“
The echo of her voice and faint meow of a cat reached her ears. Water dripped from somewhere. In the late evening, unseasonably warm for October, dampness from lichen encrusted water pipes chilled her.
“Monsieur?”
Why didn’t the man who’d telephoned answer? He’d said he was waiting.
She stepped past the barricade, scanning the dark passage, waiting in the shadowed stillness for a reply. Had he given up?
Cellophane wrappers crackled under her black Prada mules, a Porte de Vanves flea market find. Worn once. Or so the vendor said before she’d bargained him down to 300 francs.
The scent of night-flowering jasmine floated from a hidden garden behind the damp wall. Was the man playing games? She didn’t have time for this.
One of the phones in her handbag rang.
She picked it up.
“Look, monsieur, a woman forgot her phone and I picked it up. I’d like to return it, I’m in the passage.”
“What are you talking about?” her partner asked. “I thought you were dining with Vincent?”
“I’m in the Passage de la Boule Blanche. A woman left her cell phone in the resto and I was trying to return it to her.”
“What happened with Vincent?”
Now she’d have to admit the awful truth. She’d wanted to tell Rene in person.
“We were in the resto until Vincent tore up our contract,” she said, “Then he stomped out, leaving me with the bill.”
“I won’t lie or cheat for clients.”
“There’s always a first time!” Rene snorted.
“At least not for conglomerates like Populax.”
The phone clicked.
“Hold on, I’m at the office,” Rene said. “I have another call.”
Aimee picked her way over the uneven path toward a widening of the passage. No windows here. Just wet cobblestones underfoot with shimmers of fluorescent graffiti catching licks of light. Further on, she knew it intersected with the dimly lit rue de Charenton.
She’d already left her dog, Miles Davis, with Rene’s neighbor, a female impersonator who performed in a club in Les Halles.
She smelled something tangy and tart. Cloth rustled. Aimee hitched up her leather backpack and grabbed her sharp keys in her fist as a defense. Before she could turn, viselike hands clamped around her neck, squeezing and choking her. She screamed but no sound came out.
Slammed into the wall, her face scraped the moss-speckled stone. Pain exploded in her skull. Then she was pulled back and slammed again. She grabbed at her throat, struggling to pull off those hands, to summon help.
Air. She had to get air.
Panic flooded her. She couldn’t breathe. Twisting, turning, trying to bite and scratch those hands.
In the distance she heard a dropped bottle shatter, then a disgusted “
Something wet seeped over her dress. She heard a ringing sound echoing off the dark walls. The last things she saw before she lost consciousness were stars peeking between the jagged roof tiles in the Paris sky.
RENE FRIANT STRETCHED HIS short legs, adjusting the tight headset while scanning the computer screen at his desk. Shadows filled the corners of the office. He wished he were home, not on the phone with a furious Vincent Csarda, who had spoken without taking a breath for at least two minutes.
“This Incandescent fiasco could lose me the Opera Bastille marketing campaign,” said Vincent. “We’re trying to revitalize the
“Of course, Vincent. You know that, I know that,” Rene said, his tone soothing. Revitalizing took on different meanings depending on the person, Rene thought. Areas of the
“Aimee and I will work it out with the Judiciare,” he said, hoping to placate Vincent.
From his custom orthopedic chair Rene noticed cobwebs on the high ceiling over the map of Paris which was sectioned into
Outside, the dark shapes of the trees on rue du Louvre brushed the tall windows. In the distance, streetlights along the Seine glittered. “Vincent, Incandescent’s scandal touches each firm who’s worked with them. Guilt by association, unless proven otherwise. Your Populax is no exception. Let’s just let
“Don’t you understand . . .”
“Vincent,” Rene interrupted, with a sigh. “Let me speak with the Judiciare’s assistant first thing tomorrow, see what I can do.”
Silence. Vincent had hung up.
Rene rubbed his eyes, cranked down his chair and realized he had several security backup tapes to record. And today’s data to monitor.
Then he remembered.
He’d left Aimee on the line.
He clicked back to her on the phone. And heard the sounds of someone choking.
SEARING BURSTS OF PAIN, a flashing staccato of agony and light hit Aimee. Then a heavy, hideous compression jammed her skull. Spread across her cranium, leveled her. Like nothing she’d ever felt.
She opened her mouth with a cry that took all the air from her. Her universe, cliffs and peaks of hurt, throbbed. A shim-mery cold spiked her spine. Everything folded into dark; all was furry and fuzzy.
And then she threw up. Everywhere. All down her Chinese silk jacket. She reached out to what felt like leaves, wet with clingy bits of vomit. Then she fell over, her nails scraping the stone. Night starlings tittered above her.
Rene’s voice sounded faraway. “Aimee, Aimee! What happened? Are you hurt? Are you still there?”
Rene was on the phone . . . but he was so far away. She tried to speak but her mouth wouldn’t work. No words came out. No rescue plea. No sound.
A MONOTONOUS BEEPING SLOWLY penetrated Aimee’s consciousness, layer by layer. It was as though her head was stuffed with cotton and her mouth full of dry gauze. Her head felt fat, smashed, swollen. Constant aching,
