Tess Gerritsen - In Their Footsteps

Richard had a hunch that the landlord’s departure from the country just might be the most important clue they had. If he could locate Rideau’s current whereabouts and question him about those events of twenty years before…

He knocked at each flat in the building, but came up with no leads. Twenty years was a long time; people moved in, moved out. No one remembered any M. Rideau.

Richard went outside and stood for a moment on the sidewalk. A ball hurtled past, pursued by a pack of scruffy kids. The endless soccer match, he mused, watching the tangle of dirty arms and legs.

Over the children’s heads, he spotted an elderly woman sitting on her stoop. At least seventy years old, he guessed. Perhaps she’d lived here long enough to know the former residents of this street.

He went over to the woman and spoke to her in French. “Good afternoon.”

She smiled a sweet, toothless grin.

“I am trying to find someone who remembers M. Jacques Rideau. The man who used to own that building over there.” He pointed to number 66.

Also in French, she answered: “He moved away.”

“You knew him, then?”

“His son was all the time visiting in my house.”

“I understand the whole family left France.”

She nodded. “They went to Greece. And how do you suppose he managed that, eh? Him, with that old car! And the clothes their children wore! But off they go to their villa.” She sighed. “And I am here, where I’ll always be.”

Richard frowned. “Villa?”

“I hear they have a villa, near the sea. Of course, it may not be true-the boy was always making up stories. Why should he start telling the truth? But he claimed it was a villa, with flowers growing up the posts.” She laughed. “They must all be dead by now.”

“The family?”

“The flowers. They could not even remember to water their pots of geraniums.”

“Do you know where in Greece they moved to?”

The woman shrugged. “Somewhere near the sea. But then, isn’t all of Greece near the sea?”

“The name of the village?”

“Why should I remember these things? He was not my boyfriend.”

Frustrated, Richard was about to turn away when he suddenly registered what the woman had just said. “You mean, the landlord’s son-he was your daughter’s boyfriend?”

“My granddaughter.”

“Did he call her? Write her any letters?”

“A few. Then he stopped.” She shook her head. “That is how it is with young people. No devotion.”

“Did she keep any of those letters?”

The woman laughed. “All of them. To remind her husband what a fine catch he made.”

It took a bit of persuasion for Richard to be invited inside the old woman’s apartment. It was a dark, cramped flat. Two small children sat at the kitchen table, gnawing fistfuls of bread. Another woman-most likely in her mid-thirties, but with much older eyes-sat spooning cereal into an infant’s mouth.

“He wants to see your letters from Gerard,” said the grandmother.

The younger woman eyed Richard with suspicion.

“It’s important I speak with his father,” explained Richard.

“His father doesn’t want to be found,” she said, and resumed feeding the baby.

“Why not?”

“How should I know? Gerard didn’t tell me.”

“Does it have to do with the murders? The two English people?”

She paused, the spoon halfway to the baby’s mouth. “You are English?”

“No, American.” He sat down across from her. “Do you remember the murders?”

“It was a long time ago.” She wiped the baby’s face. “I was only fifteen.”

“Gerard wrote you letters, then stopped. Why?”

The woman gave a bitter laugh. “He lost interest. Men always do.”

“Or something could have happened to him. Maybe he couldn’t write to you. And he wanted to, very much.”

Again, she paused.

“If I go to Greece, I can inquire on your behalf. I only need to know the name of the village.”

She sat for a moment, thinking. Wiping up the baby’s mess. She looked at her two children, both of them runny nosed and whining. She’s longing to escape, he imagined. Wishing her life had turned out some other way. Any other way. And she’s thinking about this long-lost boyfriend, and how things might have been, for the two of them, in a villa by the sea…

She stood up and went into another room. A moment later, she returned and laid a thin bundle of letters down on the table.

There were only four-not exactly a record of devotion. All were still tucked in their envelopes. Richard skimmed their contents, noting an outpouring of adolescent yearnings. “I will come back for you. I will love you always. Do not forget me…” By the fourth letter, the passion was clearly cooling.

There was no return address, either on the letters or on the envelopes. The family’s whereabouts were obviously meant to be kept secret. But on one of the envelopes, a postmark was clearly printed: Paros, Greece.

Richard handed the letters back to the woman. She cradled them for a moment, as though savoring the memories. So many years ago, a lifetime ago, and see what has become of me…

“If you find Gerard…if he is still alive,” she said, “ask him…”

“Yes?” Richard said gently.

She sighed. “Ask him if he remembers me.”

“I will.”

She held the letters a moment longer. And then, with a sigh, she laid them aside and picked up the spoon. In silence, she began to feed the baby.

He made one more stop before returning to the flat, this time at the Sacred Heart Nursing Home.

It was a far grimmer institution than the one Richard had visited the day before. No private rooms here, no sweet-faced nuns gliding down the halls. This was one step above a prison, and a crowded one at that, with three or four patients to a room, many of them restrained in their beds. Julee Parmentier, François’s retarded sister, occupied one of the grimmest rooms of all. Barely clothed, she lay on top of a plastic-lined mattress. Protective mitts covered her hands; around her waist was a wide belt, its ends secured to the bed with just enough slack for her to shift from side to side, but not sit up. She barely seemed to register Richard’s presence; instead she moaned and stared relentlessly at the ceiling.

“She has been like this for many years,” said the nurse. “An accident, when she was twelve. She fell from a tree and hit her head on some stones.”

“She can’t speak at all? Can’t communicate?”

“When her brother François would visit, he said she would smile. He insisted he saw it. But…” The nurse shrugged. “I saw nothing.”

“Did he visit often?”

“Every day. The same time, nine o’clock in the morning. He would stay until lunch, then he would go to his work at the gallery.”

“He did this every day?”

“Yes. And on Sunday he would stay later-until four o’clock.”

Richard gazed at the woman in the bed and tried to imagine what it must have been like for François to sit for hours in this room with its noise and its smells. To devote every free hour of his life to a sister who could not even recognize his face.

“It is a tragedy,” said the nurse. “He was a good man, François.”

They left the room and walked away from the sight of that pitiful creature lying on her plastic sheet.

“What will happen to her now?” asked Richard. “Will someone see that she’s cared for?”

“It hardly matters now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Her kidneys are failing.” The nurse glanced up the hall, toward Julee Parmentier’s room, and shook her head sadly. “Another month, two months, and she will be dead.”