Tess Gerritsen: In Their Footsteps

Even if they are stupid, dangerous decisions? wondered Foch. At last he said, “It will be tonight. We wait for him to sleep.”

“Tonight,” agreed Sutherland. “I’ll be there.”

At eleven-thirty, Jordon turned off the lights in his hotel room, stuffed three pillows under the bedspread, and fluffed it all up so that it vaguely resembled a human shape. Then he took his position by the door, next to Richard. In the darkness they sat and waited for something to happen. Anything to happen. So far, the evening had been a screaming bore. Daumier had made him a prisoner of his own hotel room. He’d watched two hours of telly, glanced through Paris Match, and completed five crossword puzzles. What must I do to attract this assassin? he wondered. Send him an engraved invitation?

Sighing, he leaned back against the wall. “Is this the sort of thing you used to do, Wolf?” he murmured.

“A lot of waiting around. A lot of boredom,” said Richard. “And every so often, a moment of abject terror.”

“What made you leave the business? The boredom or the terror?”

Richard paused. “The rootlessness.”

“Ah. The man longs for home and hearth.” Jordan smiled. “So tell me, does my sister figure into the equation?”

“Beryl is…one of a kind.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“The answer is, I don’t know,” Richard admitted. He squared his shoulders to ease the tension in his muscles. “Sometimes, it seems like the world’s worst possible match. Sure, I can put on a tuxedo, stand around swirling a snifter of brandy. But I don’t fool anyone, least of all myself. And certainly not Beryl.”

“You really think that’s what she needs? A fop in black tie?”

“I don’t know what she needs. Or what she wants. I know she probably thinks she’s in love. But how the devil can anyone know for certain, when things are so crazy?”

“You wait till things aren’t so crazy. Then you decide.”

“And live with the consequences.”

“You’re already lovers, aren’t you?”

Richard looked at him in surprise. “Are you always so inquisitive about your sister’s love life?”

“I’m her closest male relative. And therefore responsible for defending her honor.” Jordan laughed softly. “Someday, Wolf, I may have to shoot you. That is, if I survive the night.”

They both laughed. And they settled back to wait.

At 1:00 a.m., they heard the faint click of a door closing in the hallway. Had someone just stepped out of the stairwell? Instantly Jordan snapped fully alert, his adrenaline kicking into overdrive. He whispered, “Did you hear-”

Richard was already rising to a crouch. Through the darkness, Jordan could sense the other man tensing for action. Where were Daumier’s agents? he wondered frantically. Were the two of them on their own?

A key grated slowly in the lock. Jordan froze, heart thundering, the sweat breaking out on his palms. The gun felt slippery in his grasp.

The door swung open; two figures slowly edged into the room. The first took aim at the bed. A single bullet was all the gunman managed to squeeze off before Richard flew at him sideways. The force of his assault sent both men thudding to the floor.

Jordan shoved his gun into the ribs of the second intruder and barked, “Freeze!”

To Jordan’s astonishment, the man didn’t freeze, but turned and fled from the room.

Jordan dashed after him into the hall, just in time to see the two French agents tackle the fugitive to the floor. They yanked him, kicking and squirming, back to his feet. In amazement, Jordan stared at the man. “Anthony?”

“I’m bleeding!” spat Anthony Sutherland. “They broke my nose! I think they broke my nose!”

“Keep squealing, and they’ll break a lot more,” growled Richard.

Jordan turned and saw Richard haul the gunman out of the room. He yanked his head back, so Jordan could see his face. “Take a good look. Recognize him?”

“Why, it’s my bogus attorney,” said Jordan. “M. Jarre.”

Richard nodded and forced the balding Frenchman to the floor. “Now let’s find out his real name.”

“It’s extraordinary,” mused Reggie, “how very much you look like your mother.”

The butler had long since cleared away the coffee cups, and Helena had vanished upstairs to see to the guest room. Beryl and Reggie sat alone together, enjoying a nip of brandy in his wood-paneled library. A fire crackled in the hearth-not for warmth on this July night, but for reassurance, the ancestral comfort of flames against the night, against the world’s evils.

Beryl cradled the brandy snifter in her hands and watched the reflection of firelight in the golden liquid. She said, “When I remember her, it’s from a child’s point of view. So I remember only the things a child finds important. Her smile. The softness of her hands.”

“Yes, yes. That was Madeline.”

“I’ve been told she was quite enchanting.”

“She was,” said Reggie softly. “She was the loveliest, most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known…”

Beryl looked up and saw that he was staring at the fire as though seeing, in its flames, the faces of old ghosts. She gave him a fond look. “Mother told me once that you were her oldest and dearest friend.”

“Did she?” Reggie smiled. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. Did you know we played together, as children. In Cornwall…” He blinked and she thought she saw the faint gleam of tears on his lashes. “I was the first, you know,” he murmured. “Before Bernard. Before…” Sighing, he sank back in his chair. “But that was a long time ago.”

“You still think of her a great deal.”

“It’s difficult not to.” He drained his brandy glass. Unsteadily he poured another-his third. “Every time I look at you, I think, ‘There’s Madeline, come back to life.’ And I remember how much, how very much I miss her-” Suddenly he stiffened and glanced at the doorway. Helena was standing there, wearily shaking her head.

“You’ve had more than enough for tonight, Reggie.”

“It’s only my third.”

“And how many more will come after that one?”

“Bloody few, if you have your way.”

Helena came into the room and took his arm. “Come, darling. You’ve kept Beryl up long enough. It’s time for bed.”

“It’s only one o’clock.”

“Beryl’s tired. And you should be considerate.”

Reggie looked at their guest. “Oh. Oh, yes, perhaps you’re right.” He rose to his feet and moved on unsteady legs toward Beryl. She turned her face as he bent over to plant a kiss on her cheek. It was a wet, sloppy kiss, heavy with the smell of brandy, and she had to suppress the urge to pull away. He straightened, and once again she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. “Good night, dear,” he murmured. “You’ll be perfectly safe with us.”

With a sense of pity, Beryl watched the old man shuffle out of the library.

“He’s simply not able to tolerate spirits the way he used to,” said Helena, sighing. “The years pass, you know, and he forgets that things change. Including his capacity for liquor.” She gave Beryl a rueful smile. “I do hope he didn’t bore you too much.”

“Not at all. We talked about Mother. He said I remind him of her.”

Helena nodded. “Yes, you do resemble her. Of course, I didn’t know her nearly as well as Reggie did.” She sat down on the armrest of a chair. “I remember the first time I met her. It was at my wedding. Madeline and Bernard were there, practically newlyweds themselves. You could see it, just by the way they looked at each other. Quite a lovely couple…” Helena picked up Reggie’s brandy snifter, tidied the table. “When we met again in Paris, it was fifteen years later, and she hadn’t aged a bit. It was eerie how unchanged she was. When all the rest of us felt so acutely the passage of time.”