Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

“What about the investigation?” asked Jordan. “Any progress?”

“Very slow. You know how it is, M. Tavistock. In a city as large as Paris, the police, they are overworked. You cannot be impatient.”

“And my uncle? Have you been able to reach him?”

“He is in complete agreement with my planned course of action.”

“Is he coming to Paris?”

“He is detained. Business keeps him at home, I am afraid.”

“At home? But I thought…” Jordan paused. Didn’t Beryl say Uncle Hugh had left Chetwynd?

M. Jarre rose from the table. “Rest assured that all that can be done, will be done. I have instructed the police to transfer you to a more comfortable cell.”

“Thank you,” said Jordan, still puzzling over the reference to Uncle Hugh. As the attorney was leaving the room, Jordan called out, “M. Jarre? Did my uncle happen to mention how his…negotiations went in London?”

The attorney glanced back. “They are still in progress, I understand. But I am sure he will tell you himself.” He gave a nod of farewell. “Good evening, M. Tavistock. I hope you find your new cell more agreeable.” He walked out.

What the dickens is going on? thought Jordan. He wondered about this all the way to his cell-his new cell. One look at the pair of shady characters seated inside and his suspicions about M. Jarre deepened. This was more agreeable quarters?

Reluctantly Jordan stepped inside and flinched at the clang of the door shutting behind him. The jailer walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

The two prisoners were staring at his fine Italian shoes, which contrasted dreadfully with the regulation prison garb he was wearing.

“Hello,” said Jordan, for want of anything else to say.

“Anglais?” asked one of the men.

Jordan swallowed. “Oui. Anglais.”

The man grunted and pointed to an empty bunk. “Yours.”

Jordan went to the bunk, set his bundle of street clothes on the foot of the bed, and stretched out on the mattress. As the two prisoners babbled away in French, Jordan kept wondering about that greasy attorney and why he had lied about Uncle Hugh. If only he could get in touch with Beryl, ask her what was going on…

He sat up at the sound of footsteps approaching the cell. It was the guard, escorting yet another prisoner-this one a balding, round-cheeked man with a definite waddle and a pleasant enough face. The sort of fellow you’d expect to see standing behind a bakery counter. Not your typical criminal, thought Jordan. But then, neither am I.

The man entered the cell and was directed to the fourth and last bunk. He sat down, looking stunned by the circumstances in which he found himself. François was his name, and from what Jordan could gather using his elementary command of French, the man’s crime had something to do with the fair sex. Solicitation, perhaps? François was not eager to talk about it. He simply sat on his bed and stared at the floor. We’re both new to this, thought Jordan.

The other two cellmates were still watching him. Sullen young men, obviously sociopathic. He’d have to keep his eye on them.

Supper came-an atrocious goulash accompanied by French bread. Jordan stared at the muddy brown gravy and thought wistfully of his supper the night before-poached salmon and roast duckling. Ah, well. One had to eat regardless of one’s circumstances. What a shame there wasn’t a bottle of wine to wash down the meal. A nice Beaujolais, perhaps, or just a common Burgundy. He took a bite of goulash and decided that even a bad bottle of wine would be welcome-anything to dull the taste of this gravy. He forced himself to eat it and made a silent vow that when he got out of here- if he got out of here-the first place he’d head for was a decent restaurant.

At midnight, the lights were turned off. Jordan stretched out on the blanket and made every effort to sleep, but found he couldn’t. For one thing, his cellmates were snoring to wake the dead. For another, the day’s events kept playing and replaying in his mind. That drive with Colette from Boulevard Saint-Germain. The way she had glanced at the rearview mirror. If only he had paid more attention to who might be following them back to the hotel. And then, against his will, he remembered the horror of finding her body in the car, remembered the stickiness of her blood on his hands.

Rage bubbled up inside him-an impotent sense of fury about her death. It’s my fault, he thought. If she hadn’t been watching over him, protecting him.

But that’s not why she died, Jordan thought suddenly. He was nowhere nearby when it happened. So why did they kill her? Did she know something, see something…

…or someone?

His thoughts veered in a new direction. Colette must have spotted a face in her rearview mirror, a face in the car that was following them. After she’d dropped Jordan off at the Ritz, maybe she’d seen that someone again. Or he’d seen her and knew she could identify him.

Which made the killer someone Colette knew. Someone she recognized.

He was so intent on piecing together the puzzle, he didn’t pay much attention to the creak of the bunk springs somewhere in the cell. Only when he heard the soft rustle of movement did he realize that one of his cellmates was approaching his bed.

It was dark; he could make out only faintly a shadowy figure moving toward him. One of those young hoods, he thought, come to rifle his jacket.

Jordan lay perfectly still and willed his breathing to remain deep and even. Let the coward think I’m still asleep. When he moves close enough, I’ll surprise him.

The shadow slipped quietly through the darkness. Six feet away, now five. Jordan ’s heart was pounding, his muscles already tensed for action. Just a little closer. A little closer. He’ll be reaching for the jacket hanging at the foot of the bed…

But the man moved instead to Jordan ’s head. There was a faint arc of shadow-an arm being raised to deliver a blow. Jordan ’s hand shot out just as his assailant attacked.

He caught the other man’s wrist and heard a grunt of surprise. His attacker came at him with his free hand. Jordan deflected the blow and scrambled off the bunk. Still gripping his attacker’s wrist, he gave it a vicious twist, eliciting a yelp of pain. The man was thrashing to get free now, but Jordan held on. He was not going to get away. Not without learning a lesson. He shoved the man backward and heard the satisfying thud of his opponent’s body hitting the cinder-block wall. The man groaned and tried to pull free. Again, Jordan shoved. This time they both toppled over onto a cot, landing on its sleeping occupant. The man in Jordan ’s grasp began to writhe, to jerk. At once Jordan realized this was no longer a man fighting to free himself. This was a man in the throes of a convulsion.

He heard the sound of footsteps and then the cell lights flashed on. A guard yelled at him in French.

Jordan released his assailant and backed away in surprise. It was the moon-faced François. The man lay sprawled on the bed, his limbs twitching, his eyes rolled back. The young hood on whom François had landed frantically rolled away from beneath the body and stared in horror at the bizarre display.

François gave a last grunt of agony and fell still.

For a few seconds, everyone watched him, expecting him to move again. He didn’t.

The guard gave a shout for assistance. Another guard came running. Yelling at the prisoners to stand back, they rushed into the cell and examined the motionless François. Slowly they straightened and looked at Jordan.

“Est mort,” one of them murmured.

“That-that’s impossible!” said Jordan. “How can he be dead? I didn’t hit him that hard!”