A Tangled Web (56 page)

“Max, go back!” she screamed.

“Sabrina! Where are—” Stephanie heard a pop behind her, like a firecracker, and saw Max stagger and fall against the car.

“Max!” She stumbled and fell to one knee, then got up and ran on. Her knee stung and she saw blood running down her leg. “Max, go away, he's after you—”

“Get down!” Max's voice was a grunt, and as the gun fired again he and Stephanie dropped to the ground at the same time. Stephanie crawled rapidly along the pavement, grimacing with the sharp pain of her cut knee, until she turned the corner of the building. She heard the gun fire again, twice, as Max made a dash from his car to the other side of the building; then there was silence. She moved farther until she came to a recessed doorway and she huddled within it, holding her legs to her chest. She could not see either man; there was no sound but the steady rush of the wind. Then suddenly Max was there, silently putting his arm around her, pulling her against him. Blood from her knee stained the front of his shirt, but there was blood, too, soaking the upper part of his sleeve.

“Max, he hit you—”

“Hush.” He kissed her, a brief, despairing kiss. “I love you. I couldn't leave you. Stay here.
Stay here
,” And then, his bloodied arm dangling, he left the doorway. He searched along the edge of the building until he found a large rounded stone, and took it with him as he moved away from Stephanie, back in the direction from which he had come. She watched him as he moved crablike, keeping his right side close to the building, until he reached the far corner. He turned and threw the rock the length of the building to the corner closer to Stephanie. It struck the wall, and as it took a bounce on the pavement, he disappeared around the corner.

Stephanie waited. Drawn back into the doorway, she saw only the shadow of the man as he peered around the corner where the rock had struck. Almost at the same time, another shadow joined it and then both shadows disappeared as Max threw himself on the man's back and they crashed to the ground. They fought on the pavement amid the sharp stones, grunting, cursing, rolling over each other.

Max felt the man trying to choke him, one hand driving knifelike against his larynx, and he slammed his knee into the man's crotch and heard him yowl as he relaxed his hand on Max's throat. Max was older but taller and heavier and so driven by terror
—he'll kill her; he won't be satisfied with me because she can identify him—
that nothing could hold him down. The man's black slouch-brimmed hat went flying, blood streaked the pavement, and then the shiny silver gun skidded along the ground.

Stephanie leaped from the doorway and swept it up. “Max!” She crawled closer to the writhing men. “Max, the gun!”

“
Merde!
” Max roared at the man and flung him off. He grabbed the gun from Stephanie's outstretched hand, aimed it shakily with his left hand—but he's right-handed, Stephanie thought, and then realized that it was his right arm that had been hit—and fired.

The man screamed and clutched his stomach. Max fired again, but his body was sagging and the bullet hit the building. “
Merde,
” he whispered, this time to himself.

Stephanie crawled to him and put her arms around him, cradling him. “We've got to get to the car; get you to a doctor. Can you—”

“No, wait. Have to rest.” His breath was rasping in his chest and he slumped against her. “Too damn . . . old for . . . this sort of . . . thing.”

“Max, who is he?”

“Sent by . . . someone. To kill me. Sabrina, get out . . . out of Cavaillon; they want you, too.”

“No, he said it was only you . . .”

“ . . . a lackey . . . doesn't know anything. That's why I . . . came back. To get you. Couldn't leave you.” He shifted his arm, grunting with the pain. “He was . . . at the house?”

“Yes, in his car, when I left this morning. He was in the churchyard yesterday, too; you saw him. Max,
who sent him?
”

“ . . . doesn't matter. As long as you get out . . . get away . . .”

“What good will it do? He found you this time.”

“Chance. A stupid accident. A favor for a friend . . . a good deed . . . should have known better . . . not the type to do good deeds . . . and it backfired. It won't happen to you. Listen to me—”

“How did you know I was up here?”

“Madame Besset. And he'd been on our terrace, so I knew he was around. Went out the back at midnight; didn't see him, but I knew he was . . . somewhere . . . so I had to come back . . . couldn't leave you. Then I saw his car. Christ, so close . . . he could have killed you . . . shouldn't have left you alone. Sabrina, get out, get out, you're not safe!”

“You didn't say that yesterday.”

He gave a weak bark of laughter. “I thought . . . love . . . and being together . . . Christ, what a fool, to think that love was enough.”

Stephanie was crying. She held him to her breast, her head bent over his. She had never cared for him so much. “Max, I've got to get you to a doctor. You can crawl, can't you? Where are the keys to your car?”

“Left them in it.” He raised his good hand and caressed Stephanie's face. “So beautiful . . . made my life bright. Sabrina, listen . . . listen . . . if I don't make it—”

“Don't say that! Max, we're going to your car. Come on, now, I'll help—”

“—call Robert. He'll take care of you. He knows what to do.
Call Robert.
Say you will.”

“Of course I will; I'll call him anyway; he'll help us. Now come on, Max, please, I can't carry you . . .”

“Try . . .” Grunting, he tried to push himself up, using his good arm, and at that moment the other man gathered himself together and leaped upon them, knocking them backwards. Stephanie's head hit the pavement and for a moment the world was black. Max was on top of her, crushing her, and she could not breathe; blood throbbed in
her head, bursting against her eyeballs. She dragged breath into her lungs and tried to scream, but no sound came. I'm going to die, she thought, and heard the gun fire, and fire again, and with a fierce effort she thrust herself up and pushed Max off her.

She opened her eyes and saw the building nearby, blurred and wavering, and clouds trailing like torn ribbons across the deep blue sky. She felt cool air on her face and a terrible pain at the back of her head, and then her vision cleared and she saw Max's head near her own, unmoving.

She took long gasping breaths and slowly came to her hands and knees. She stayed there, swaying a little, her head down, then moved stiffly to Max. Blood covered the front of his shirt; he was staring at nothing. “No, no, no,” Stephanie whispered, and laid her face against his and held her fingers to the side of his neck to find a pulse. “Max, please be alive, please be alive.” But there was no response; there was no pulse. She stayed there for a long time, until she told herself that he was dead.

She sat up and gazed at his face, the deep lines that had only recently appeared, his halo of grizzled hair, his tight gray beard. She put her hand over his eyes and closed them. “You didn't have to stay,” she whispered. She was crying again. “Oh, Max, you didn't have to stay. You were gone; he didn't know where. You were safe. And even when you came back, when you saw his car, you could have turned around. You could have run.”

A few feet away, the other man sprawled across piles of rocks, blood soaking his pants. His eyes stared at the sky. And from the other side of the building came the sound of a tourist bus lumbering up the hill.

They were hidden from the main parking lot and viewing platform by the long side of the building. Without thinking it through, Stephanie knew she had to hide them. She did not know what Max had done or who had sent his murderer and still might want to kill her, and since she could explain nothing she knew she had to keep this a
secret, at least until she could talk to Robert. Robert would know what to do. Robert knew more than she did.

So, crying, gasping with pain as she struggled with their deadweight, she dragged Max and then the gunman around the corner to the inside angle of the L-shaped building, and piled rocks in front of them. If tourists came around to see the view from this side of the summit, it would be almost impossible to make anything out in the deeply shadowed rock-filled niche where they lay.

She bent over Max and touched his face. She kissed his closed eyes and his mouth. “I'm sorry, Max. I'm sorry I couldn't love you; I'm sorry I couldn't stay with you. I'm sorry I can't stay with you now or take you down with me. If I could . . .”

The brakes of the tour bus squealed; the pneumatic door hissed as it opened. In Spanish the driver told his passengers how long they had to admire the view, and not to wander down the mountain or stand too close to the edge. Over his voice came the sound of another bus, close behind, with another load of tourists.

Stephanie took off her torn jacket and brushed herself off, wiping her bloody knee with tissue from her pocket. She ran her fingers through her hair and took deep breaths, trying to still her trembling. She wanted someone to hold her, she wanted to cry in someone's lap, but there was no one.
I'm depending on myself.

But Robert will help me, she thought again. Max said he'd know what to do. I have Robert to help me with everything. And Léon . . . oh, Léon, my love, when I feel a little stronger, when I don't come to you as a child, then we'll be together.

It had been only a few minutes since the buses had arrived. She was still trembling, but she was able to stand straight, her head high, and she walked away from the protection of the building, moving quickly, purposefully, to Max's car, ignoring the buses and anyone who might be looking. The key was in the ignition; she turned it, backed out of the lot and drove down the mountain.

*   *   *

It was after nine o'clock that night before it was dark enough for Robert and Stephanie and Andrew Frick to drive up Mont Ventoux unobserved. When Stephanie had arrived that morning after driving recklessly, almost blindly, through the streets of Cavaillon, she and Robert had held each other and wept together, wrenching tears that were perhaps the only ones that had ever been shed for Max. Then, exhausted, she had fallen asleep on the couch in Robert's apartment, and Robert struggled with the tears that would not stop and with a sense of unreality as he called Andrew and made the arrangements Max had laid out for him.

Confident Max, invulnerable Max, the consummate schemer and manipulator and survivor . . . how could he be gone? For all that he had done that forced Robert to turn a blind eye, for all that he had been that Robert bemoaned—what a great man he might have been had he turned his talents and energy to true leadership!—for all that, he had helped Robert when Robert needed him; they had been friends; they had loved each other.

Robert did not know what job Andrew Frick had with Max, but his name and telephone number were among Max's instructions, and so it was Andrew, crying, cursing Max's killer, who drove Robert and Stephanie in his van up Mont Ventoux as the sky darkened and a sliver of a moon rose over the Alps. “The main thing is, the police can't know,” he said.

“No,” Robert agreed. He had wrestled with that problem all day, and concluded that there was too much at stake for the police to investigate the shooting death of Max and his assassin. Robert's obligation now was to Sabrina, and Max had told him that she could be in danger. A police investigation would expose her, her picture would be in the newspapers, other unknown men might come for her. And whatever Max's business had been, it was obviously not one that would withstand police scrutiny, and that could harm Sabrina, too. There was Max's
Swiss bank account, which Robert would turn over to Sabrina, there was the title to the house and the cars, there were valuable antiques, all of them hers now. But perhaps not so easily hers if the police were brought in. She could be left with nothing but the taint of having been Max's wife.

So, my dear friend, we will give you a private funeral, and make our private farewells. And since you were a private man, it seems right that that is what we do.

“Neither of them can be found,” he said to Andrew.

“Right. We'll have to take care of both of them.”

On the summit of Mont Ventoux, so dark when they turned off their headlights that they could not see each other, they found the bodies where Stephanie had left them, behind crude piles of rocks. Andrew drove close to them and the three of them lifted them into the back, dimly lit by the van's ceiling light. Then Andrew retrieved Stephanie's bicycle and helmet and locked them in the rack on the back of the van.

“That man's car,” Stephanie said. “There may be something in it.”

“He never gave you a name?” Robert asked.

She shook her head. “Or where he came from. But Max knew. He wouldn't tell me, but he knew who sent him. He knew who wanted him . . . dead.”

Andrew put his arm around her and squeezed, thinking that this was the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen, and trust Max to keep her a secret. Old Max, sixty, he'd said once, sixty years old and good enough to get this incredible woman. Christ, he thought, what the hell am I going to do without Max? Not that I can't find work—I can always do that—but he made it so much fun.

They found the car still parked unobtrusively in a corner of the parking lot, a rental agency sticker on its license plate. Inside, they found another gun, three passports with different names and countries of origin, a map of Provence, a thermos of coffee, a half-eaten sandwich, and a photo of Max torn out of a glossy magazine.

“But he has no beard,” Robert exclaimed.

“And his hair is red; I never knew it was red,” Stephanie said. “He looks so much younger.” She felt a deep sadness; she had known almost nothing about him.