The Sanatorium(26)

A shiver shoots down Elin’s spine: a cold prickle of fear. “Who are they?”

“The Groupe d’Intervention.” Isaac’s voice is tight. “Like police special forces. They’re trained to deal with similar situations. Hostage. Terror. Some, like these, work in the high mountains.”

“Why would they be here?”

Jaw twitching, his gaze moves to the helicopter, swooping low over the mountain. “I don’t know.”

The group on the ground hoist large rucksacks onto their backs. Elin and Isaac watch as they put on helmets, lift skis out of the car. They walk quickly toward the path leading to the forest. For the first time, Elin notices a familiar man in a gray fleece talking to the first group of police, pointing at the forest.

“Lucas Caron,” Isaac murmurs.

Elin nods. It’s then she sees it: on the rug beneath her feet.

Blood.

Barely visible unless you knew what you were looking at, had seen it before.

A hazy splatter pattern, blooming out in tiny, ragged circles.





21





Adele is shivering. Her limbs are numb, prickling.

How long has she been asleep? Hours? The whole night? It’s impossible to tell: the real world seems to have dissolved around her. Wherever she is, it’s dark. No, she corrects, pulse quickening—not dark. Something’s fastened around her eyes—a rough, scratchy fabric, catching on her eyelashes as she tries to open them.

Panic pulls through her. Seized with a sudden, overwhelming claustrophobia, she kicks out, tries jerking her arms and legs, but they won’t move.

Stop. Calm down. Work out what’s going on.

Adele slows down this time, isolating the movements. She wriggles her hands, her fingers, realizes that they’re bound, fastened behind her back. Ankles too.

She’s still sitting on the floor, back propped against a wall.

Keep going, she tells herself. If she’s alone, which she thinks she is, she needs to orient herself. Work out where she is.

Adele listens. All she can hear is dripping, a steady trickle. Is she in the hotel somewhere? They can’t have moved her far, surely? Not without someone noticing.

What if she shouts? Tries to get someone’s attention?

It’s then she tastes something in her mouth: coppery, salty. It takes a moment to realize what it is.

Blood.

Adele tries to run her tongue around her teeth, work out where it’s coming from, but she can’t. There’s something in her mouth . . . a gag. Her mouth is so numb, she hadn’t noticed.

Fear flaring in her stomach, her thoughts run full pelt: You’re going to die here, aren’t you? You’re never going to make it out of this. You can’t move, can’t shout. No one will find you.

She takes a deep breath. Stop. She has to get through this. For Gabriel.

Think.

She’s fit, strong from the physical demands of her job. She can figure something out.

An idea starts to form: she can take advantage of the fact that, whoever this person is, he or she might not come back for a while. That might be enough time to get a sense of the space, what she might be able to use to get free . . .

There won’t be another way, she thinks, panic rising up inside her. No one will miss her.

Gabriel isn’t due back from his dad’s for a week. He won’t think it unusual she hasn’t called for a few days. Stephane likes his week to be his and his alone. Truth be told, it’s always suited her. Adele didn’t want to hear the high, overenthusing tones of Lise, Stephane’s girlfriend, in the background.

Work won’t raise the alarm either. She’s not on shift for several days.

Adele tenses. She can hear footsteps.

Her plans . . . they’re too late.

Her captor is back, close. Adele can smell them: something chemical, caustic, the starched, bleached odor of a hospital.

Something else, too, hanging heavy in the air. It’s the scent of something primal—excitement, anticipation.

Whoever this is . . . they want to hurt you.

Another noise: breathing, labored and heavy. They’re right beside you.

Terror mounting, she tries to move, but her wrists are throbbing, the rope burning into her flesh.

All at once there are fingers on her face, touching and probing. The blindfold is ripped away with such force it yanks the flesh on her cheeks, leaving them throbbing. Tears sting her eyes, but she forces them back.

A flashlight beam, swinging wildly, ricochets from floor to ceiling and back again.

It settles on her face, the fierce glare blinding her. Adele blinks, wants to put her hand up, shield her eyes from the searing ferocity of the light, but she can’t.

The flashlight beam dips momentarily and scuds along the floor.

Taking her chance, she looks up, adrenaline coursing through her body. Adele can’t see much; her eyes are still adjusting to the light. Every time she moves her head, the dim scene in front of her seems to rotate, but she can see one thing, above anything else: the outline of a mask.

The figure, blurred and amorphous, crouches down. With the loose clothing and the mask, it’s still impossible to tell whether it’s a man or a woman.

Her captor positions the flashlight on the floor, beam focused on the back wall. They start rooting through a bag on the floor.

What are they doing?