“But we hadn't even planned to stop at Avignon.”
The young woman shrugged. "Sometimes when like this, women can get sudden impulses. She called for a cab and left for Perrache."
“Where's Mommy? I want Mommy!" Ben began to cry.
Tom picked him up. "Hush, sweetheart. Don't worry. Let's go to the train station and see if we can find her." He thanked the woman and left. As he strapped Ben into his car seat, he thought, "This just isn't like Faith. Or is it?”
The young woman watched the proceedings from the shop window. Tom had been able to park right in front. Giovanni would be coming back soon from the cafe down the street, where he'd gone for the first of his morning machons and the accompanying glass or two. She waited. She wasn't about to leave the store wide open. That would be a crime.
He arrived a few minutes later. "Ciao, I have to leave now," she told him, and did.
The Reverend Fairchild stood overlooking the platform at the station in despair. He had just missed the train for Avignon, which had pulled out only a few minutes before. He returned to the main part of the station and asked at the appropriate guichet if the ticket agent remembered a young woman with blond hair—newly cut—blue eyes, of average height, who had purchased a ticket for Avignon about thirty minutes ago.
“Maybe ten looked like that, monsieur. Now where is it you want to go?"
“I don't want to buy a ticket. I'm looking for my wife." "Well, I cannot help you there. I am selling tickets. If there is some problem, you must go to the office."
“Are you sure you did not see her? She's an American. Her French is not very good."
“This is not unusual. If monsieur will please move— there are others here to buy tickets.”
Ben tugged at Tom's hand. "Mommy, where's Mommy?"
“I don't know, but don't worry. We'll find her." And Tom strode across the station to get help.
Faith opened her eyes. Where was she? She tried to sit up and discovered that she was tied at the ankles and wrists like a fatted calf. She was in the back seat of a rapidly moving car, completely covered by a blanket. Tipping her head back and away from the rough wool, she could see nothing out the window but blue sky. The movement made her dizzy. Her head felt like it was splitting open. The blanket felt very warm—safe almost. She closed her eyes again and drifted back into unconsciousness.
Tom had no luck with the stationmaster, who suggested he call the police. Stopping only to buy the increasingly frightened Ben a package of Gummi Bears, Tom called the Le-blancs instead. They arrived in what seemed like minutes, Ghislaine took charge. "I will take Ben home with me while Paul goes to the police. They can arrange for the police in Avignon to meet the train. Obviously, Faith has become upset at this whole clochard business and has had some sort of fugue. She was talking about it on Sunday and I should have paid more attention to how upset she was."
“No, I should have. It's been going on all week. She even had some idea that the clochard outside the church was an imposter. My God, what if she was right! We have to tell the police everything. Can you get a hold of your friend Ravier?"
“Tom, mon ami, you must be calm. The best thing is for you to go to Avignon to be there after she arrives. You must take our car. It is faster. Go straight to the police and I know she will be waiting there for you." Paul tried to reassure him. "Meanwhile, I will call Michel and, yes, tell him everything. Now, Benjamin, would you like to play with Pierre? He has some new cars to show you.”
Ben had been clutching Tom with hands sticky from the rapid consumption of the whole package of candies. He looked up at his father, unsure what to do. The cars would be nice to see, but one parent had vanished today and he wasn't about to let go of the one remaining.
“Sweetie, you go with Paul and Ghislaine and have fun this afternoon. I'm going to go bring Mommy back. We'll all have supper together. How would that be?”
Ben was reluctant, but he did not protest at being swung up onto Paul's shoulders, and they all left the station for their various destinations.
The car door opened with a jerk. An arm reached in and roughly shook Faith on the shoulder, yanking the blanket off, which she realized had not been draped over her out of kindness, but for concealment. She raised her heavy eyelids, aware that she had been on the edge of consciousness for some time, loath to leave her unknowing state. Her bonds were being cut and she rubbed her painful wrists. She sat up slowly.
Her captor was wearing a black ski mask. She could tell nothing about him. In the dim light, she could see the car had been driven into some kind of shed. It looked like an old farm building. "Venez!" the figure demanded, pulling her from the seat. Faith thought she would pass out again when she stood up and fell heavily upon the figure next to her, who immediately shoved her against the car. After a few minutes, she found she could stand. No sooner had she done so than she was pushed forward and made her way, staggering in pain, out into—what?
Where was she? And what time was it? It was dark, but Faith had no idea how many hours or days had passed since she had been abducted. Had she been drugged? The cool ah* hit her and she shivered. She wished she had thought to wrap the blanket around her shoulders. She was wearing a thin T-shirt and short skirt, donned in the expectation of southern sunshine.
Across the yard, she could make out a small stone house surrounded by trees. The night air was still and it was quiet except for some faint stirrings—the flight of birds, a nocturnal creature, a slight breeze, soft sounds accompanied by two others—the rapid breathing and insistent footsteps a few inches behind her. The idea of escape was impossible without some knowledge of the terrain. Besides, there was a gun to her back.
After the door was unlocked, they entered the house. A gloved hand closed hard upon her wrist and he pushed her into a chair while he quickly lit an oil lamp on the mantel, producing a dim light. It was very cold inside and the room had a musty smell, as if it had been closed up for a long tune. The shutters of the windows had not been opened and a thick layer of dust covered a long table in front of the fireplace.
If he was going to kill her, why was he waiting? Was she being held for ransom? She doubted it. If she'd been kidnapped because of what she knew about Marie and the clochard, it was her silence, not money, they wanted. These thoughts were rapidly supplanted by one other and she turned and spoke. "Please. I must go to the bathroom." She tried to convey her urgency, aware from her slightly damp pants that in her previous state she'd already had one accident. It was horrible enough to be in the position she was without adding total loss of dignity.
He motioned her out the door again to an outhouse at the edge of the yard, beyond some large evergreens. The moon had risen and she could see mountains not too far away. The house seemed to be at the bottom of a gorge.
When she got closer to the trees, she could hear a stream. The privy was very clean and there were cartoons by Sempe clipped from magazines taped to the walls. Hard to imagine gangsters with such a well-developed sense of humor and housekeeping. What they didn't have was toilet paper, and as Faith searched through her pocketbook for tissues, she found the letter she'd written to Michel Ravier. She could use it now, for all the good it would do her, she thought, before finding a packet of paper mouchoirs at the bottom. Holding the letter in her hand, she finally broke down and began to cry. She was all alone in a French outhouse, about to die.