A voice, not close, but not far enough away, either, startled her out of her ridiculous woolgathering. It was Christophe! She could hear her name.
There were more rocks on either side of the slight clearing she'd been sitting in and she climbed on top of the largest group to find another ledge, then more rocks. Her best bet was to get as high and as far away as possible. Her thin shoes didn't offer much traction and she briefly considered going barefoot, but her feet would be cut to ribbons before she'd gone very far. She used her hands to grip the rugged stone and pulled herself up. At the next leveling off, she was rewarded by the sight of a series of openings, more vertical than horizontal, that she could see were marked caves. The Cevennes was famous for these strange and abundant configurations. Spelunking was a major vacation activity for the Leblancs. They'd bemoaned the fact that Tom and Faith would not be in France long enough to join them.
Trying not to think who might still be finishing a long winter's nap inside, Faith eased her way into one and cautiously took a step or two into the darkness. She opened her purse, which had hung awkwardly around her neck, for the matches she always carried after having been locked in someone's preserves closet a few years ago—not by mistake. These were from the Copley Plaza in Boston and she wished she were in some fairy tale and they'd take her there as she struck a light. She lit a match, remained firmly in place, stunned at how large the cave was. Limestone stalactites descended from the ceiling, meeting the stalagmites that spiraled up from the floor. The air was cool and damp. There were no bears or other monsters. Merely one closing in on her. She hid behind a large rock as far away from the opening as she could get, blew out the second match she'd lighted, and waited.
Christophe's voice was more audible. It sounded as though he was right outside one of the caves.
“Madame Fairsheeld, Faith," he called. "Please. You will never survive hi these woods. We will return to Lyon as you suggested and try to straighten things out. I promise. I have been a bit mad and you must let me take care of you now. Think of the baby, madame! Please answer me. I swear you will not be hurt.”
Faith closed her eyes even hi the darkness and strained for the sound of his footsteps entering the cave. She took the knife from her purse and held it ready.
“Faith, believe me. You must. You are in great danger here. You will be lost and there are many wild animals in this area. Please come out and we will go back to the car.”
He sounded so sincere. There was a hint of tears in his voice.
Faith didn't buy it for a minute.
She was ready to spring out at him. He would have to light a match to find her. Maybe he would go into one of the other caves. Maybe he was claustrophobic. Maybe she could kill him before he killed her.
The voice was starting to drift away until at last she heard only an occasional "Fairsheeld." She pulled the cuffs of the sweater down over her hands and tucked her feet beneath her. She wasn't moving. Not for a very long time. "Think of the baby," he'd implored. Well she was. Constantly. And very glad of the company.
It was four o'clock on Sunday afternoon. Michel Ravier and Tom Fairchild sat and looked at each other. Neither man had slept or shaved since Faith's disappearance, and Ravier's office matched their disorderly mien. Half-eaten containers of food and cups of coffee, some still filled and cold, were strewn about the room. Michel was not a smoker, but had made plenteous use of his snuffbox. Black grains decorated the papers scattered across his desk.
Faith had been spotted all over the country—especially after the reward was announced. Michel had just hung up after speaking with the police in Lourdes. A man and a woman had come dashing into the gendarmerie, swearing that the missing Americaine was one of a group of suppliants immersing themselves in the waters at that very moment. The Lourdes police had called Ravier and gone to check it out. Now they were filing their report. It was an American woman, all right—sixty-five and on crutches.
“She's got to be somewhere. All the borders, airports have been under constant surveillance. Her face has been on the front page of every paper in Europe. How can it be that no one has seen her?”
Tom stared bleakly across the desk at the inspector. "You know why, Michel."
“No, my friend. It's not the time for this. Have faith.”
It produced a wan smile. "I hope to.”
Faith was not wearing a watch and swore that she would never be without one from now on. She had no idea how much time had passed since she'd last heard Christophe's voice, but judging from the stiffness of her body, it had been some hours. She had been too frightened to sleep. She crept cautiously to the front of the cave. The sun was lower in the sky. It was late afternoon. She didn't want to be in these woods in the dark. Christophe had threatened wild animals, and while she was sure he was lying, she didn't want to put it to a test. She'd have to try to find the road and follow it until she came to some sort of dwelling or village. Before her ascent, she'd noted that the clearing she'd been in seemed to offer the best passageway and she started to climb back down to it, carefully fitting her feet in the crevices of the rocks. There were plenty of short bushes to hold on to and it wasn't difficult, just scratchy. Vivid images of Christophe lying in wait for her at the bottom filled her with terror, but she couldn't continue to climb. There would be no road.
The forest at one end of the clearing was as she remembered—a dense carpet of pine needles and mosses with little low undergrowth or fallen trees. It was blessedly empty.
As she walked, she looked about at the wide variety of plant life. She'd never been a Girl Scout and her family had tended toward vacations where her father could do research on Thomas Hardy's theological metaphors and her mother could hole up in an English country inn with a stack of Agatha Christies. Faith and her sister, Hope, explored on foot and bicycle but never learned much about flora and fauna—or any survival tips other than the advisability of avoiding British railway food.
Faith knew there were plenty of things to eat in the woods—mushrooms, probably truffles right below her feet; however, the only thing she would have trusted not to poison her at the moment would have been a slice of crusty bread spread with butter, and there didn't seem to be a tree of those.
She plodded on. Her shoes had become part of her foot, adhering like a second skin more tightly with each step. How far could these woods possibly extend? The answer, she knew, could well be miles and miles hi this part of France.
After what she judged to be an hour, she saw a break in the trees and what looked like a road, certainly flat, open land, on the other side. She picked up the pace. Her shoes, so comfortably a part of her body earlier, had now turned traitor and were rubbing blisters on her heels. She took some tissues and tried to make a little cushion, which helped marginally.
Faith stepped through the trees. The land was flat as far as the eye could see. The plateau was covered with low ground covers, and as she stepped forward, she smelled the strong fragance of wild thyme and rosemary. She was dizzy with hunger. There was no road in sight. Nothing in sight at all, except what looked like a pile of stones in the distance. For no other reason than that it was there, she headed for it. As she walked toward it, Faith felt a breeze that she did not doubt would become a strong wind by nightfall. Up above her, birds circled. Hawks. Birds of prey.