The Day After Tomorrow

35

THE PARIS police had lost Osborn at the Louvre.

Lebrun had gone out on a limb as it was, and by two o’clock had either to create a story justifying new surveillance or pull his men off. As much as he wanted to help McVey, muddy shoes alone did not make a certified felon, especially if that person was an American physician who was leaving Paris the following afternoon and who, politely and forthrightly, had requested the return of his passport from one of his detectives so that he could do so.

Unable to justify the cost of Osborn’s further surveillance to his superiors, Lebrun put his men onto some of the other things McVey had suggested, such as going back over Jean Packard’s personal history from scratch. In the meantime, he’d had a police sketch artist work with the mug shot of Albert Merriman they received from Interpol, Washington, and now she was standing behind his desk, looking over his shoulder, as he studied her work.

“This is what you think he would look like twenty-six years later,” Lebrun said rhetorically in French. Then looked up at her. She was twenty-five and had a chubby, twinkling smile.

“Yes.”

Lebrun wasn’t sure. “You should run this by the forensic anthropologist. He might give you a little clearer sense of how this man would age.”

“I did, Inspector.”

“And this is him?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks,” Lebrun said. The artist nodded and left. Lebrun looked at the sketch. Thinking a moment, he reached for the phone and called the police press liaison. If this was as close as they were going to get to what Merriman would look like now, why not run the sketch in the first editions of tomorrow’s newspapers as McVey had run the sketch of the beheaded man’s face in the British papers? There were almost nine million people in Paris, it would ‘ only take one of them to recognize Merriman and call the police.

At that same moment Albert Merriman was lying face up on the backseat of Agnes Demblon’s Citroën, fighting with everything he had just to breathe.

Behind the wheel, Paul Osborn downshifted, braked hard, then accelerated past a silver Range Rover, clearing the traffic circling the Arc de Triomphe and turning down the avenue de Wagram. A short time later he made a right on the boulevard de Courcelles and headed for avenue de Clichy and the river road that would lead to the secluded park along the Seine.

It had taken him nearly three minutes to get the faltering, frightened Kanarack into the Citroën’s backseat, find the keys and then start the car. Three minutes had been too much time. Osborn knew he would barely be under way when the effects of the succinylcholine would begin to wear off. Once they did, he’d have to deal with a fully aroused Kanarack who would have the advantage of being in the backseat behind him. His only recourse had been to give the Frenchman a second shot of the drug, and the effect of the two shots, one coming so quickly on top of the other, had put Kanarack out like a light. For a time Osborn feared it might have been too much, that Kanarack’s lungs would cease to function and he’d suffocate. But then a hoarse cough had been followed by the sound of heavily labored breathing and he knew he was all right.

The problem was that now he had only one syringe left. If something went wrong with the car or if they were delayed in traffic, that syringe would be his last line of defense. After that he’d be on his own.

By now it was nearly 4:15 and the rain was coming down heavier. The windshield began to fog and Osborn fumbled for the defroster. Finding it, he clicked on the fan and reached up to clear the inside of the windshield with his hand. This was one day he was certain no one would be in the park. The weather, at least, was something he could be thankful for.

Glancing over his shoulder, he looked at Kanarack on the backseat. Every expansion and contraction of his lungs was a supreme effort. And Osborn could tell from the look in his eyes the horror he was going through, wondering, with each breath, if he’d have the strength for the next.

Ahead, a traffic light changed from yellow to red and Osborn stopped behind a black Ferrari. Once more he glanced over his shoulder at Kanarack. At this moment he had no idea how he felt. Incredibly, what should have felt a monumental triumph no longer did. In its place was a helpless human being, frightened beyond all measure, with absolutely no idea what was happening to him, battling with everything in him for no more than the air to keep him alive. That the creature was innately evil, had caused the deaths of two people and horribly and inexorably gnarled Paul Osborn’s own life from childhood on, seemed, at this point, to have little meaning. It was enough to have gotten the beast this far. For Osborn to go through with the rest would make him the equal of Kanarack, and that was someone he was not. And if that was all, he might have stopped the car right there and simply walked away, thereby giving Kanarack back his life. But it wasn’t all. The other thing had yet to be addressed.

The WHY of it. Why Kanarack had murdered his father!

Ahead of him, the light changed to green and traffic moved off. It was getting darker by the moment and motorists were switching on their yellow headlights. Directly ahead was avenue de Clichy. Reaching it, Osborn turned left and headed toward the river road.

Less than a half mile behind him, a new, dark green Ford pulled out in traffic and speeded up to pass. Turning onto avenue de Clichy, it changed quickly into the right lane and slowed, staying three cars behind Osborn’s Citroën. The driver was a tall man with blue eyes and a pale complexion. Light blond eyebrows matched his hair and the hair on the backs of his hands. He was wearing a tan raincoat over a dull plaid sport coat, dark gray slacks and a gray turtleneck sweater. On the seat beside him was a small-brimmed hat, a hard-shell briefcase, and a street map of Paris that had been folded back. His name was Bernhard Oven and today was his forty-second birthday.