper into the woods. From the isolation he'd stressed, she'd figured she must be in or near the huge Parc des Cevennes, occupied by hikers in the summer; at this time of year, virtually uninhabited.

She was beginning to get winded, but at least the exercise was keeping her warm. She didn't even want to think about nightfall and how cold she would be.

A shaft of sunlight caught the shimmering mica in a large granite rock and Faith gratefully went over to it and sat down to catch her breath. The sounds of pursuit had ceased. She was safe. She and the baby would live to tell the tale. She just wished there were some way she could communicate this to Tom and Ben. Their ordeal was as bad as hers. She felt almost sleepy sitting in the sunshine and wondered if she dared take a quick nap. She'd need all the energy she could get for the walk that was beginning to loom in her imagination as only slightly less arduous than Hannibal's stroll across the Alps. But no, a nap would be foolhardy, however tempting the oblivion from her hunger pangs.

A voice, not close, but not far enough away, either, startled her out of her ridiculous woolgathering. It was Christophe! She could hear her name.

There were more rocks on either side of the slight clearing she'd been sitting in and she climbed on top of the largest group to find another ledge, then more rocks. Her best bet was to get as high and as far away as possible. Her thin shoes didn't offer much traction and she briefly considered going barefoot, but her feet would be cut to ribbons before she'd gone very far. She used her hands to grip the rugged stone and pulled herself up. At the next leveling off, she was rewarded by the sight of a series of openings, more vertical than horizontal, that she could see were marked caves. The Cevennes was famous for these strange and abundant configurations. Spelunking was a major vacation activity for the Leblancs. They'd bemoaned the fact that Tom and Faith would not be in France long enough to join them.

Trying not to think who might still be finishing a long winter's nap inside, Faith eased her way into one and cautiously took a step or two into the darkness. She opened her purse, which had hung awkwardly around her neck, for the matches she always carried after having been locked in someone's preserves closet a few years ago—not by mistake. These were from the Copley Plaza in Boston and she wished she were in some fairy tale and they'd take her there as she struck a light. She lit a match, remained firmly in place, stunned at how large the cave was. Limestone stalactites descended from the ceiling, meeting the stalagmites that spiraled up from the floor. The air was cool and damp. There were no bears or other monsters. Merely one closing in on her. She hid behind a large rock as far away from the opening as she could get, blew out the second match she'd lighted, and waited.

Christophe's voice was more audible. It sounded as though he was right outside one of the caves.

“Madame Fairsheeld, Faith," he called. "Please. You will never survive hi these woods. We will return to Lyon as you suggested and try to straighten things out. I promise. I have been a bit mad and you must let me take care of you now. Think of the baby, madame! Please answer me. I swear you will not be hurt.”

Faith closed her eyes even hi the darkness and strained for the sound of his footsteps entering the cave. She took the knife from her purse and held it ready.

“Faith, believe me. You must. You are in great danger here. You will be lost and there are many wild animals in this area. Please come out and we will go back to the car.”

He sounded so sincere. There was a hint of tears in his voice.

Faith didn't buy it for a minute.

She was ready to spring out at him. He would have to light a match to find her. Maybe he would go into one of the other caves. Maybe he was claustrophobic. Maybe she could kill him before he killed her.

The voice was starting to drift away until at last she heard only an occasional "Fairsheeld." She pulled the cuffs of the sweater down over her hands and tucked her feet beneath her. She wasn't moving. Not for a very long time. "Think of the baby," he'd implored. Well she was. Constantly. And very glad of the company.

It was four o'clock on Sunday afternoon. Michel Ravier and Tom Fairchild sat and looked at each other. Neither man had slept or shaved since Faith's disappearance, and Ravier's office matched their disorderly mien. Half-eaten containers of food and cups of coffee, some still filled and cold, were strewn about the room. Michel was not a smoker, but had made plenteous use of his snuffbox. Black grains decorated the papers scattered across his desk.

Faith had been spotted all over the country—especially after the reward was announced. Michel had just hung up after speaking with the police in Lourdes. A man and a woman had come dashing into the gendarmerie, swearing that the missing Americaine was one of a group of suppliants immersing themselves in the waters at that very moment. The Lourdes police had called Ravier and gone to check it out. Now they were filing their report. It was an American woman, all right—sixty-five and on crutches.

“She's got to be somewhere. All the borders, airports have been under constant surveillance. Her face has been on the front page of every paper in Europe. How can it be that no one has seen her?”

Tom stared bleakly across the desk at the inspector. "You know why, Michel."

“No, my friend. It's not the time for this. Have faith.”

It produced a wan smile. "I hope to.”

Faith was not wearing a watch and swore that she would never be without one from now on. She had no idea how much time had passed since she'd last heard Christophe's voice, but judging from the stiffness of her body, it had been some hours. She had been too frightened to sleep. She crept cautiously to the front of the cave. The sun was lower in the sky. It was late afternoon. She didn't want to be in these woods in the dark. Christophe had threatened wild animals, and while she was sure he was lying, she didn't want to put it to a test. She'd have to try to find the road and follow it until she came to some sort of dwelling or village. Before her ascent, she'd noted that the clearing she'd been in seemed to offer the best passageway and she started to climb back down to it, carefully fitting her feet in the crevices of the rocks. There were plenty of short bushes to hold on to and it wasn't difficult, just scratchy. Vivid images of Christophe lying in wait for her at the bottom filled her with terror, but she couldn't continue to climb. There would be no road.

The forest at one end of the clearing was as she remembered—a dense carpet of pine needles and mosses with little low undergrowth or fallen trees. It was blessedly empty.

As she walked, she looked about at the wide variety of plant life. She'd never been a Girl Scout and her family had tended toward vacations where her father could do research on Thomas Hardy's theological metaphors and her mother could hole up in an English country inn with a stack of Agatha Christies. Faith and her sister, Hope, explored on foot and bicycle but never learned much about flora and fauna—or any survival tips other than the advisability of avoiding British railway food.

Faith knew there were plenty of things to eat in the woods—mushrooms, probably truffles right below her feet; however, the only thing she would have trusted not to poison her at the moment would have been a slice of crusty bread spread with butter, and there didn't seem to be a tree of those.

She plodded on. Her shoes had become part of her foot, adhering like a second skin more tightly with each step. How far could these woods possibly extend? The answer, she knew, could well be miles and miles hi this part of France.

After what she judged to be an hour, she saw a break in the trees and what looked like a road, certainly flat, open land, on the other side. She picked up the pace. Her shoes, so comfortably a part of her body earlier, had now turned traitor and were rubbing blisters on her heels. She took some tissues and tried to make a little cushion, which helped marginally.

Faith stepped through the trees. The land was flat as far as the eye could see. The plateau was covered with low ground covers, and as she stepped forward, she smelled the strong fragance of wild thyme and rosemary. She was dizzy with hunger. There was no road in sight. Nothing in sight at all, except what looked like a pile of stones in the distance. For no other reason than that it was there, she headed for it. As she walked toward it, Faith felt a breeze that she did not doubt would become a strong wind by nightfall. Up above her, birds circled. Hawks. Birds of prey.

“Not me, you vultures," she yelled at them, and felt better.

As she approached the pile of rocks, she was disappointed to discover it was not a shepherd's hut where she might have bedded down for the night, but a dolmen, a burial chamber from megalithic days. Whoever had occupied it thousands of years ago had become one with the plateau, yet even if she could have squeezed into the chamber, Faith was uneasy with the implications. Besides, it was still daylight and she needed to press on.

How fascinated Tom would be with all this, she thought as she picked a few wildflowers, then looked at them slightly dazed, dropped them, and pinched herself. Keep walking. Keep moving. Don't stop. She started to say it out loud. It wasn't a desert, though it felt like one. Everything was so flat. She wasn't thirsty—there had been a stream in the woods—but mirages seemed to beckon. She thought she saw a cross ahead of her. She was hallucinating.

“Don't waste my time!" Michel slammed the receiver down. He'd sent Tom back to the Leblancs ostensibly to check on Benjamin, but in reality to keep him from hearing too much of what was going on. Now Faith had been sighted in the chorus at the Folies Bergere in Paris.

Gina Martignetti had disappeared into thin air. There was no record of anyone of that name and age living in Rome. Giovanni had been grilled but apparently knew nothing at all. The other two prostitutes, Marilyn and Monique, had also gone underground—and Michel hoped not literally. Everybody was missing and he was at a loss to figure out what it all meant. ^ It was a cross. Intricately carved and standing straight up. Cared for. No lichen. Which meant someone came here sometimes. Faith took it as the good sign it was and continued to walk. She was slowing down and she saw her shadow lengthen. It would be dark soon.

Where was Christophe now? she wondered. Far, far away. Having failed to find her, she assumed he would have made for the nearest border. Spain? Poor Solange and Jean-Fransois. A child like that wasn't just sowing wild oats, but bad seeds. She'd feel a whole lot sorrier for them if she hadn't been the victim, or one of them.

The two girls must have heard the shots or maybe they'd left by then. She couldn't figure out where they fit in or what the business with the clochards and the break-ins meant. She certainly had plenty of time to try now. She matched her steps to her mental gymnastics. The kids figure out who's going to be out of town and one of them robs the apartment—or maybe a pair of them. More than that would be too risky. She wondered how many kids were involved. Could there be a giant ring of adolescent cambri-oleurs in Lyon? Christophe, Dominique, Berthille, and the other boy, Benoit, had seemed so tight at the gallery—a little world unto themselves. She wouldn't be surprised if it was just the four of them. So they robbed the apartments and what did they do with the stuff? Hard to explain to Maman where the new diamond and emerald choker had come from.

“I don't care about the clochards," Dominique had said, and something about their being lazy and drunk, that they could get jobs. Was it some sort of nouveau Robin Hood enterprise? Steal from the bourgeoisie and give to the poor? Passing the loot to Christophe's uncle to hand out to his friends? But the first time one of them tried to buy a bottle of wine at Monoprix with a gold medallion of the Sun King, the smiling lady at the register would be more likely to call the police than say "Merci beaucoup. Bonne journee," as she invariably did. So polite—like everyone else in other stores.

And what about Faith's own clochard? The dead one. Bernard. Had he wanted too many goodies? No, the whole thing didn't make any sense at all, she thought wearily. And how did Marie connect with the kids? She wouldn't have been afraid of them. She'd have told their parents.

Faith realized the land was sloping down again and decided to follow it. Nothing except sheep or goats could live on such a plateau. She might not know a great deal about animal husbandry, but this much was clear. She wouldn't mind encountering a sheep or two about now. They'd make cozy companions for the cold night ahead, plus she did have a very serviceable knife and a few matches. There was plenty of rosemary around. She began to salivate. Bo Peep would have done the same thing in Faith's place, she was sure.

But there were no sheep and she started down the slope that soon became a steep incline. She had to walk sideways to keep from tumbling forward on the loose stones. The sun set slowly. It was glorious, streaking vivid pinks and oranges across the sky until they faded to deep violet. Another night alone. Yet, she was still alive, she'd saved her baby's life, and in the morning, she was sure she would come across a road and find help. She had faith, she told herself—both.

Before long it was pitch-dark, but soon the moon rose, a bright golden half, joined by more stars than she had ever realized existed in the firmament. She noticed she was now following a rough track that showed an occasional tire mark in the ruts. Faith didn't think any find could excite her more than the Missoni sweater dress marked 50 percent off that she'd unearthed at Bergdorfs last January, but it paled in comparison with the exquisite pattern of these tires— proof that civilization and help were at hand. This track couldn't be called a road, yet it was bound to lead somewhere.

It did. Straight down again.

Standing at the top, Faith thought she detected the glimmer of a light far off in the distance. Without hesitating, she eagerly followed the trail down toward the speck and was rewarded to find it steadily enlarge as she moved closer. The way leveled off again, but the light did not disappear, and after about a half hour, she stood looking at a large, two-story stone house with a variety of outbuildings. An old Citroen truck was parked outside and she felt like kissing its fenders. The light was coming from the ground-floor front windows and she summoned all the energy she had left to go to the door and lift the heavy iron knocker. It fell with a thunderous bang. She was weeping in relief.

The door opened wide immediately and a dramatic figure filled the frame. It was a very large man in his late forties, dressed like a farmer, but under his beret, his graying hair reached almost to his shoulders, where it mixed with a long beard, creating confusion as to where one left off and the other began. His bushy eyebrows rose slightly in mild surprise and he said in an incongruously soft voice, "Vous etes perdue, mademoiselle?”

Very, very perdue. Tres, tres lost, Faith reflected as she answered, "Out.”

A woman's voice called something out and the man stepped back, telling Faith to come in. It was a farmhouse, not unlike the one she had left but larger, and a different decorator had been employed—or rather, it was a matter of self-employment and frozen in tune at some point during the late sixties. Batik wall hangings, pots of geraniums swinging in macrame planters, and furniture that had been scrounged and/or made from scratch. She'd entered a time warp—a sensation heightened by the immediate appearance of the lady of the house, who wore her salt and pepper hair parted in the middle and down to her waist. She was clothed in multiple layers constructed, surely by her own hands, from bright, well-worn India-print cottons. Sandals with several pairs of wool socks completed the look—a look that identified the individual as belonging not so much to a particular nation as to the whole world—in 1968.

“Pauvre petite!" the apparition exclaimed, and quickly pushed a chair stacked with pillows toward Faith. Faith let herself sink gratefully into their softness. She'd made it. She was safe.

The man and woman began to speak at once, quickly. It was impossible.

“Parlez-vous anglais?" Faith asked. She was so tired and speaking French took so much concentration.

“You are English!" The man was thunderstruck. There might be some logical reason for a Frenchwoman to be wandering around what Faith would soon learn were the Gausses Mejean in the dark, but English? To be sure, they could be eccentric ...

“No, I am an American and I hope you will be able to help me."

“American! Sacrebleu!" Faith hoped he would not go into orgies over Route 66 or the Large Apple, or, judging from the posters of Che, Lennon, Roman Polanski's A Knife in the Water and the like, American foreign policy for the last twenty-five years.

There were wonderful smells coming from the kitchen and she wanted to eat, but first she had to call Tom. Maybe call Tom while she was eating. She had to have something, anything, even a crust of yesterday's baguette.

“American," he repeated in amazement. "But what are you doing here? Have you been with some kind of hiking group? At this time of year, it is not advisable, you know.”

How to explain it.

“My name is Faith Fairchild and my husband, child, and I are visiting in Lyon. . . ."

“Lyon! But that is two hundred kilometers away at least!"

“Yes, I know. Do you think perhaps I could have something to eat and some water while I explain? I'd also like to make a phone call. Then, if you could take me to the nearest police station, I'm sure they will arrange for me to get back to my husband.”

Faith didn't think she had made a joke, but her queries seemed to cause both her hosts great amusement.

“Madame, the food is no problem, but you understand you are not in the centre ville of Lyon here. We have no phone, no electricity at all, and the nearest police station is in Meyrueis—fourteen kilometers away," explained the woman.

“We would be happy to take you there," her husband continued, "but our fine old truck has at last refused all our attempts to start it and at the moment we are dependent on others to get our things to market. Tomorrow a friend will be here early to take us to Meyrueis and you can come, too.”

Tomorrow! As pleasant as these people seemed—Faith was already planning on sending them an extremely nice bread-and-butter gift, shoes perhaps, or a new truck, which it was a shame someone hadn't thought of earlier—the idea of another night away from Tom and Ben when they still didn't know she was safe was too much. She put her head in her hands and began to sob.

Mama and Papa Bear, as Faith had begun to regard them, were galvanized into action. He thrust a large glass of what smelled like pure alcohol into her hand, while his wife set a steaming bowl of thick vegetable soup on a low table next to Faith's chair. Faith sniffed mightily and wiped her eyes on the rough sleeve of the sweater she was wearing. Hard to know how to go about returning it, she thought disconnectedly as she set the glass down and grabbed the soup.

“Thank you. Merci, you are so kind. It's just that no one knows where I am. I was kidnapped yesterday morning and only succeeded in escaping this morning."

“Kidnapped! Terrorists! Here in the Cevennes!"

“No, no, it was a neighbor in Lyon. You see he killed a clochard and I found the body, then he hid the body again and had his uncle pretend to be the clochard—" Faith stopped. Both their faces had "escaped madwoman" written in Bodoni bold type straight across their granny glasses. She hastily slurped down the rest of the soup. It was delicious.

“I am not crazy, although I admit the story sounds bizarre. I should start from the beginning and tell you the whole thing."

“But of course, madame. Let us sit in the kitchen. We were about to have our meal. If you sip some of this"—he indicated the glass Faith had set aside—"you will feel warm and perhaps calmer. It is my own eau de vie. I make it from the plums."

“I'm sure it's wonderful, but I am pregnant and avoiding alcohol.”

This was the last straw, as far as madame was concerned. Lost, kidnapped, pregnant. She virtually carried Faith out to the kitchen, tenderly installed her in a chair near the hot cast-iron stove, and began to assemble the meal rapidly.

When it was ready, Faith had the distinct impression it was more than what had originally been planned.

“I hope you like French food. Ours is very simple. We make everything here. It is not Paul Bocuse, but Clotilde," monsieur said proudly, with a sweeping gesture. Faith was amused that the chefs fame had spread to this tiny corner of the world, yet why not when his well-fed, smiling face appeared in restaurants and on products from Tokyo to Disney World.

Clotilde was not Bocuse, but she was right up there. Dish after dish appeared on the round kitchen table: a fluffy omelet oozing with sauteed mushrooms, crisp pan-fried new potatoes, and thick slices of tripoux, which Faith recognized as a regional speciality—round sacks of tripe stuffed with an assortment of the chopped tripe, vegetables, and aromatic herbs. It was all sublime. This was followed by salad, picked moments ago, and fresh goat cheese made by madame herself, fromage fermiere. Throughout the meal, Faith devoured slice after slice of bread, a dense, chewy combination of white and whole wheat, pain de campagne, made in the oven sending out such comforting waves of warmth. She was just beginning to feel well and truly fed for the first time in days when her hostess produced a jar of apricots, spooning the succulent-looking fruit into large bowls and liberally dousing them with cream. The coffee appeared and Faith started her tale.

By the time she had reached her escape from the kitchen closet, Clotilde and Frederic, first names having been urged at the same time as seconds of the omelet, were in tears—hers of sorrow and his of anger.

Frederic exploded. He jumped out of his chair and pounded his fist on the table. "If only I could get my hands on this boy! Boy! He does not deserve to be called anything human. And what is even worse is that he is not alone. It is the majority of youth today. They have no morals to speak of, live solely for the sensation of the moment. They have nothing to fight for. They do not care. It is total anomie. They cannot make love without thinking of SIDA. They believe a nuclear war will occur. And look at us with all our potential Chernobyls and Three Mile Islands waiting to happen. We are in the last stages of the degeneracy of the capitalist state. They are the offspring of our failure.”

Clotilde took up the chant. "They drift with nothing to do, nothing to believe in. At least we had a cause to cling to and it kept us alive. We have tried to live the rest of our life according to those ideals. That was why we came here to the Cevennes. We believe this is the real France, rural areas as yet unspoiled. We could be self-sufficient and live simply. It was very hard at first and many have left, but here, away from everything, we could bring up our children without the omnipresence of the world military-industrial complex and the corruption of a materialistic society.”

Faith looked around. She didn't see evidence of any children. Perhaps there hadn't been any little pattering feet.

“You did not have children?" she asked.

“But of course we have children. Two—to replace ourselves. More would have been selfish. They are called Honore and Verite. Actually, Verite is legally called Valerie, because Verite is not on the list."

“List?"

“Yes, in France you must name your child an accepted French name. We wanted to name her 'truth,' but had to register her as Valerie. We have always called her Verite and I am happy to say she prefers it herself.”

So, no little Moonflowers, Ringos, or Vladimir Ilyiches as a legacy of the times of turmoil in France. Faith often wondered how many of these had changed to Susan, William, or other common monikers upon entering junior high, that great leveler where blending in takes precedence over such mundane things as individual beliefs.

“Where are your children now?" Faith wondered aloud. Surely it was too early for them to be upstairs tucked in their wee trundle beds. Although these children would be older.

“Our daughter is studying to be a lawyer and is in Marseille. She is hoping to change the system from within. We have some interesting discussions about it. And our son works in a garage in Narbonne.”

This didn't sound very revolutionary—within or without—or an occupation that would give rise to interesting conversations, but Faith refrained from comment.

Honore's mother explained, "We believe each child must be what he or she wants to be. We only hope we have taught them to be honest and hard-working, and perhaps a bit of our philosophy of brotherhood, sisterhood, and peace. Honore was never a student and he didn't want to stay on the farm. He loves to work with engines, so this was a good job for him. And he comes home often to help us." Too bad he hadn't made a trip home recently to tinker with Old Faithful out in front of the house, Faith thought ruefully.

They had gotten far afield of Christophe, yet Faith didn't mind. She was pleasantly full and getting sleepy.

Clotilde and Frederic's life intrigued her. Did not beckon— not at all—but definitely intrigued.

“Don't you get lonely here, and how did your children get to school?"

“We are not so remote as you may imagine. We go to the market each week to sell what we grow and make. There we see our friends and also we all help each other when it is time to shear the sheep or repair a barn. It seems we are always going to parties, too. True, there are few of us here, but we know each other well. In the summer, we take guests and we've met many friends that way. One couple from England comes every year for two weeks in August to walk across the causses, the plateaus, and go into the ovens, caves—Aven Armand, a wonderful one, is not too far. It is a shame you cannot stay longer."

“She doesn't want to sightsee, Frederic! She only wants to get back to her husband and small boy.”

Frederic was a bit chagrined.

“I hope to come back with them someday and then we will see all these places," Faith hastened to assure him. He seemed so proud of the region. "Did you grow up here?”

This time, they did laugh out loud.

“Frederic grew up in the eighth arrondissement in Paris and his only hikes were in the Pare Monceau. I fared a little better. I grew up in a suburb of Paris, but my grandparents had a house in Brittany and the best part of my childhood was going there.

“You asked about our children. We taught them here. You can do this by mail. The government sent the lessons and we followed them with some revisions and additions of our own." Faith could well imagine. "Then when they were old enough for lycee, they went to live with Frederic's parents. It was quite a different life, but it did not spoil them and they were happy to come back here for all the va-cances." Her pride was evident.

Faith knew the area around the Pare Monceau well— the beautiful homes, nurses keeping a close eye on their privileged charges in the carefully manicured park with the ubiquitous KEEP OFF THE GRASS signs. If Frederic appeared there in his present state, he'd be told to move on.

The contrast was enormous and her head was aching with all that had happened that day. Fatigue was causing things to blur. This much was clear: She had escaped, made her way across the rugged Cevennes landscape to the door of the local chapter of the Scott and Helen Nearing fan club, and now she wanted to find a bed, collapse, wake up, and go home.

She must have murmured the request out loud, for in a few minutes, she was in Baby Bear's bed, burrowing down under an avalanche of quilts and wrapped in a thick flannel nightgown that might have belonged to Clotilde's grandmother. First, there had been the unavoidable trip to the outhouse, fortunately attached to the main house by a small covered porch and complete with all the necessaries. It was clean and free of the usual heavy lime odor. She'd been amused to notice the stack of reading material—old copies of Liberation and Rolling Stone magazine.

The quilts were so warm. Faith was so warm. And so to sleep.

·*J0 Clotilde roused Faith the next morning. It was still dark and the air was cool, but Faith jumped from the bed with alacrity and threw on her clothes. Tom! Ben! In a few hours, they would be together. The baby stirred. It was as if he or she understood. The movement was so slight, like the nicker of a feather, Faith had almost missed it. She was thrilled.

Clotilde had left the oil lamp and Faith pulled the covers back over the bed before leaving the room. While tucking her in the night before, Clotilde had told Faith the building had originally housed silkworms. All day long, women would sit and unwind silk from the softened cocoons spun by worms, satiated by the leaves of the abundant mulberry trees that grew on the terraces. Years after all this had come to an end, the young Parisians had been able to buy the decrepit structure and surrounding acres for very little, slowly converting it into a home. The last thing Faith had remembered before falling asleep in her own cocoon was complimenting Clotilde on her, and her husband's, excellent English. Clotilde had thanked her. "We were both studying languages at the university before May of '68 and have enjoyed teaching several to our children." Then she added mischievously, "But, Faith, we are what we French call the 'children of '68.' Frederic and I are not married. There is no need and it goes against all we believe.”

Faith wasn't surprised. Pure was pure. Now in the dim new day, she hastened down to her new friends and hoped their neighbor with the truck wouldn't forget to pick them up.

He was already there, the twin of Faith's lettuce man at le marche St. Antoine. Genial, red-faced, a dusty old beret pulled down over his ears, but not sufficient to hide the bristling tufts of hair shooting out from them. It was hard to believe that some manufacturer was turning out the standard blue cotton overalls large enough for his girth. He held a cigarette in his nicotine-stained fingers and was talking nonstop as Clotilde and Frederic scurried about the kitchen packing their cheeses for market. It was all Faith could do to stop herself from throwing her arms around him and kissing his unshaven cheek.

It was he who kissed hers, striding over to her with outstretched arms, "Madame, madame. Soon your ordeal will be over! We will go directly to the gendarmerie in Mey-rueis." He had obviously been filled in.

“Merci, monsieur," Faith replied wholeheartedly, and then offered to help with the packing.

“No, no, cherie. Eat something quickly and we will soon be going. It is almost dawn." Clotilde set a steaming bowl of cafe au lait on the table next to a loaf of bread, a jar of what looked like strawberry preserves, and a dish of butter. Faith set to her task eagerly, and by the tune she had finished eating, they were ready to go. Besides the cheese they made from their herd of goats, Clotilde and Frederic also sold honey from their bees, a variety of preserves, batik lamp shades, and sundry articles forged from iron—hooks, fireplace tools, drawer pulls.

Clotilde gave Faith a heavy loden-green wool cape, probably of local origin, considering the style and texture. It seemed to weigh about ten pounds and Faith found it a little difficult to navigate at first, but when she stepped out the front door into the cold, she was glad for every ounce. Monsieur Radis—Felix, he insisted—was already in the driver's seat, pumping the gas pedal, producing reassuring automotive noises. His truck was the same pedigree as the one that sat forlornly to the side of the house. Faith hoped this one would make it to Meyrueis.

Felix motioned her into the cab. Clotilde and Frederic jumped into the back and happily settled into each other's arms amidst the crates. Faith noted their devotion but soon had cause to wonder how much was still-crazy-about-each-other-after-all-these-years and how much was common sense as the truck bounced its way over the rough track. She was grasping a strap that hung from the ceiling for dear life while Felix kept up a running commentary, presumably on the landscape they were passing and the history of the region, in such rapid French that Faith soon abandoned any pretense of comprehension, simply nodding and smiling at what she hoped were appropriate moments. She didn't catch anything about the death of a family member or the silkworm blight, so her responses seemed right so far. Felix appeared to regard personal hygiene with considerably less interest than his brother and sister of '68, if he was one of their group and not indigenous. Faith suspected these particular overalls had had many close encounters with his livestock, and between trying to stay upwind of him and trying to hold on, the time was passing rapidly.

Soon they were on an actual road, careening down the mountain, and as Faith caught glimpses of the precipitous drop and what she presumed was a river—a thin blue-green ribbon—below, she began to realize her ordeal was not yet over. Felix, either determined to get her to the police station as quickly as possible or because it was his habitual driving style—and Faith suspected the latter—was proceeding at breakneck speed in apparent disregard for any vehicle foolish enough to be coming around the narrow bend from the opposite direction. To his credit, he did lean on the horn from time to time with startling results. There was also his disconcerting habit of driving with one hand while he ges- tured with the other. After several repetitions, Faith understood that they were at the top of the Gorges du Tarn, the Tarn being the river, and would soon plummet into Mey-rueis.

The truck was descending almost vertically, and just when Faith was about to cross the line from fear to abject terror, she caught sight of a village nestled at the bottom of two crevices. "Meyrueis," Felix announced with a flourish. The whole town was decked with red, white, and blue bunting gathered up with bunches of red silk poppies, cornflowers, and daisies. The tricolor flew from every building and there was an air of great festivity. How did they know? Faith wondered, then remembered that it was Victoire 1945, the celebration of the end of WWII and the reason Tom was able to take the long weekend. Well, it had been a long weekend.

Felix brought the truck to a screeching halt outside the gendarmerie. The oddly assorted party disembarked and f prepared to go inside. Faith, her legs stiff after having spent I most of the trip pressing an imaginary brake pedal to the | floor, flung the woolen cloak about her and led the way. She walked up to the counter, but before she could speak, the man on duty gasped, "Mon Dieu!" and raced , around to the front.

“Madame Fairsheeld!" He kissed her ecstatically. "France is looking for you!"

Ten

Faith Sibley Fairchild's eyes flew open in complete panic. Where the hell was she? The sight of the huge clock face of the Eglise St. Nizier filling the bedroom window slowed her heart rate and she took several deep breaths. She was home, or what passed for home these days. She was back in Lyon and the small boy curled up next to her sound asleep, snoring slightly and radiating heat, was her own Benjamin. Her Benjamin—who had not left her side since the whole family had rushed madly toward one another in Chief Inspector Ravier's office a few hours ago.

As she lay on the big double bed, so quaintly called the lit matrimonial even for those non-espoused, she felt a deep sense of peace. It was over. It wasn't that the horror of the events had left her. This had grown even more intense now when she thought of all the might-have-beens. The underlying peace came from knowing she was safe for sure.

The trip from Meyrueis to Lyon had seemed to take almost as long as her escape from Christophe. First, she'd told the story to the local gendarmes, who were completely over the moon—out of all the gendarmeries in France, the missing Americaine had walked into theirs—then she told it again to Michel Ravier once they succeeded in reaching him by phone. They didn't ask grandmother's shoe size, but they had wanted every detail of the last two days.

Frederic and Clotilde were able to help narrow the search for the farmhouse where she'd been kept captive by their intimate knowledge of the surrounding terrain, especially after Faith described the series of caves. No one expected that Christophe would be at the house, but the police were anxious to check it out. The Lyon police were picking up the two girls and Benoit, as well as the senior d'Amberts, for questioning. Descriptions of Christophe and his uncle were being circulated all over France and surrounding countries, especially at the borders. Faith remembered to tell them about the gun, and he was being described as dangerous—an understatement, Frederic avowed.

When the Meyrueis police had finally produced a car and driver to take her back to Lyon, Faith was numb with exhaustion and saddened to leave the two flower children going to seed, whom she now numbered among her closest friends. It was even hard to leave Felix. When she got into the police car, Clotilde and Frederic had pressed not only the heavy cloak, already too warm in the morning sun, upon her but rounds of goat cheese, a lamp shade, and several iron implements of varying natures. Felix gave her a sack filled with radishes and lettuce.

Her driver had graduated from the same auto-training school as Felix and for a good part of the trip the words deja vu took on new and powerful meaning. Yet, even at many kilometers over the speed limit and with the siren blaring all the way, it had taken three hours to reach Lyon. As they entered the city on the A7, the Autoroute du Soleil, the sun had indeed been shining and Faith clutched the young gendarme's arm in joy when she caught sight of the first bridge, the Pont Pasteur, then the train station and other familiar landmarks. The only thing that would have made her happier at that moment would have been a glimpse of the green in secure little Aleford, Massachusetts.

Michel Ravier had not wanted to keep her long, and after listening again to her story, had told her to get some rest and they'd get together later in the day. He was right. She was ready to drop, and when they'd emerged into the street, the throngs of reporters and photographers had overwhelmed her. Paul Leblanc offered a brief statement to the effect that Madame Fairchild was fine and the police were seeking her abductors. He referred them to Ravier and, like a devoted sheepdog, parted the crowd and shepherded them into the car, where Ghislaine was waiting at the wheel.

“You'll have to have some sort of press conference or they'll never leave you alone," she advised. Faith and Tom had agreed. But not until tomorrow. Paul had said he would take care of it.

“If I could have kept Dominique's name out of it, I would have," Faith started to say. Ghislaine interrupted her. "Absolutely not. It's obvious that she is deeply troubled and if not for you, who knows where she might have ended up." She gestured toward the street at two young women in high black boots, lace body stockings, and not much else. It reminded Faith of Marie. Michel told her a team had gone to the hotel de ville after he had spoken with her and it did appear that Marie, or someone, had been dragged along the tunnel leading to the river. They planned to exhume the body to see if the evidence matched. Poor Marie, Faith had thought, she couldn't lie in peace even in death.

When they'd gotten back to the apartment, all Faith had wanted to do was sleep, and did almost immediately. Now, fully awake, she wondered where Tom was. She didn't hear any sounds of activity in the apartment. Like Benjamin, her husband had firmly attached himself to her with limpetlike devotion. All three had been napping together.

She got up cautiously so as not to disturb Ben. He'd been told she had been away visiting friends; and had greeted her with wails of "Why didn't you take me, Mom-mee? Ben would be good!" It almost broke her heart. The Leblancs had entertained him nonstop, Tom had told her— taking the little boy to the zoo at Pare de la Tete d'Or, the Roman ruins in Old Lyon, and to every playground in the area. Still, Ben had been aware of the tension around him and Faith was sure he hadn't been sleeping well, even with Pierre and the Leblanc's aging Irish setter, Lola, as comforting bedmates. She hoped Ben would make up for it now. When he awoke, she planned to be right before his eyes. But where was Tom?

She walked into the kitchen and found a note propped up against the sugar bowl.

Sweetheart, I know you're going to be hungry when you wake up, so I went out for a few provisions. Back soon. Before you're awake, I hope. Love you, Love you, Love—I could go on forever, Tom He was a darling, Faith smiled to herself. And she was starving. Breakfast had been an awfully long time ago and she'd politely refused the Meyrueis gendarme's offer to stop on the highway for le sandweech. She'd wanted to get back.

The refrigerator was vintage Mother Hubbard. Since they'd planned to be away, Faith had emptied it. All that remained was ajar of Amora bearnaise sauce, surprisingly good in a junk food kind of way; some juice; and a few bedraggled scallions. She poured herself a glass of juice and stood at the window. The people across the way had filled their window box with bright pink begonias during her absence. It was odd to think of life going on so normally while hers was being turned upside down. Hers and the d'Amberts.

She hadn't seen Solange and Jean-Fran§ois but knew from Michael that they were in another part of the commissariat. What would she say to them? Or they to her? We're sorry our son planned to kill you? And from what Michel had said, it was not clear what role they, or perhaps only Jean-Francois, might have played. One of the large question marks that remained was what had happened to the stolen goods.

The girls and Benoit had told the police that they were stealing for the good of society. The idea had been Chris-tophe's—of course. The people they knew had too many things. They did not need the jewelry, and other items they owned and it would help to feed, clothe, and house those who had nothing. The plan was always the same. The four would meet to draw straws to see whose turn it was to carry out the robbery, then afterward would place the stolen goods at the bottom of a shopping bag filled with old clothes and drop the bag in a trash can at a particular rendezvous. The place was the only thing that changed, depending on where the targeted apartment was. Then they were to watch from a distance to make sure a clochard picked up the bag. They presumed the dochard then took the bag to some shelter or agency. When pressed for more details, all three had exhibited a similar lack of interest. Christophe knew. He'd arranged it. They trusted him. They were still protecting him, and it was not until Ravier told Berthille and Dominique that it had been Faith at the farmhouse, kidnapped by their friend, that they had broken down and cried. They had both been in love with him and he had treated them miserably. He was horrible. They hoped he would spend the rest of his life in prison. None of them had admitted to knowing his uncle or the clochard Bernard, except as mentioned by Christophe in passing as a character in his neighborhood.

It had been exhausting, Michel had told Tom and Faith. He'd far rather question adults, even hardened criminals. Less posing, fewer hormones. In the end, he was fairly certain all three had known nothing of the murder or kidnapping. And as for the robberies, he was pretty sure they deliberately chose not to think about what happened to the loot. So long as they told themselves they were performing a noble deed, they didn't have to admit to the fact that they were doing it for the thrill of it, and in Dominique's case, he suspected, to get back at her very proper parents.

Christophe. It all came back to this one young man, Faith thought as she finished the juice, which unfortunately had served to make her even hungrier. She went back into the hallway to go check on Ben. Her hand gently rubbed her abdomen — all serene there.

There was some mail from Saturday piled on the table and mirabile dictu — a ballotin of chocolates from Voisin. She opened the box and they proved to be those yummy Coussins de Lyon, little pillows of thin, crisp sugar, colored pale green, coating a stuffing of dark rich chocolate. She looked inside for a note to find out who they were from. It wasn't likely that Tom would have had the time or inclination to buy bonbons these last two days. She lifted up the layers of candies and there was a note at the bottom. Not a card from the shop but a piece of paper with jagged edges that appeared to have been hastily torn from a pad. It didn't do much to solve the mystery. All it said was:

It made no sense at all. Faith immediately put the box down. No matter how strong her hunger pangs, eating these did not seem to be a wise move. Attention, "watch out"— she'd seen it on signs. Said it to Benjamin. Watch out for hearts? C. could be Christophe. Christophe and a heart, one of his girlfriends? One of the girls—or some other girl? And M. Another M had warned Faith and she hadn't understood how deadly the game was. The other two M's undoubtedly had. The candies had to be from Marilyn or Monique, placed in the Fairchild's mailbox before they, too, disappeared.

She had to tell Michel right away, so she walked into the living room to the telephone. As she picked up the receiver, the doorbell rang. It must be Tom, too burdened by comestibles to fiddle with the keys.

She darted to the door, opened it quickly, and said, "Darling, I have to call—" Then she stopped short. It wasn't Tom. It was a neighbor. It was Valentina Joliet Dressed to go out in high-heeled pumps and a large red felt hat.

“Faith, Faith, we have been sick with worry about you! Thank God you are safe. And Christophe, who would have thought it? Such a good family. Solange is a wreck.”

^^ . Valentina. Christophe and Valentina. Hearts and flowers. Guns and hot bijoux. Attention a Valentina. Watch out for Valentina.

She'd solved the puzzle.

Hard to believe, but true. Christophe and Valentina, not your average class couple. She had assumed that with his euthanasia attitude toward anyone over thirty, Valentina would be out of the picture, yet here she was, where she'd always been, right in the foreground. A simple matter of focus.

And she knew immediately. Her glance leveled and there was no speculation in her eyes. "I came to take you upstairs for something to eat, cherie. I met Tom as he was leaving and he said there was nothing in the apartment." ]

“Thank you, but he'll be back soon and I'm not really very hungry." Especially for Eggs Arsenic or whatever else Valentina had in mind.

“I'm so sorry. It would have been much easier and you see I am in a bit of a hurry to leave. A long-overdue visit home.”

Italy. Of course. And precocious little Christophe panting in anticipation, waiting on the doorstep. With tun-tun, tonton, or whomever, although he was probably still running.

Italy. Where Valentina so conveniently shipped artwork in great big packing cases.

Again Faith demurred. "I'm very tired, as you can imagine." As you know would be more accurate. "Perhaps I will see you when you get back.”

But Valentina had come prepared for all eventualities. She reached in the pocket of her very smart navy blazer, pulled out a serviceable little revolver, a twin of Chris-tophe's and said, "I think not.”

It couldn't be happening again. Tom would come through the door at any moment.

“Valentina, you must be insane. You can't get away with this." They were lines from a thousand B movies, but they suited the moment.

“Au contraire, Faith, I will. Please open the door and walk ahead of me. It would be so traumatic for your small son to find his Maman dead in the hallway.”

Faith opened the door and stepped outside. The sunlight was struggling to filter through the dusty windows. Someone would have to call the regie to have them washed.

“Now start walking down the stairs," Valentina commanded.

As Faith took the first step, it became clear what Madame Joliet had in mind. No bullets, no poison. Just an unfortunate accident. She grabbed Faith and deftly flung her up and almost over the railing. She'd have been successful if she hadn't teetered off balance in her high heels.

“No!" Faith screamed as she threw her body back away from the five-flight fall. She wrapped her leg around one of the upright iron rods that supported the banister and held tightly to another with both hands.

Valentina continued to push, using all her considerable strength. Faith took one hand away from the railing and slashed at her assailant's face with her nails. Blood streamed from the cuts, and while she tried to wipe her eye, Valentina dropped the gun, which fell to the vestibule below. Faith heard it strike the stone floor, and she clung more desperately. She'd be all right if only the whole banister didn't give way and send her over the edge. She wouldn't hear the sound of that landing. And there was an occasional missing rod, she'd noted in her travels with Ben, keeping him always away toward the wall. But she couldn't choose another place now and she willed herself to believe it was her own fears making the iron in her grip feel looser.

Valentina was trying for a firm grasp of Faith's short hair to turn her head around to get at her face. She brought her foot up, kicking at Faith's leg, which was locked into the railing. The pain was tremendous.

“Help!" Faith screamed again. "Au secours! Au se-cours.¹" There had to somebody in the building. But it was the holiday. The offices were empty and everyone else was out enjoying the sun.

If she let go right now, they would both go tumbling down the stairs. Valentina was both taller and heavier than Faith was, and if this happened, she'd most likely knock Faith out, then throw her over. Faith tightened her grip and tried to kick back with her free leg. It was impossible. The two women grappled in silence punctuated by oaths from Valentina and Faith's own breathing, which was fast and labored. She'd kept Valentina away from the baby so far.

She mustn't let her get an opportunity to kick her there. She bent over and screamed again.

She heard a sound from above. It was a door opening. Someone came to the railing and called down, "Mon Dieu! What is happening! Mesdames!" Valentina stopped her attack for a moment, surprised at the voice from above. She arched her head over the side to see who it was. Faith dredged up every ounce of strength in her body, reached for Valentina's ankles, and tipped her over.

It seemed to take a long time for the body to reach the bottom. The woman's screams rattled the windows as she passed each floor, making vain attempts to halt her progress by reaching for the iron bars. Her shoes fell off and her skirt ballooned up around her face. The poubelle lid was closed and she hit it dead center.

Faith sat down on the stair. Someone was next to her taking her hand and stroking her head. It was Madame Vincent. Faith started to try to explain. "Hush, ma petite. She was not a good woman.”

Sirens were wailing outside, but in the building, all was quiet. They stood up and peered over the railing down the dizzying stairwell at the limp figure clad in navy and white with the chic splash of red resting on top of the trash bin. The hat, the chapeau rouge, had never budged. It must have been pinned on.

Eleven

French country weddings, Faith Fairchild decided, were either an endurance test or a question of habit. They'd set off for Beaujolais early Saturday morning for Act One—the civil ceremony at the mairie in the groom's small village, where the couple was officially wed in the eyes of the state and the mayor of the village. Then they adjourned to a church where the bride's mother and grandmother had been married, in the neighboring village of Matour, for the eyes of God. Coming down the aisle of the ancient Romanesque stone church on her father's arm to kneel at the side of her betrothed, Adele, the Veaux's niece, looked as radiant as she was supposed to in a simple long ivory satin sheath, carrying one perfect calla lily and replacing the traditional veil with a short wisp of tulle that floated about her short dark curls. The groom, who worked for France Gas and Electric, seemed ill accustomed to his wedding finery and tugged at his cuffs nervously as if to make the suit fit better. His name was Jean-Jacques and he smiled so continuously that Faith wondered whether his jaw muscles would ever function normally again. The happy couple left the church in a hail of rice, accompanied by their gargons et demoiselles d'honneur, a dozen or so angelic-looking small children in bright, flowered frocks and long white Bermudas, which as the day advanced took on new and different hues. Wide-eyed and preternaturally solemn during the mass, the children exploded out of the church laughing, calling to the newlyweds, and scooping up the rice from the steps to hurl at each other. Quickly collected by mothers and fathers mindful of village opinion, they were hustled into cars to be tidied and transported to Act Three, the brioche and champagne reception for the entire village at the family farm.

The farm appeared as old as the church. Delphine took Faith and Benjamin into the house to use the salle de bain and explained that very little had been changed since Clement's great-grandfather had settled on the land. Portraits of sober-looking individuals peered down on her in the stiff company parlor where Faith had been placed to wait her turn for the amenities later Veaux had fortunately deemed essential. Meanwhile, out of sight of the ancestors, the village was toasting the bride and groom in mounting merriment, filling the courtyard that separated the house from the immense stone barn and other farm buildings.

Clement took Paul Leblanc away to the orchards as soon as decency allowed. He was eager to get Paul's advice about his experiments with hybrid peaches. The two men strolled companionably across the fields as if they had been friends from childhood. The Fairchilds and Ghislaine were left to make conversation with the locals. Tom was soon caught up in a discussion with one of Clement's brothers, who explained there had been six boys in the family. One stayed to farm, one became a priest, and the others split fifty-fifty—two going north to Paris to learn to be bakers and two going south to Lyon to train as butchers and charcutiers, sausage makers, which was the pattern for villages like this. Coming together for weddings, baptisms, even funerals was more than an old custom. It was a way to maintain their ties.

Faith wasn't sorry they'd brought Benjamin. He could have stayed with the Leblanc children and Paul's sister Michele, but as she watched her son, in his own long Bermudas, blue seersucker ones, and a white polo shirt, climbing the gnarled old apple trees near the wisteria-draped house with the garcons d'honneur, she knew he was having an experience she, if not he, would remember all his life. Besides, she wanted him near and she had a strong feeling he felt the same.

She had taken him to school most of the week, not wanting him to miss the fun of playing with Leonard and the others, but had stayed, leaving only to go to the market. In the end, sitting at a low table at the garderie and helping to play a variety jouets educatifs—educational games like pasting beans in designs and of course Legos—turned out to be just what she needed to regain her own equilibrium. Looking at this gathering of well-wishers, happily sipping grape juice and eating the best brioche she'd ever tasted in her life, Faith resolutely turned her thoughts away from where she'd been a week ago. And it might have remained that way, except for the car just now pulling to a halt at the gates, scattering gravel and discharging none other than Chief Inspector Ravier.

Michel Ravier had cursed himself repeatedly all week for not having sent the guard to the Fairchild's apartment sooner. They knew Christophe had not been acting alone and it should have been obvious that another attempt would be made to keep Madame Fairchild from talking. Michel knew she didn't know who else was involved, but whoever they were did not. Now, it might or might not be over. Christophe had vanished, presumably to Italy. Valen-tina Joliet had miraculously survived her fall—much to Faith's relief, who, while not relishing the idea of joining the clochard in the poubelle coffin herself, did not want to be the cause of another human being's death, however justifiable. Also, knowing a bit about the French legal system, she realized she had been spared an endless amount of questions and paperwork that would have made grandmother's sister's husband's place of birth seem a mere bagatelle.

Valentina would be hospitalized for a long, long time and would never walk again, but after some days, she was able to talk. She just wouldn't. Meanwhile, Ravier had had Faith discreetly followed all week, deciding to take on today's duty himself. He loved country weddings and it wasn't often he had the chance to attend one, particularly since becoming a police officer. Besides, the Fairchilds were leaving on Monday and it would be his last chance to see Faith—and Tom—until the trial.

“Inspector Ravier, how nice to see you," Faith said in genuine delight, thinking what a stupid word nice was. "Friend of the bride or groom or both?"

“Neither, but they were gracious enough to allow me to come.”

In fact, Adele Picard nee Veaux was looking upon her wedding as one of the events of the decade. The press had gotten wind of the missing Americaine's attendance and reporters and photographers had surrounded them at the mairie and the church before the bride's father had ordered them off. All week, Faith had been having her fifteen minutes of fame over and over and now Adele was having hers. It would be something to tell her grandchildren. When Chief Inspector Ravier asked to come to keep an eye on Madame Fairchild, they had not only agreed, they had been honored. Then there were those big boxes from Cambet in Lyon that arrived, expensive crystal and china underneath the shredded tissue. No, Adele was not unhappy at all. All this and Jean-Jacques, too.

Ravier had arrived just as Act Four was about to commence. The wedding guests bid adieu to those from the village and jumped in their cars to report to a scenic spot for the photo. The cars pulled up to an open field, grass neatly mown, surrounded by Lombardy poplars. A small Renault truck roared to a stop and in the twinkling of an eye, two young men had pulled stacks of risers out of the rear and assembled them at the far end of the field. Then rapidly, they began to assemble the group for the wedding souvenir. It was like her eighth-grade class picture, Faith recalled, thankful that her braces were off. The children flanked the newlyweds in front on the first level, Ben included, and all the rest stood on the risers behind them. The photographer took a long look at the group and made a few adjustments. You there, you there. Madame, remove your hat. Then click, click, click and he was hurrying them off. They'd packed the gear and were gone in a cloud of dust before the wedding party had reached their cars for, at long last, the reception.

The salle des fetes was indeed a room for parties, actually a hall with several rooms. There was a dance floor with a small stage overlooked by a large room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. This room was filled with long tables covered with white paper punctuated by small colorful bouquets of flowers at regular intervals, besides the requisite glassware, cutlery, and napkins. The kitchen was behind some doors on the left and the smells made Faith faint with hunger, not an unusual state for her these days. What a happy baby he or she was going to be! They'd located their place cards and she sat expectantly between Michel and Tom. Ben had joined the children again, twirling about madly on the dance floor to the lively music produced by an elderly but accomplished accordian player and an only slightly younger drummer.

“You won't hear any heavy metal here tonight," Paul said. "Maybe 'le canard,' some tangos, walzes, an apache dance, if people really loosen up, and so forth. What was played at their parents' and even grandparents' weddings and all the village fetes."

“ 'Le canard?" Tom asked. "The duck?"

“Wait and see." Paul laughed.

After the melon au porto and the saumon a I'oseille, perfectly poached salmon with sorrel sauce, and while Tom, Michel, and Paul were proclaiming the Beaujolais Leynes the best Beaujolais ever to cross their lips, the music changed from stately Strauss to something more sprightly. Couples waddled onto the floor for "le canard," which looked exactly like its name, performed with much enthusiasm and high spirits. Faith declined when approached by Clement, saying all too soon she would look like the dance. The others were also content to watch and wait for the next course. The whole affair reminded Faith a little of the dance she'd gone to on an island off the Maine coast the summer before. Grown-ups danced with children, women with women, men with men, as well as the more traditional pairing of men and women. There were all ages, all sizes, and all abilities. Watching the couples alternately glide and jump about below her in a series of remarkably athletic dances, Faith wished the evening could go on and on forever. Of course at that point relatively early in the evening, she didn't know that it would.

It was Ghislaine who first broached the subject on everyone's minds.

“Faith, cherie, be honest. We are here together and you are safe. Could we ask Michel some questions? There is still much I am unclear about. But if it brings back bad memories, we will watch the ducks and feed ourselves."

“I had actually been going to suggest something along those lines myself. Michel and his buddies have been asking me questions all week, but I have a few of my own." She raised an eyebrow in Ravier's direction in an attempt at a Gallic gesture. He replied in land with a shrug. It sent a slight tingle up and down her spine.

“For myself, I don't mind. Tom?"

“I know my wife very well, my good inspector"—the ambience-inspiring phrases normally absent from the good reverend's speech, Faith noted—"And if you don't answer her questions, she'll try to find out some other way, and we know what happens then.”

Faith was glad for the Beaujolais. Tom's glass was empty and she tipped some more in, though strictly speaking, it was impolite for women to pour wine in France. The stricture was loosening, yet she was fairly certain in the country, the last bastion of tradition, it still held.

“Shall I begin then?" Michel asked.

“Not until we are there," came Clement Veaux's voice from the dance floor, and he and Delphine, hardly out of breath, climbed the stairs, grabbed another bottle of the Beaujolais from an empty table, and settled down next to Ghislaine.

“There is no one else expected?" Michel asked

“I wish Madame Vincent were here," Faith said a bit wistfully. They'd been spending a great deal of time together during the week. "I think she suspected Valentina all along."

“I have spoken with that excellent lady and you are correct. She watches much of what happens in the building and had formed a very negative opinion of Madame Joliet. But all in good tune, Faith. I think I will tell it as a story, because we are at a celebration and that is where stories get told—and where this one will be told for many years, I suspect." Ravier was clearly relishing his role.

“Your part of the story, man petit chou, started perhaps with a bored young man, smart, yet not smart enough to do very well and be interested in his studies or applauded by the adults around him. But he is handsome and has a great deal of charm. He has no trouble attracting girlfriends, particularly those like himself who are bored. His parents are busy and have little time for him. It is enough for them that he has grown up with a certain degree of politeness and intelligence. They suppose after his military service, he will study to be an avocat like his father or work in the bank of his uncle. Not the uncle who has disgraced the family, the d'Ambert upon whom all hopes once centered. The d'Ambert who was at ENA, the National School of Administration in Paris. The d'Ambert who was going to be, dare we say it out loud, perhaps President of the Republic. And eventually, the d'Ambert who discovered drugs and alcohol. We found this man, Guy d'Ambert, and that is how we know the story. He was trying to hide in a brothel in Marseille in the Old Port, although I do not think he has much sex drive left," Michel added reflectively.

“Does he know where Christophe is? And Valentina— did he know about them?" Faith asked.

“He does not know where Christophe is. Nor do we, unfortunately, but with all the police in Europe looking for him, it will not be long. I am convinced his parents had no knowledge of his activities. His mother has gone into seclusion with the younger children at her family house in Normandy and Monsieur d'Ambert is staying here to help us. He is as eager to find his son as we are and perhaps for some of the same reasons.

“Now getting back to Christophe's uncle. He vastly preferred being found by us to being found by his nephew and those he worked for. And yes, he knew about Valentina, has known for a long time. She and Christophe have been lovers for several years.”

Ghislaine gasped. "My poor Dominique and little Ber-thille, the babies! The boy was completely wild!"

“I do not know who seduced whom. Apparently, it was a very satisfactory arrangement for both and helped Christophe to ease his boredom. He must have recognized quite soon that Madame Joliet was not the type of neighbor lady who gave you milk and a biscuit. Together, they hatched the plan. She because she wanted to give him something to do besides lie in her bed, so he would stay there, and he because he wanted the money. But I am sure Christophe also derived a great deal of pleasure hi robbing his parents' friends and his own relatives, and involving their children. Out of luck or trickery, he almost never drew la courte paille, the short straw—I believe you, too, have this custom in the United States?"

“Yes," said Tom, "as well as spoiled and disaffected youth like Christophe."

“But he was more than that," Faith interjected. "He was a murderer."

“Yes." Ravier had been speaking in a light, almost humorous tone. His voice now became deadly serious. "Yes, as he revealed to you, he killed the clochard Bernard, We know from Guy d'Ambert that Bernard had discovered the jewelry in the bottom of the shopping bag one night. The others they chose were too far gone or too intent on collecting the hundred francs for delivery, if nothing had been touched, to look. Bernard smelled a rat, or rather something much more appetizing, thought he could get in on the action, and he got killed instead. If Faith had not served her pungent bouillabaisse to you all that night, but some veal, a few vegetables, they would have gotten away with it.

“Christophe enticed the clochard into the vestibule and poisoned him while his uncle, perhaps with Valentina, went to get Christophe's car. Guy had not the stomach to do the actual deed and part of why he is so terrified of his nephew is the exultation he observed on the young man's face after they dumped poor Bernard, almost naked and stone dead, in the Rhone.

“I'm sure they had some few moments of anxiety, but no one believed the crazy, although very-nice-to-look-at— yes, this from Martin and Pollet—American. Guy posed as the clochard for a day or two, one clochard appearing much like another, and they thought they were in the clear.

“Your friend Madame Vincent, by the way, was not sure it was the same clochard, either, but unfortunately decided to keep an eye on things rather than go to the police with her suspicions. This is quite a widespread problem in France," he added sternly.

“I saw her speak to him shortly before I did. I thought it was odd, since she had made it so clear that she had no sympathy for these people. As to not going to the police, perhaps she wasn't sure they would believe an old lady." Martin and Pellet's dismissal of what were clear facts still rankled with Faith.

Ravier had the grace to look embarrassed.

“Then why did they kidnap Faith?" Paul asked. "If no one believed her and Madame Vincent had kept quiet?"

“Two reasons and again luck, bad luck, has played a role in all this. I was out of town. Valentina knew I would listen to the story and the story had changed now. She has learned that Madame Fairchild has been in touch with the police and believes the clochard who was currently in front of the church to be an imposter, un faux clochard. She also hears that Faith believes Marie has been murdered. Valentina takes a cup of tea with Faith and Faith herself reveals I am away and she is trying to get in touch with me. Madame Joliet realizes she must act fast. Again from this Mad Hatter tea party, she knows where Faith will be Saturday morning and sets the wheels in motion." Pleased with his joke, he turned to the group and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "We police also read the classics, you know."

“But from what you have been saying, it sounds like Valentina has more resources than a few school kids," Clement commented, ignoring the allusion to English literature.

“I never liked her. You remember, man mari, I have often said that to you." Delphine shook her head vigorously, causing her glasses to rest slightly askew on her long acquiline nose. She pushed them straight with her finger and nudged her husband to pour her another glass of wine.

Faith looked at Michel. "This is where Marie and the others come in, right? They were afraid of Valentina. It was Valentina who was controlling their trade."

“Exactly—Valentina's brothers, to be more precise. They were happy to get their sister's little shipments of trinkets every once in a while and they were, in fact, making a good business legitimately selling paintings, but they liked Ferraris, not Fiats, and as pimps, they operated out of reach of French law, with their devoted sister on the spot to keep the girls in line. Valentina decided the clochard had to go; it was her brothers who decided Christophe had to do it, an initiation of sorts. The same with Faith. They wouldn't be bothered to come across the border for such small stuff, but they—or those in their pay here—did Marie. That was meant to be a warning to the women not just here in Lyon but also in Marseille, Avignon, on the Cote d'Azur, and in Paris."

“Poor Marie." Faith sighed. "She'd be alive if I hadn't come here."

“For a year or two, maybe. It was a question of what would get her first, the drugs, SIDA. I don't mean to sound cruel, Faith. Marie had no chance," Michel said.

Faith disagreed but thought he was probably trying to make her feel better, so kept quiet. Yet she knew what she felt and it would be with her forever.

“I remember now one time when the one with the dog came in for some scraps and Madame Joliet was there. The girl turned as pale as a ghost and left. Later, she returned and I asked her what was wrong and she said she had felt a bit ill. There was no one else in the shop except Delphine, and she does not have this effect on people," Clement related.

“We have strayed away from the story. You know all the rest. Marie was murdered at the hotel de ville to prevent her meeting with Faith. Valentina was adept at getting information and no doubt knew all about the warnings. We do not know how she learned about Faith's calls to the police, but we are turning everything upside down to find out." Michel sounded grim.

Paul Leblanc spoke pensively. "We never could figure out why she married Georges. Georges, of course, was crazy for her—that long hair, those eyes. I'm sure she was the first woman he did not have to pay for and he was very proud of her gallery. But why did she want him? A respectable cover?"

“Perhaps she didn't mind being adored." Ghislaine smiled. "Few women do.”

Paul grabbed his wife and gave her a lingering kiss that fully illustrated the technique made famous by the French. She emerged blushing furiously.

Michel gave them a long look. "If I may continue? Bon. Well, I always thought Valentina was overly ambitious and overly sexed. A good combination if you stay on the side of the law, but for her it wasn't as much fun and I suspect she enjoyed having so much power over others."

“What will Georges Joliet do now?" Delphine asked. "He seems to be trying to conduct his life as usual. He came into the store several times this week for some steak hache. Perhaps hamburgers are all he knows how to cook."

“He has been at work since Wednesday and we spoke briefly. He doesn't know what to say to Tom and Faith. I think he is writing a letter. I urged him to take a leave, go away for a bit. It hasn't simply been the shock of Valen-tina's illegal activities, enormous as it is, but that she was sleeping with the boy down the hall—and no doubt others.”

Faith had a brilliant idea. "I have the perfect place for him to go. A political retreat to nature—Clotilde's and Frederic's in the Cevennes! Clotilde will feed him wonderful meals and they can all sit around reminiscing about the glorious past. He can help them with their work and feel useful.”

Tom laughed. "Then settle there himself, become the next mayor of the nearest village, marry one of the local farmers' daughters, have ten children, and live happily ever after."

“You've got it," she declared.

“Faith would be very useful here in France," Michel remarked.

“But you mention children and now Adele will discover how many she will have with Jean-Jacques. Look at the head table; they are about to begin," Delphine said.

France and the French were associated with I'amour and romance, yet Faith had found what characterized the country best was pragmatism—a basic sensibility, besides that sensitivity. So, an eminently practical custom such as whatever she was about to observe did not surprise her.

A large stew pot was placed in front of the young couple and they dipped their forks in. "It's the salmis de pintades, the next course," Delphine explained. "They feed each other tidbits and we count the number of bites. That will be the number of babies."

“So simple," Tom murmured to Faith, and counted out loud with the rest of the room as the couple consumed the morsels of guinea hen in the rich sauce. "Huit, eight. Quite a family." He beamed.

“I know what you're thinking, Thomas Fairchild, and even if we'd had this at our nuptials, there is such a thing as shutting one's mouth." Tom was of the "more children the merrier" school and Faith of the "merry for whom" one.

Delphine had been listening to their conversation. "I don't think they plan to have eight, although who knows? They are making a joke that they have to stop, because the book you get from the priest when you marry only has a place to list eight and they would run out of room.”

After this, courses kept arriving—platters of vegetables with a filet of Charolais beef, those pretty white animals that looked so perfect against the various shades of green and yellow in the French countryside—a Barbizon painting come to life.

The dancing became even more energetic, the music faster, the hall warmer. Couples continued to whirl below them, with the exception of the bride's mother, who danced the same slow, stately waltz step to everything, no matter who the partner or what the tempo. Her bright blue silk dress remained unwrinkled, not a drop of sweat on her brow. Between dances, she was everywhere—in and out of the kitchen, overseeing the preparations, and up and down the aisles between the tables, a smiling martinet making sure the troops were having a good time. And they were.

Faith couldn't eat another thing, but the next course, "Le delice de I'escorgot," the snail's delight, was intriguing. She turned to Michel Ravier. "Have you ever had this before?" She'd never seen it on any menu or in any of her cookbooks.

“Many times and so have you; however, only at functions like these do we find it done so well.”

It was salad—of course.

Meanwhile, the entire party prepared to take a walk. They piled into any car available, drove to a nearby lake, strolled around the circumference, and returned for cheese, more wine, more dancing, and eventually the pieces montees displayed in all their glory on a table outside the kitchen. These were mountains of tiny cream puffs, stuck together with caramelized sugar, graced on each summit with sugared almonds and a tiny bride and groom—vintage 1940, by the style of dress.

The evening was wonderful. Tom made a lovely sentimental toast to the newlyweds, and almost everyone and everything else in France. Faith danced with her husband, her son, the bride's mother, and finally shared a tango with the good inspector that left her more than a little breathless. She was going to miss that man.

At two o'clock in the morning, just before the onion soup was served to tide the guests over to breakfast, Faith turned to Tom and said, "Let's go to bed."

“Great idea, but I may be too tired." He sighed.

The farewells took a long time and their cheeks were rosy from being kissed so heartily. They collected Ben from the pile of coats where he had been sleeping for some time under the watchful eyes of four very old ladies who had been supervising the dancing, tapping their toes in time to the beat of the music and their own conversation, which had continued without pause all evening.

To the Fairchilds' surprise, the car was not blocked in by others and they set out for the auberge a few miles away where they'd arranged to stay. It was a beautiful night, or rather, morning. The sky was clear and filled with stars.

“Happy, darling?" Faith asked her husband.

“Blissfully, now that you are back safe and sound. Don't do it again, Faith, okay?"

“You always say that." She leaned her head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her soft, fragrant hair. "And you never listen.”

Just before dawn, there is a moment of total silence the French call "l'heure bleue"—the blue hour. It is not, strictly speaking, an hour, but a minute—a minute that seems to stretch far beyond sixty seconds.

It is the time when the night creatures have fallen asleep and those of the day are not yet awake.

If you are in the country away from the noise of a car or truck, you can feel the silence. It is palpable and, for the duration, even frightening. You stand in a large field and watch the sky begin to lighten, praying for the return of sound other than your own blood pounding in your ears. Praying for proof that the universe continues. You are tempted to call out—to no one.

Then the shrill peeps of the morning birds start and mount. They sound unnaturally loud. Only now—after the silence.

A rooster crows.

And far away from France, on this particular day, September sixteenth, a baby adds her first cries as l'heure bleue passes.