The Lion's Den(103)
His brow is furrowed, his eyes dark. “Near Saint-Tropez.”
“But—”
“Now go,” he barks. “I’ll tell them you got away.”
Gripping the cash in my sweaty palm, I take off up the hill, fear propelling me forward at a speed I have not run since high school track. As I reach the first intersecting street, I glance over my shoulder to see Vinny standing silhouetted by the sun where I left him, the gun dangling from his hand. I break around the corner and sprint into the shade created by the height of the buildings, pushing myself harder, faster up the desolate road, turning again at the next fork to continue up the hill.
Twelve Chemin de la Pommière in La Quessine.
I catapult over an orange construction barrier and leap over an open trench, my sandal folding as I land, sending me to all fours on the uneven pavement. The cash scatters onto the street and I scramble to scoop it up before it blows away, stuffing it into my purse in a clump. One of my knees is bloodied and pain shoots through my ankle, but I brush myself off and push on.
The road narrows as it climbs up the mountain toward the edge of town. My breath ragged, I hurtle up the incline, right and left and right until a sharp twinge in my side doubles me over in the boarded doorway of an abandoned home.
My breath comes hot and fast. I watch a sticky line of blood cut through the dust on my leg. Is that a siren in the distance? I have to keep going. My tongue feels like cotton, but all I can do is continue up the hill.
Twelve Chemin de la Pommière in La Quessine.
Right, left, up a set of stairs, right again, tripping up the bumpy road. I wipe the sweat from my brow, panting, and slow just enough to maintain my pace.
As I climb higher, I feel the beginnings of a slight breeze. I’m relieved I must be reaching a break in the maze. I need to find a lookout site to reorient myself and determine whether I’m still headed in the direction Vinny indicated.
Jesus. Vinny. Who would have thought…? But I can’t wrap my head around any of that right now. I spot a narrow stairwell leading up to a terrace and take the terra-cotta steps two at a time, my legs wobbly from overexertion.
A rush of fresh air hits me as I ascend the last steps to find myself standing in the full glare of the sun, high above the town. Uneven rooftops tumble down the colorful crescent slope to the sea, where the Lion’s Den bobs alone in the cove. I instinctively flatten my back against the wall, but I’m likely too far away to be seen.
I take Amythest’s phone from my purse and key in the address before I forget it, then count the wad of cash Vinny gave me, my hands trembling. It’s eighty euros. Not a lot, but better than the less than forty I have left. The phone still has no signal, so I carefully lean out over the railing to orient myself. I’m a good way toward the east side of the crescent, near where the town fades into the terrain. I can’t see the cliffs from this vantage point, but I can tell that I’m close.
I clamber back down the stairs and continue up the street until it dead-ends into a stone retaining wall with a blur of green above it. It’s about seven feet to the top, too high for me to pull myself up unassisted, but the rocks are big enough that I should be able to get a pretty good grip with bare feet.
I unstrap my sandals and stuff them halfway in my bag, then place my less-injured foot on a big stone about two feet off the ground and push off, simultaneously reaching up with my opposite hand to grab the upper lip of the wall. With my fingers firmly grasping the grooves of the rocks on top, it’s easy enough to scale the rest of the wall. I scramble to standing.
The slope of the hill beyond is steep, but not insurmountable, and it appears to level out about a hundred or so yards up. The terrain is not unlike California: rocky and blanketed in a fine dry dust, scattered with shrublike bushes and wildflowers that should camouflage me as I climb.
I wish I had hiking shoes, but my flimsy sandals will have to do. I slip them back on and grab the stem of a scrawny tree to hoist myself up. Branch by branch, rock by rock, I slowly but surely ascend, ignoring my unbearable thirst. Somewhere near the top, I stumble upon a hiking trail and have to stifle a shriek of glee at my good fortune. I follow the path to the crest of the bluff, where I can see Terralione arranged around the little port way down below.
The Lion’s Den is gone.
I scan the blue sea for that one particular white dot and spot her sailing west toward France. She cuts through the water easily, a vision of grace and style. Anyone watching her sleek shape pass would aspire to view the shore from her wide deck, to be rocked gently to sleep in her cool embrace.
The yacht’s departure is cold comfort at this point. But as she slips away, one of the tightly strung threads inside me loosens ever so slightly. Vinny kept his word.
(twenty days ago)
Los Angeles
The Prius twitched through traffic beneath a procession of swaying palm trees arched toward the sun. I shouldn’t have been driving—I hadn’t slept. I was too wound up, too distracted. My hands were clammy, even with the AC blasting. But we were on our way downtown to meet Eric’s art dealer, George, who’d arranged a passport and a place for him to stay in Mexico.
“So, your father—John—” A small shake of my head. I still couldn’t quite get used to this. “Why are you afraid of him? Is it because of Summer?”
“God, no.” He laughed. “Summer’s just a fly…a diversion. The irony that after everything, she’d be the one to nearly succeed in killing me…” He laughed in disbelief.