The Hotel Riviera (22 page)

Jack

Jack was shoveling sand for the concrete mixer, outside what used to be the kitchen. Helping out and supplying the workmen with a cold beer every now and then, sending out for big wheels of pizza piled with sausage and peppers, and generally coddling them got them working faster.

His phone rang, and he downed tools and answered it. “Jack Farrar,” he said.

“Mr. Farrar,” a man's voice answered, speaking in a low whisper, “if you wish to know where Patrick Laforêt is, then meet me in Nice, in the Place Garibaldi, tomorrow at five
A.M.
”

The line went dead. Jack clicked the caller ID, got a number, and dialed it. It was a public phone. He might have guessed it.

He thought about the voice, trying to identify it, but it was no one he knew. He thought of telling Lola about the call, then decided it would frighten her.

He called the car rental company and hired a car to be ready and waiting for him in Saint-Tropez, early the following morning.

Lola

I was alone with Miss Nightingale. Jack had gone for a sail on
Bad Dog,
and the security guard had retreated to the comfortable undamaged front hall of the hotel, where he was warming his toes and eating his supper while watching a portable TV.

The phone rang. I picked up and said hello wearily, thinking it was going to be the contractor again calling to say the tiles had failed to arrive and there would be a three-week delay.

“Listen to what I have to say,” a man said. “If you wish to see your husband alive, be in the village of La Turbie at six tomorrow morning. Let me make it clear, madame, if you wish Patrick to remain alive, you will be there. Do not go to the police, do not speak to anyone. If you do…” There was a long silence. “If you do, you know the consequences.”

I dropped the phone and stared, saucer-eyed, at Miss Nightingale. I repeated the message.

“He said I wasn't to tell anyone,” I added, shocked.

“Well, of course that doesn't include me,” Miss Nightingale said. “Of course you'd tell me.”

“What about Jack?”

“We should tell him too.” Miss N sounded very firm.

“But I can't tell him, they'll kill Patrick.”

“What if you don't show up?”

“I can't take that chance.”

Miss Nightingale heaved a sigh. “I still think we should tell Jack,” she said, “but if you insist on going, then of course I'm going with you.”

“Don't you see,” I said, “it's my only chance to find Patrick. I have to do it, Miss N. I just have to.”

Jack

Jack wasted exactly fifteen minutes loitering in the Place Garibaldi in Nice before realizing he had made a mistake. It was still early but he called Lola anyway. There was no reply. He frowned, worried. Why wasn't she answering? On an impulse, he called his own number. There was a message from Miss Nightingale.

“I'm breaking a confidence telling you this,” she said in the clipped British accent that always made him smile, “but Lola got this weird telephone call last night. The man made her promise not to tell, but of course she told
me,
and now I'm telling
you.
We're on our way to La Turbie to meet Patrick—at least, that's what the man said. He also told Lola that if she didn't show up, she knew what the consequences would be. And that made me think about my Tom, and what he would have done. So now, dear Jack, I'm telling you because I don't like the sound of this one little bit. Anyhow, we're to meet in the village square at La Turbie at six
A.M.
I'd be so pleased if you could join us,” she added, just as though she were inviting him to a party.

Jack clicked off the phone. He'd been duped, gotten out of the way. He was back in the rented Peugeot and on the road to La Turbie before Miss Nightingale could have said Jack Robinson.

 

The vehicle in front of Jack was a camouflage-green Hummer, wide and squat. In front of that was the little silver Fiat with Miss N at the wheel, belting along hell-for-leather, as though there were no hairpin bends and no hundred-foot drop. The Hummer was a shade behind and edging closer. Too close, Jack thought with a twinge of alarm. It looked as if the Hummer driver wanted to pass the Fiat, though how he hoped to manage that maneuver on this road and with the width of his vehicle, he had no idea.

He dropped back a bit, giving the Hummer room to fall back and stop pressing the Fiat so hard, but all he succeeded in doing was lengthening the gap between them. What the hell was wrong with them anyway? He peered through the windshield trying to catch a glimpse of the driver, but the windows were dark and all he could see was a silhouetted head.

“Idiot,” he yelled, leaning on the horn, but the driver took no notice.

Miss N

“My dear,” Miss Nightingale said to Lola, peering through the rearview mirror, “don't you think that army vehicle is too close to our tail?”

Lola checked. “That's no army vehicle, it's a customized Hummer, very expensive and murder on gas.”

“Hmmm,” Miss N said, pressing her foot to the metal. The little Fiat gave a hiccuping jolt, then surged forward, making Lola gasp.

“Oh my God,” she said, with a quick check of the sheer drop to the right. “Oh my God,
slow down,
Miss N. When we get to a turnabout just let him pass if he's in such a hurry.”

“Question is,
why
is he in such a hurry?” Miss N negotiated an S-bend with nonchalant flair, though in truth she was starting to get a little worried. The Hummer was still tailgating, forcing her to go even faster, and now she was afraid to slow down for fear it would hit them. There had been another car behind the Hummer earlier, but it was no longer there. There were no other cars on the road. They were, so to speak, on their own.

Jack

Steam hissed from the Peugeot's radiator and a clunking sound came from the engine as the car slid to a stop.

Jack slammed the steering wheel with both hands. He got out and surveyed the steam coming out of the radiator. What a fuckin' time to overheat. Now what? Miss N must be a mile away by now and that Hummer was right behind her. He dragged out the red warning flares, ran back a few yards, put them on the road and lit them. He stopped and stared into the rocky chasm below the road.

“Oh no,” he said, “oh no…” Grabbing his cell phone, he dialed the emergency number, told the police in execrable French/American that there was a dangerous driver on the Moyenne Corniche, he was afraid there was going to be an accident, it might even be a murder…Better get a helicopter out there
right now
.
Before it was too late
.

He hoped they'd taken him seriously as he jogged back up the road, heart pounding, praying as he'd never needed to pray in his life before. He heard a car behind him, spun round thumbing it. It slowed and he climbed in behind a startled German couple.

“Hurry,” he told them, “there's trouble ahead, people need help.” The German didn't stop to ask questions, he just put his foot down and went.

Miss N

“My dear,” Miss N said to Lola again, “I think we've got trouble. This Hummer is trying to edge me over.”

Lola peered out the back window. She waved at the Hummer to back off, but instead it surged forward. “Omigod,” she screamed as the Hummer's front bumper nudged them. “Oh my God, Miss N, he's trying to kill us!”

Miss N swallowed hard; the Fiat couldn't go any faster, they were trapped with a crazy murderous driver. All she could do was pray to Tom, to tell her what to do.

Zigzag!
The answer came like a bolt from the blue and Miss N swerved obediently into the oncoming lane, praying again that nothing was heading her way. The Hummer swerved with her.

“Pull to the side, just stop,” Lola yelled. “Oh God, I shouldn't have gotten you into this, Miss N, I'm just so sorry, so sorry.” She screamed as the Hummer bumped them again and sent them skidding out of control.

Jack

Jack heard the sound of a motorcycle behind, just as the German got the Hummer in his sights. It was halfway across the road, its nose on the tail of the Fiat that was skidding out of control. “Dear God, no, no…,” he yelled, and the Fiat somehow righted itself and took off up the road again.

The Hummer's engine revved into top gear just as a gray Ducati shot past them. The German woman tourist screamed and her husband slammed on his brakes, cursing the Ducati driver who wasn't stopping for anything, not even the two cars battling it out in the middle of the road.

Lola

I put my hands over my eyes. We were as good as dead; my whole life should be passing before me and all I could think about was Jack and that I would never see him again. And Miss Nightingale, the innocent I'd involved in my troubled life. “I'm sorry, Miss Nightingale, I'm so sorry,” I said, through chattering teeth as the Hummer driver put his foot to the metal one more time.

“Oh, my dear,” Miss Nightingale said, knowing it was the end and the enemy had won. She was thinking of Tom as she clung to the wheel, still striving for control.

Jack

Jack saw the Ducati swing past the Hummer, so close the bike's wheels almost scraped the car's hubs. His mind registered that it was Patrick Laforêt's Ducati and that he was trying to cut off the Hummer but the driver wasn't letting him. In the seat in front of him the German woman was still screaming, and there was the sudden clatter of a helicopter overhead. It swooped in low alongside the road, just as the Ducati swung in front of the Hummer. There was a screeching of brakes as the Hummer hit it, then the Ducati arced slowly into the air, losing its driver at the top of the arc. He seemed to hang in the air for a split second, then he and the bike plunged into the canyon.

The Hummer did a full spin, balanced on the edge of the sheer drop for a moment, then plunged after the Ducati.

Patrick

They say a man's life passes before his eyes in those split seconds before he meets his maker. What Patrick Laforêt saw, like a film unrolling, was Evgenia's beautiful face hovering over his as she made love to him. Her fingernails are digging into his shoulders, her eyes are wide open, locked onto his.
“You must kill Lola,”
she is saying to him.
“This has to come first.”

He pushes her off him, slapping her hard, snapping her head back with the force of the blow. She doesn't make a sound, just looks balefully at him with those translucent green eyes. He can see her now, as the Ducati spins out of control, and then he's flying through the air…

“You will kill Lola first,” she's saying as though it were the most normal thing in the world, and to a sociopath like Evgenia, it was. “Then we'll be equals. You can never tell on me, and I can never tell on you. All's fair,” she reminds him, lighting up another cigarette.

“I'll just divorce Lola, then I'll marry you,” Patrick says fiercely.

She shakes her silken head. “It will take years, Lola will contest it, she'll claim half of your land, you'll have to sell it to pay her off. Remember, I got your property back. It's for us. We'll build
my
house there.” And Patrick, full of sympathy, knows this is Evgenia, the poor Russian child who'd never had a real home, speaking. “I want to live there with you, Patrick,” she says, “with Laurent's money. There's no room for ghosts from our past.”

“I'll divorce Lola,” he says stubbornly.

“And what happens to me in the meantime, while you are going through all these procedures in the courts? Am I supposed to wait around for you to be free? To be ready to marry me, when she lets you? After all I will have done for you?”

Patrick didn't accept her plan, he never agreed to it. He thought she was just playing the James Bond girl or something. He hadn't realized this was for real, that she had the heart and soul of a ruthless killer. And so, when he stalled her, then refused point-blank, Evgenia decided to take matters into her own hands.
She
would kill Lola.

By the time Patrick realized this, it was almost too late. But he was no killer, he couldn't let her kill Lola, he just couldn't. Whatever Evgenia wanted, she went after. And she got it. Now she had got him. Forever and ever, amen.

Lola

The Fiat shuddered to a stop on the wrong side of the road, slamming me against the dash with a terrific thump. My head hurt as I turned to look at Miss N. She was looking at me and seemed okay. I flung my arms around her, weeping into her neck, still murmuring, “Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…”

“It's all right, my dear,” she said, adjusting her glasses and patting her hair into place. I guessed like me she was waiting for her heart to stop racing. “Everything will be all right now,” she added confidently. I wished I could believe her.

 

A paramilitary helicopter landed twenty yards down the road and men with guns came running after Jack who was running toward us. He wrenched open the car door and grabbed me; he was saying, “Thank God, sweetheart, oh thank God, you're all right,” over and over again.

Troops and medics and fire trucks were arriving at the gallop. Jack pulled me out of the car and sat me down on the side of the road, frowning at the blood trickling down my forehead into my eyes. I was shivering and my teeth were chattering with shock. He took off his shirt and wrapped it around me, then ran back to check on Miss N.

He helped her out of the car, and took her hands in his. He stared down at her blue-veined hands, the hands of an old woman. A
brave
old woman. He bent his head and kissed them. “How can I ever thank you?” he said.

“No need, young man, I rather enjoyed it,” Miss N said, but her voice was shaky.

“You've got some cool head on those shoulders,” Jack said, just as a paramilitary grabbed him. “Bet you're gonna tell me next who that was driving the Hummer.”

“When I get a minute,” Miss N said, dusting herself off and adjusting her pearls. She fished her linen hankie out of her bag and mopped the sweat and dust from her face, then came to sit next to me on the side of the road.

Fire trucks and ambulances and police cars screeched down the hill and troopers lined the cliff edge, peering at the wreckage far below. We heard a boom and I knew the Hummer's fuel tank had exploded. Whoever was driving it, if he wasn't dead already, was surely dead now.

The Germans were still sitting, stunned, in their car. Jack said he was sorry for involving them but, as they could see, it was a matter of life and death. He gave them the hotel telephone number and asked them to come by so we could all thank them properly. Then he was grabbed by the police, handcuffed, and stuffed into the back of the cop car, alongside me and Miss N.

“Never thought I'd get to sit in the back of one of these,” she said, smiling, though I knew she was uncomfortable with her hands cuffed behind her. The cops began asking questions, treating Miss N respectfully because she was an old lady, even though right now, as the Fiat driver, she seemed to be responsible for the deaths of at least two people.

She answered their questions clearly, telling them exactly what had happened. Jack verified her story and the German couple backed him up. Out from under suspicion for the time being, our handcuffs were removed. Not knowing quite what to do, we went back to sit by the side of the road.

By now all traffic had ground to a halt, unable to turn back or go forward. Drivers paced, staring at the disaster below, looking at their watches and cursing. These deaths were not part of their lives and they were late. Yet another rescue truck arrived, then the helicopter clattered off over the edge of the ravine, surveying the trail of debris. The brush caught fire, it was spreading rapidly, and more
pompiers
were needed.

The cop taking notes asked Jack if they knew who the victims were. “I don't know who the driver of the Hummer was,” Jack said, looking at me. “But the motorcycle driver was Patrick Laforêt.”

I tried to speak, to say how could it be, but no sound came out. I just stared at him. Later, stuffed between him and Miss N again, on the way to the hospital to check out our injuries, I asked him, “Why did Patrick do it?”

“Patrick realized just in time what was going to happen. He saved your life,” Jack said, squeezing my hand tighter.

“It's very simple, my dear,” Miss Nightingale added. “Patrick loved you after all. In his own way.”