“They’re waiting for you at the church,” he said.
“Who’s waiting?” Bernard asked, puzzled.
“The hunger strikers in Notre-Dame de la Croix.”
“Aren’t there trained negotiators there?” Bernard said, his voice cracking. He knew a crowd of
“Seems you’ve been requested.”
“Requested?” Bernard asked.
“You’re special,” he said, nodding to the driver who pulled into traffic.
He had been right, Bernard thought woefully. Things could get worse.
“ANAi’S, WHERE ARE YOU?” Aimee shouted. At least now she could hear herself. The intense heat drove her to move, to shake off the memories of her father.
She crawled along the cobbles, then pulled herself up. Someone was crying; she heard yelling in the distance. Her body felt as if someone had beaten her all over with a bat. Long and hard.
“Over here, Aimee,” Anais moaned, sprawled on the sidewalk. She was pinned down by a large
Aimee felt for a pulse. It was weak, but steady. Aimee shook Anais’s shoulders. She groaned. Strands of gold chain, muddied and twisted, drooped from her neck. Her pigeon-eye pink Dior jacket was dotted with bloody red clumps and her blond hair was matted. Black vinyl fragments littered the street.
“Can you hear me, Anais?” she asked, her voice soothing, as she pulled the sign away. She knelt down and took off Anais’s sunglasses. Luckily for her, they’d shielded her eyes from the blast.
Anais blinked several times, her eyes regaining focus.
“Where’s S-S-Sylvie?”
“Was Sylvie getting into the Mercedes?”
Anais nodded.
“She’s gone, Anais,” Aimee said, taking Anais’s chin in her hands and making her meet her gaze.
Anais blinked again and focused on her, growing lucid.
“Your hands are shaking, Aimee,” she said.
“Explosions do that to me,” Aimee said, aware of the burning car just meters away. “Let’s get out of here.”
Anais saw that there was blood on her skirt. She looked up, past Aimee, her eyes widening in alarm.
“They’re coming back,” Anais said.
Aimee scanned the street. People peered from their windows. Several men were running down the street.
“Who?”
But Anais had scrambled on all fours, pulling Aimee after her into the number 20
“Close the door before they see us!” Anais panted.
Out of breath, Aimee crawled in, then pushed the massive door shut. Ahead, the red button of a timer light switch gleamed, and she pressed it. The damp floor and dented wall mailboxes were lit by a naked bulb overhead. Of the several mailboxes only one held a name: “E. Grandet.”
To the right of the staircase, a narrow drafty passage led to the rear courtyard. Newspapers, thrown in a dusty heap, sat under the spiral stairwell.
“Who are those men?” Aimee asked.
“The ones who followed me,” Anais said.
Loud shouting came from the street. What if the men broke down the door? Torn between confronting them or looking for an escape, Aimee froze.
Now the voices came from outside the massive door. Loud whacks made the door shudder, as if they were attacking the door’s kickplate. Her fear propelled her to action.
“Let’s go,” Aimee said, pulling out her penlight.
“My legs … don’t work well,” Anais panted.
Aimee helped her stand up.
“Put your weight on me,” Aimee said. Together they hobbled down the drafty passage leading toward the back.
Her thin beam flickered off the dripping stone wall; moss furred in green patches. The walls reeked of mildew and urine.
April in Paris wasn’t like the song, Aimee thought, and couldn’t remember when it had been.
Something glinted in the cracks, where stone joined the gutter. She bent down, shined her penlight. In the yawning crevice, an indecently large pearl shimmered.
She pried it out and rubbed the slime off with her sleeve.
“Anais, did you drop this?”
“Not my style,” she said, breathing hard.
Aimee slipped the pearl into her back pocket. As she edged past the rotted wooden door, she was glad she’d worn leather boots. Too bad they had two-inch heels.
“Who are they, Anais?”
“Just keep going, Aimee,” Anais said, panting.
She headed for an old metal
The building smelled of garbage. Her small penlight beam revealed several blue plastic sacks of trash. Unusual, she thought. The building appeared deserted. Not only that, but the garbage in Paris was collected every day.
Slants of moonlight illuminated part of the rain-slicked cobbles and wet walls inside. Empty green Ricard bottles lay strewn in what appeared to be the main part of the old workshop.
She helped Anais sit down.
“Let me check for a back exit,” Aimee said. “Take a rest.”
On Aimee’s left, twisted pipes and a network of frayed electric lines trailed up the building interior to the remaining bit of black roof.
Through the hole above loomed the dark dome of the sky, and a yellow glow outlined the rooftops of Belleville. Aimee stumbled on the slippery concrete, caught her heel and lurched outside. She grabbed hold of something rusty that flaked in her hands. Straightening up, she took another step. She skidded and lost her balance but held on to her penlight, shining the beam ahead.
A stone wall five or six feet high stood in front of her. Jagged glass, like a string of grinning teeth, lined the top.
No exit.
Aimee tried not to panic.
Returning to Ana’fs, she noticed the buttery leather Dior bag strap tangled around Anais’s shoulder. The last time Aimee had seen Anais she’d also been in Dior, radiant and walking down the steps of St-Severin on the arm of her new husband, Philippe, as the cathedral bells chimed over the square on the
She shook Anais’s shoulder. “Please, Anais, tell me what’s going on,” Aimee said. “Were these men trying to kill you?”
Anais gagged, turned, and threw up all over the empty Ricard bottles in the
