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
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.
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
