Tumbling into bed, she drifted off to sleep with images of Carcassonne drifting through her mind: bright pennons flapping in the breeze, the sound of trumpets, rough cobblestones, and high fortress walls overlooking the plain where the enemy was fleeing in disarray.
At eight o'clock sharp, Faith was leaning back in a chair, luxuriating in the sensation of the warm spray of water on her hair as Giovanni rinsed out the shampoo he had vigorously massaged into her scalp. He squirted some conditioner on and it felt cold, then more of those magic fingers and her hair was rinsed again. He put a towel around her head and motioned her to another chair. It wasn't a particularly elegant shop, and Giovanni and his receptionist seemed to be the only people working today, but it did sport an espresso machine. She sipped some as he combed her wet hair and stared at her in the mirror with intense concentration. She set the cup down and he went to work. More hair than she thought she had on her head fell to the floor as he snipped away. She had a moment of panic, then remembered how Solange looked—and also that hair grew back, eventually. So far, Giovanni had not said a single word to her after asking whether she wanted coffee. Now, he stood back, apparently satisfied with his labors, and reached for the blow-dryer. She followed his every move in the mirror so she could try to duplicate the style later. There was no question. It looked great. She thanked Giovanni profusely and went to the door.
“Madame Fairsheeld?" It was the receptionist, whose black dress had a high neck but barely covered her thighs. She wore a long strand of oversized pearls and had neatly coiffed bright orange hah- with one white streak down the side. There was something feline about the whole effect.
“Yes?" Faith replied.
“Your husband has called with a message. He is going to get gas and will pick you up in front of the art museum at Place des Terreaux, since it is so hard to park here.”
Faith thanked her. That made sense. They should have arranged it in the beginning. She hoped Ben was cooperating; the prospect of a long car trip in his beloved Deux Chevaux probably had him hastening Tom along. Normally, getting the three-year-old to dress himself was prac- tice for sainthood. He'd get one sock on, then sit and hold the other, gazing at something, anything, nothing in total concentration. "Your sock, Ben," she'd remind him gently, or not so gently if they were in a hurry. He'd look at the odd bit of clothing in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. "Sock?" It was Tom's turn today, Faith thought happily as she left the salon.
Out on the sidewalk, she walked quickly toward the museum, aware that the sun was shining down on her own shiny coif. She passed a window and admired the way her hair moved when she tipped her head. Ah, vanity, vanity, thy name is ... She hoped Tom liked it. Husbands tended not to like any changes in their wives' appearance. "But I liked you the way you were!" In addition, Tom fell under the Rapunzel rubric and would have Faith's tresses falling in golden waves to the floor if it were left to him.
She crossed the street and walked down rue Terme, past a toy store whose windows never failed to fascinate both mother and child on their way home from school. There was a new display of small, brightly painted knights in armor. Ben would love it—a large castle with some knights manning the towers and others on horseback in front of the drawbridge. It seemed appropriate and auspicious. She could hardly wait to get to Carcassonne.
A car pulled over to the curb, someone wanting directions. It had happened before. It was easy to get lost in Lyon. Faith walked over, starting to tell them apologetically that boy, did they have the wrong person, when the back door opened, a man in a ski mask jumped out, grabbed her, and pulled her into the car.
She wasn't the wrong person at all.
After a second of shocked disbelief, Faith started to struggle. The car was speeding up toward the Croix Rousse and her assailant had a firm grasp on her wrist. She started to scream and banged on the window with her fist, hoping to attract attention. The driver hadn't turned around. As the car slowed slightly for an intersection, she dove down and bit her captor on the wrist with all the force she had. He cried out and instinctively pulled his hand away. She already had her other hand on the door handle; the moment she was free, she pushed it open and ran down the street. He was after her in seconds, but she had sprinted ahead, getting a good lead. As she ran, Faith looked wildly around. The street was empty. It was also familiar. She'd been here on Thursday when she'd gone to get Ben at Leonard's. She remembered it from the tour in the guidebook, rue Bur-deau, and there was a traboule somewhere. If only she could find it, she could lose her pursuer, she was sure. Her heart pounded madly. How long could she run this fast?
Up ahead, she saw the entrance to the covered passageway on the left. She plunged into the dark tunnel and ran on, stumbling until her eyes got used to the dim light. The traboule would take her to the next street and there had to be someone there, or she would be enough ahead to find a place to hide.
Faith could hear the footsteps following her. She realized she couldn't wait. She had to hide now. At the next bend, the traboule branched in two directions and she went to the right. Soon she saw there was a stairway at the end. She threw herself underneath and crouched down, hoping whoever was after her would assume she had gone up it or that he would go the other way.
He did take the other way. She heard the footsteps stop for an instant as he considered, then get fainter and fainter until she couldn't hear them anymore. He was gone.
She took several deep breaths but stayed where she was. It was only then that Faith allowed the image of the hand that had grasped her wrist in the car to rise to consciousness. It was his right hand. The fingernails were bitten and bloody. The fourth finger was bare except for a band of white where a ring had been. A family ring.
It was the d'Ambert clochard.
She'd never have been able to get away from anyone eise so easily, she reflected. The clochard. She had drawn blood when she bit bun and was aware that she had been spitting out the bitter, filthy taste as she ran. She took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her mouth.
And what about the message from Tom? She felt in a muddle. It was obviously a fake. The receptionist wouldn't have known his voice. But how had they known where Faith was? Unless they'd been watching her. Watching her for days, just waiting for the chance to grab her. She felt cramped and queasy. It was all too obvious what the main use of her hiding place was and she cautiously crept out.
She went up the staircase, which led to another tra-boule. It was silent. The only sound was her own footsteps. She could see the daylight ahead and moved toward it slowly. She looked out. No cars in sight. No people, either. This was the wholesale garment district, bustling with activity during the week and deserted on the weekend. Weak with relief, she saw there was a phone booth at the corner. Seventeen, the police emergency number. That was all she had to do. One seven. Push the buttons and the nightmare would be over. She began to walk quickly down the uneven cobblestones, afraid she might trip if she ran. She put one hand on her rounded belly. It would be all right. It had to be all right.
A few yards away, a man stepped from the alley. Before she could make a sound, the blow came and she was in darkness again.
“But I don't understand. There must be some mistake," Tom Fairchild said in bewilderment to the young woman whose bizarre orange hair seemed only too appropriate to the strangeness of the situation.
“I'm sorry, monsieur. I can just tell you what madame said. That she preferred the train to a long drive and would meet you in Avignon for aperitifs opposite the Palais des Papes."