Puffing and sweating, she willed her rising panic down. A lichen-covered wall looking ten feet thick and reaching two stories high blocked her way.
Dead end. A dead-end dungeon.
To her left she saw a narrow stone passageway between the walls. Swerving into it, she ricocheted off some metal garbage cans that banged noisily, and kept on running. She heard the clanging of metal as someone behind her ran into them, too, stumbled, and yelled '
When she reached it, she veered away from the sound of an engine to her left. Behind her she caught a glimpse of a taxi with a blue light signaling that it was free.
She switched back, keeping up her pace, and yelled, 'Over here.'
The taxi started to speed away.
'Rape! Help, rape!' she screamed.
The taxi slowed down. Aimee realized the chasing figure had probably appeared in the taxi's rearview mirror. Just as she was reaching for the door handle she heard heavy breathing and shouting right behind her. This person could easily pull her out of the taxi. She feinted to the right. Whoever was behind her lunged and just missed grabbing her jacket as she turned. She heard an 'Ouff' and a heavy thud as she sprinted away. The taxi gunned its engine and sped off.
Down the slippery, glistening pavement she ran. Keep going, she told herself. Her lungs burned and dull slivers of pain shot up her arm, still hugging the videos to her chest.
Finally she saw the welcome traffic and lights of rue St. Antoine with plenty of taxis. Thank God, she thought, and took as deep a breath as her painful shoulder allowed. As she stepped out, the other blue van from the ClicClac screeched to a stop in front of her.
'Get in,' Yves shouted and gestured to her.
Behind her she heard the running footsteps again, echoing off the walls. Coming closer.
'Hurry up!' Yves pulled the handle from the driver's side and the dented blue door swung open.
Before she could pull the door shut, he'd shot down busy rue St. Antoine.
'Where were you?' Aimee asked suspiciously. Why hadn't he been with the rest of the group?
'Behind everyone.' He jerked his arm towards the back of the van. 'Since I do most of the video I carry the equipment. Thierry trusts me.'
Aimee groaned.
'What happened to you?' His dark eyes held concern. He threw his jacket at her. 'Take mine. It's warmer.'
'No thanks.' She couldn't take her smelly, ripped leather jacket off since the recorder was still taped to her back and the videos bulged out of her tank top.
'I need some anesthetic,' she said. 'Let's get a drink.'
Yves jerked the van to a stop in a narrow alley off Bastille, still in the Marais. A waiter shuttered the windows from inside a murky bistro on the corner. She heard strains of a jazz guitar as the door opened and a laughing couple spilled out. If she concentrated, she could probably make her feet walk to the corner and cause a ruckus so the bistro would let them in.
'Listen, this shoulder hurts,' she said, feeling giddy.
'I've got just the right thing for that.' His black eyes bored into her with a laserlike intensity.
'I seriously need a drink.' She started to giggle and didn't know why.
'I've got that too,' he smiled.
And a beautiful smile, she noted. Here she was with a neo-Nazi carrying stolen videos—possibly containing an old woman's murder recorded by him. And incredibly attracted to him. He'd seemingly helped her for the second time that night.
'My flat is over here,' he said, pointing to a darkened brick turn-of-the-century warehouse. 'Can you make it?'
'You leave the equipment in your van on the street?' she said and wondered at her own coherent thinking.
'No one messes with our blue vans,' he said. 'That's for sure. But'—he pulled out a digicode remote and punched some numbers—'I don't park on the street.'
As the metal awning rolled up slowly, Yves eased the van into the warehouse courtyard.
Aimee didn't like the sound of the awning rolling back down and looked for a way out. A narrow side entrance showed a pinhole of light.
'Thinking of leaving?' Yves said, unlocking a door under the vaulted arches of the brick building.
'Not yet,' Aimee grinned. 'I'm thirsty.'
'Let me help you, this is tricky,' Yves said, scooping her up. He flicked on a set of lights and carried her down a spiral metal staircase to a brick basement flat.
Warm air hit her, laced with a strong familiar tang. They descended onto a bleached wood floor lined by deep white sofas, a long metal table, and open kitchen. The vaulted arches in the walls had been bricked in and covered by bright batik fabric.
'Site of the old tanning vats,' Yves explained, setting her down on a sofa. 'This was an old saddle factory. Police and cavalry saddles,' he grinned.
Aimee felt sticky and hot but didn't dare take off her leather jacket. Her arm had started throbbing. Funny how things hurt when you had time to think about them, she thought. Sure that the grease and patchouli oil had been absorbed into her pores, she wanted a wash.
'Remy, OK?' Yves said as he handed her a bowl-like brandy snifter.
Aimee hadn't had Remy Martin VSOP in years. She almost purred as it slid down her throat. This neo-Nazi definitely had more class than his comrades.
'I need to clean up,' she said.
He gestured. 'Be my guest.'
She gripped the Remy and hobbled towards the kitchen. Inside his white-tiled bathroom, she put her clothes in a pile on the floor, making sure the videos were secure in the inside pocket of her jacket.
One good thing, her shoulder hurt so much she couldn't feel much else. She turned the hot water on. Praying there was enough for a tubful, she knelt on a thick towel in front of an old gilt mirror. After she downed another shot of brandy, she noticed the thin red line of singed skin along her spine.
Her shoulder drooped, but this had happened before and she knew what to do. And with enough brandy she could do it. Gritting her teeth, she rotated her shoulder socket counterclockwise up to a three o'clock position. Taking another gulp of the brandy, she reached with her left hand to grip her right shoulder. She took a deep breath, pulled her arm straight out, swiveled it slightly, and popped the socket back into twelve o'clock. The pain shot from her fingertips to her neck. She heard a gasp behind her. Yves was in the mirror wincing, still in his jeans and sweater.
He knelt down beside her and took her gently in his arms. 'Are you all right?'
She nodded and gave him a lopsided smile.
'You're not going to pass out, are you?' He kept her cradled in his arms.
'Not yet.'
He poured another snifter and she sipped slowly. 'I'm fine.'
Softly, he stroked her wet hair. 'What kind of outlaw are you?'
'Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. But I should be asking you that.'
'If you do, I'll give the same answer.' He laughed and then Aimee knew she was headed for trouble.
They ended up in the tub with the bottle of Remy, surrounded by steam, most of it of their own making.
AIMEE SLID back into her greasy jeans and left Yves asleep. But not before stealing his brown sweater and checking out his apartment. Off the open kitchen space she found a small office with a state- of-the-art computer, printer, and color scanner. Yves obviously had a decent day job. She searched high and low but couldn't find any other videos.
