The Collector of Dying Breaths

Chapter 45

“Dinner will be in a half hour,” Melinoe told her when they were back upstairs. “We never finished our drinks, did we? Shall we now?” she asked as if it were just another night.

“I need to go to my room first. I’ll be down shortly,” Jac responded, trying for the same tone, saying it as if she meant it.

Drink with them? Have dinner with them? Finish the formula now that she knew the breaths were poison? Jac felt as if she’d landed inside a surrealistic dream.

There had to be a way to get Griffin out of the antiquated dungeon where Melinoe was holding him hostage. Jac walked down the hallway to her room and stepped inside. She’d just do the most obvious thing and call Detective Marcher in Paris. Or was it better to start with the local police? Barbizon was a small town-the police were only a kilometer away.

Her bag was on her bed where she’d left it. She reached inside for her phone. It wasn’t there. Of course not-she’d plugged it in to charge it before she’d gone downstairs.

She ran to the desk. The cord was there and at the end of it-nothing. After searching frantically for a few minutes, Jac had to accept the obvious. Melinoe had taken Jac’s phone.

Panic sent surges of adrenaline through her like shocks. What to do?

There were other phones in the house, of course. In the library there was a telephone on the desk. Another in the kitchen. She’d just need to get to one of them. Just go downstairs as if she were planning on having drinks but detour to the kitchen. First, she needed to brush her hair, straighten her clothes, wash the dust off her hands and face. Present a less agitated exterior.

In the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror, Jac saw a version of herself she hadn’t seen since Robbie had gone missing in Paris almost two years before. Her eyes were bright with fear, and her face was pale. She looked petrified. And she was. Melinoe was insane. She’d stolen from a museum and killed one person so far to achieve her goal.

Practicing Malachai’s breathing exercises for a full minute, Jac tried to calm down. She wasn’t going to accomplish what she had to if she was in free fall.

She needed to get to the telephone. Steal one minute and summon the police. Just one minute. If she could visualize her next moves, it would help. In her mind she watched herself head downstairs and then, instead of walking right-toward the living room, where she was expected-she hugged the wall and slunk to the left. Moving quickly but avoiding any rash movements, she got to the kitchen. Looked for the phone. Then pictured herself walking over to the phone-on the wall by the window.

The last of the evening sun was fading. Twilight was pushing it away. In Paris and New York the night was full of promise. But here in the château, isolated from other houses, from the town, this encroaching darkness was full of anxiety.

Jac opened the door to her room and walked out into the hallway. It was dark, and she wondered why the housekeeper hadn’t come around to turn on the lights yet. No matter, it was better this way. Shadows were perfect hiding places.

She reached the stairs and began her descent, praying Melinoe wasn’t going to come out and head up to her room at that moment.

Each step was a challenge. Jac’s heart was pounding. The simple trip down one flight of stairs was taking too long. But the fear was stretching out every minute.

This is how you live forever, Jac thought. You torture the seconds with worry, you anticipate everything that awaits you, you trouble time, and it becomes an agony of isolated, unconnected moments.

At the bottom of the steps, Jac repeated what she’d pictured herself doing. Instead of heading toward the library, she went left and then down another darkened hallway and found her way to the kitchen without incident.

The smells here were a reminder of normal. There was a chicken roasting in the oven. The aroma of chocolate wafted in the air. A hint of vinegar. Rosemary. Bread baking.

But there was something wrong. It was dark here and empty. There was food cooking, but where was the cook?

The door to the pantry was open, and Jac began to shake, thinking of Griffin down below where she stood now.

Stop, she told herself. Just stop thinking. Use the phone first, then you can go to him. Once the police are on their way.

Jac walked across the room toward the phone, plucked the handle out of the cradle, punched in the emergency code that was the same all over France. This nightmare would be over in minutes now. There was nothing Melinoe would be able to do-

Holding the phone to her ear, Jac waited to hear the ringing.

There was nothing but dead silence. Hadn’t the call gone through? She depressed the connector button. Let it go. Listened for the dial tone. Depressed the button again. No dial tone. What was going on?

The cook stepped out of the pantry. When she saw Jac, she looked startled.

“Can I help you, mademoiselle?”

Jac explained she needed to use the phone.

“Mais oui,” she said, nodding sympathetically, “but it isn’t working because of the power outage.”

“But the stove?” Jac asked.

“The stove is still going because it is gas.”

“How long ago did the power go out?” Jac asked.

“About a half hour ago.”

“Do you have a cell phone?” Jac didn’t have any time to waste now. The power outage couldn’t be a coincidence.

“I do, mademoiselle, but Madame borrowed it. Perhaps you might ask her?”

Jac nodded. Felt a wave of exhaustion. Melinoe had made it impossible for Jac to call for help. There had to be another way. Of course-it was so simple. Almost absurdly easy. Jac would just leave. Walk out the front door, take one of the horses, and ride into town to alert the police.

There were doors and windows everywhere.

“Other than the front door,” Jac said to the cook, “is there a back entrance to the château?”

“Of course, it’s through there.” She pointed to a hallway.

Jac ran. She reached the door in seconds, but the handle didn’t turn. She looked at the lock-it needed a key. Back to the kitchen.

“Do you have the key?”

“How stupid I am, of course it is locked. When the power goes out, the house is locked. Madame fears that with all the valuables here, an electric crisis could be manufactured and then the thieves would take advantage of the dark to take what they want.”

“How does it work-if there is no electricity-how does the house stay in lockdown?”

“I do not know,” the cook said. She was a thin, older woman with a heavily lined face.

“Can I get out through a window?” she asked the cook even though she was sure of the answer she was going to hear.

The woman shook her head. “Not without Madame unlocking it by hand. I’m not sure how it works, but when I came here she told me about it, and once a month she tests the system to make sure it is in good order.”