The Hotel Riviera(69)

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.”





Chapter 74




We were home, drinking brandy and not saying much. We’d showered, cleaned ourselves up, tried to clean the horror out of our heads and the memory from our souls. It wasn’t over yet but somehow it was more bearable now we were “home.”

The sun was down and there was a nip in the air. Jack went to fetch Miss N’s cardigan and a shawl for me—I was still shivering—and then Nadine bustled in with mugs of hot soup.

I stared at it. “How can I eat when Patrick just died?”

“Patrick died saving you, Lola, but he was the one who put you in danger in the first place.” Jack was blunt.

“But he redeemed himself…”

“Yes, he did redeem himself, though it doesn’t absolve what he did to you,” Miss N said.

I took a tentative sip of the soup. Its warmth seemed to untangle part of the knot in my stomach and I sipped again, then held the mug to my face, breathing its fragrant warmth, still guilty that I was alive and drinking soup and Patrick was dead. Really dead this time. “Didn’t I always tell you,” I said, “Patrick was a bad husband, but he wasn’t a bad man.” I shrugged wearily. “Now you know I was right.”

“It’s time to get on with your own life,” Miss Nightingale said briskly. “Because you do have a life, you know. An independent life, to do with as you will.”

“Thanks to Patrick.” I pressed my lips against the mug to stop them trembling.

“Not only thanks to Patrick. You’re your own woman, Lola. You’ve created your own life, here, your own place in the world.” Miss N had never sounded so firm, so assertive.

“Now I want to tell you about the woman driving the Hummer,” she said. “And her companion. The police haven’t identified the remains yet, but I am certain of their identities.”