“We’re a late addition to the guest list,” Samia said, nudging Aimee.
Aimee slipped a hundred-franc note across the counter. “Of course,” she said, “we won’t disturb their concentration.”
The cigarette hung from the side of the woman’s mouth. Her blue shadowed eyes narrowed as she looked Aimee up and down. “We all need to live, eh?” she said, pocketing the note. “Enjoy the show,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the doors.
They walked by gilt-edged walls with plaster chipped in a few places. The
But despite the deserted foyer, they weren’t alone. She felt eyes following her.
Inside, she and Samia stopped, gripped by the scene under the elaborate chandeliers. Four children and four men in brown leather rode motorcycles into the ring. They parked their bikes and the men lay on top of them and juggled the children with their feet.
Scattered applause burst from the few onlookers in the worn red velvet seats. Samia tugged Aimee’s arm and motioned for her to join the front row. They sat down, their faces highlighted by the ring lights. Aimee was struck by the soft contours and sharp edges shadowed in Samia’s face. As if she were
Several large men in well-cut suits, one chewing a licorice stick, were seated to their right. Peering closer, Aimee realized that the stockier men on the aisle casually surveyed the crowd and exits.
The occasional tilt of their necks, and the thin wires trailing from their ears into their collars indicated that they wore radio receivers. Sophisticated security, she thought. What circus aficionados were they guarding?
“Wait five minutes,” Samia whispered. “Then go to the bathroom.”
“Why?”
“It’s a test,” Samia interrupted, standing up. She brushed imaginary lint from her coat, licked her finger, and wiped her brow with it. Then she was gone.
A large brown Siberian bear wearing a cone-like silver wizard’s hat pedaled a tiny bicycle into the ring. The trainer’s whip slapped the sawdust, creating dust puffs ahead of the bear in his line of vision. She wondered what the bear would do if he got out of line. Tear up the tiny bike, wreak havoc in the crowd, and other things she didn’t like to contemplate. Like Sylvie’s murderer had done.
Aimee heard loud, sustained clapping from the licorice-chewing man. Several guffaws sounded from the suits, who’d risen and enveloped him in a protective cocoon.
The suits sat back down, and some of the men evaporated toward the lobby. Aimee noticed that another man had joined the licorice chewer, addressing him as “General.” He also sat stiffly. Light glinted off their lapels, and then she realized that they wore medals and were in some kind of stiff uniform. Russians, maybe?
Her idea was quickly dispelled when a man bearing a tray of small, steaming tea glasses appeared. She could smell the mint from her seat. A Moroccan delegation playing hooky from state affairs? Diplomats didn’t wear uniforms, but the military did.
The General leaned forward, his posture stiff but his eyes alight. He chewed the licorice in time to the crashing cymbals beaten by a sad-faced clown, in a black-and-white Pierrot costume, standing in the center. Aimee realized that the bear’s paws pedaled in time to the cymbals.
Aimee stood up and made her way to the lobby. On the rest-room door hung a sign saying CLOSED FOR CLEANING. Aimee stuck her head in.
“Samia?”
No answer. Just the drip of water echoing off the tiles.
She wondered if this was a setup. Going in would be inviting trouble. Yet she worried about Samia.
She walked toward the red velvet drapes at the backstage entrance, giving herself time to think. This part of the
And then, on her left, Aimee heard the unmistakable sound of a safety being clicked off. Her pulse jumped as she dodged and reached for her Beretta. But from behind a large warm hand enclosed hers. She never managed a scream since another one clamped over her mouth.
She back-kicked her heel and tried to twist away. Her head Car a Black was slammed against the woodwork, hard. The pressure, like a band of white heat, tightened around her head.
Too bad her kicks landed in the air, not in the groin of whoever or whatever gripped her in a headlock. She jacknifed her body, turning until her spike heels impacted hamstring hard muscle. She heard the growl of pain, and ground her heels in harder.
Something glittered. For a brief moment she saw a huge hand, with a diamond ring shaped like a star. Then she twisted and kicked again. Anything to release that pressure on her head. She screamed, trying to get attention or help.
She tried to roll, but her legs didn’t obey.
And then she poked and jabbed back, flailing at the air until she hit something soft like tissue. A man’s cry reached her. She’d either gotten him in the eye or the nuts. Either way it had to hurt. But she was down on the floor, face to face with a hideous forties red floral carpet. Now her legs responded. She tried to push off the floor.
“
With as much force as she had, she elbowed behind her and scrambled to her feet. She heard him crash into the metal pails and swear. Running and falling, she kept on going.
A loud roar sounded, like a high-speed TGV. Her chest reverberated as something punched her in the back. And she knew she’d been shot. The bullet-proof vest hadn’t absorbed the whole of the bullet’s impact. A burning sensation stung her hip. She stumbled but caught herself.
Wall plaster rained over her black leather. Don’t think about the bullets, she told herself as terror gripped her—keep running. Don’t stop. There were loud shouts, the sounds of someone running into the metal buckets. Applause reached her ears, the performance was over, patrons streamed into the lobby.
Screaming and barreling past the velvet curtains, Aimee ran into something large and furry. The Siberian bear growled, and then all she heard was white noise.
AIMEE GREW aware of an odd taste in her mouth, grit on her face, and something wet on her chin. Drool. And slits of fractured darkness. Prickly stubs poked her ears and nose, sweet and crinkling. Hay.
By the time she realized she was under a burlap bag, she was ripping her way out with torn red fingernails. Her head throbbed. The ground shook. The earth was moving—not the way she liked it to.
At least the leather jumpsuit had protected her. The bear was gone.
Then she remembered.
She’d crawled into a feed trough for animals—the first thing she’d stumbled across after the stage entrance. She untangled her legs and reached for her bag, still strapped over her shoulder. Her side pulsed with pain. She took short breaths—big ones hurt—afraid to touch the spot where her bullet-proof vest had failed.
Despite her sore head and body, the ground shaking helped her get up quickly. Grabbing a ledge beside her, she plowed into the tail of a wrinkled gray elephant. She scooted out before the stamping feet got any closer. The elephant’s trunk picked up the burlap, tossed, then stomped on it. Just in time, Aimee thought, trying to ignore her splitting headache.
A trainer led a pair of chestnut mares over the cobblestones. He clucked and said some soothing words. She followed the trio past the sign ENTREE DES ARTISTES and nipped into the first empty stall. It had a waist-high wooden partition and was vacant except for a pile of fragrant hay.
She knelt down and felt her head, gingerly. A bump had blossomed like a big onion. Carefully she smoothed her hair and unrolled a gray parachute silk raincoat from her bag. Her legs wobbled.
From the neighboring stall, she heard a horse slurping water and flicking its wire-haired tail against the buzzing flies. She slid out of her slingbacks, which had somehow stayed on her feet, and into her red Converse hightops and laced them quickly. For the last touch, she donned a pair of large-framed horn-rimmed glasses. Before her head split in two, she was going to go back inside and find who’d whacked her. But first she needed to deal with the bullet throbbing in her side.
