Invitation to Provence(82)
He heard the dog begin to choke, then a thud as it slumped onto the wooden veranda over his head. He walked to the rear of the villa and let himself in the kitchen door, using the key that he’d had since he was a kid. He went directly to the old stove and blew out the pilot light. He opened the oven doors and turned on the gas. He turned on all the burners, wrinkling his nose at the smell, then he went back outside, locked the kitchen door behind him, climbed onto the stone bench, vaulted up to the rail, and swung himself onto the upper veranda.
His sneakered feet made no sound as he walked jauntily round to the front where Franny’s and Little Blue’s rooms were. He stopped and looked at the dog. It was lying on its side, jaws hanging open, eyes rolled back in its head. He gave it a nudge with his foot. It was dead.
He stood at the open door to Franny’s room. She slept like a child with her arms straight up over her head, at peace with the world. He closed the door, locked it, and took the key. Then he moved on to Little Blue’s room.
She was curled into a ball, her short black hair sticking out like a halo. He thought soon she would be joining the angels, and he smiled. Then he locked her door too and pocketed the key.
He went downstairs, sniffing the fumes already creeping from the kitchen, then he walked quickly into the living room and lit the candles on the mantel. Before too long the fumes and the flames would meet and the Villa Marten and its guests would be no more.
He was out of the house and back on his Vespa heading for Antibes when he heard the clatter of a helicopter overhead and the wail of police sirens. He thought there was no way they could be looking for him yet, but always cautious, he cut off the main road and headed inland. He knew every minor road, every shortcut, every alley in this area.
THE SIRENS WOKE Little Blue. For a minute she thought she was back in Shanghai and she sat up and looked around for Bao Chu, but of course Bao Chu wasn’t there. Nor was Criminal, who always slept nearby. And there was a funny smell. She knew that smell from the gas burner in the apartment.
“Franny, Franny,” she yelled, running next door. “Wake up, wake up, something bad is happening.”
Franny heard the panic in her voice even before she smelled the gas and heard the sirens. She was out of bed, grasping Little Blue’s hand, rattling the doorknob, trying to get out onto the veranda. She knew she’d left it open, so how could it be locked? Fear licked in an icy crawl up her spine. Unless someone was trying to kill them.
For a second she stood there, frozen with fear, then she grabbed a shoe and slammed it into the pane of glass nearest the lock. It cracked but didn’t break and, desperate, she slammed her fist through it, hearing Little Blue scream as blood spurted suddenly from her wrist. But she had the door open, and they were out on the veranda and tripping over Criminal. They stopped, stared … even Little Blue recognized death and she was screaming louder and louder and so was Frannie. And then all the world disappeared in one fiery orange explosion.
65
THE HELICOPTER FLUTTERED above the empty parking lot near the beach and was just settling gently down when the explosion momentarily sucked out all the air, rocking it. Seconds later Jake was out and running.
It was the same nightmare all over again, the explosion, him running, the shattered body of the woman he loved.
He ran until he came to what used to be the Villa Marten. Behind him he heard the wail of sirens, the squeal of tires, voices yelling. In front of him he saw an inferno. He ran toward it.
Voices screamed at him to get back. There was the rattle of fire hoses, firemen running with him, grabbing him, pulling him away. The upper veranda was gone, and flames licked at the remains of the doors leading to the bedrooms where he knew Franny and Little Blue must have been sleeping. He dragged himself free and stumbled forward, calling their names. In front of him he saw a twisted heap of bodies, a jumble of bloodied legs and arms. He dropped to his knees beside them. The medics were right behind him. Franny lay on top of Little Blue, and he could hear the child moaning. He touched her hand gently and said, “It’s all right, Little Blue. It’s Jake, I’m here. You’ll be okay now, I promise.” But he still couldn’t look at Franny. It was Amanda all over again.
“It’s natural gas … a leak. Better get everyone out of here until we clear it,” someone yelled, but Jake did not move. He watched as the medics got to work. “They’re alive,” one of them said, and Jake’s heart retrieved its rhythm. “If they’d been inside that house they’d be dead,” another said. “It blew them right off that veranda. The dog, too, only he wasn’t so lucky—if you can call this luck.”
Jake turned his head. He stared at the grizzled bloody mess that was his trusted friend and companion. He looked away again.
They had Franny in a neck splint. She was on her back now and they were working on her. Little Blue was on a gurney. She was unconscious, but her small hands twitched as though she were fighting someone, something.
He didn’t want to … he couldn’t bear to see it again, not again. He forced himself to look at Franny, and then his mind raced back in time. He was looking at Amanda and she was lying on the side of the road, her face blown away in the explosion. She was dead and their baby was dead. He’d blocked this memory from his brain, but now it was happening all over again, only this time it was Franny … Franny. Her lips were blue, blue as her eyes, he thought wonderingly, but her face was untouched. She looked peaceful, as though she were just asleep. They put an oxygen mask over her face and now they’d put her neck in a brace and there was so much blood. They had a tourniquet on her wrist, another on a leg. They wrapped her in shock foil, then eased her very carefully onto a gurney and headed for the ambulance.