Altar of Bones (27 page)

At least for the moment it had stopped raining.

She thought she saw what looked like a hotel farther down the block on the other side of the museum. She’d taken about a dozen steps toward it when from behind she heard a loud “Ooooh!”

She whirled instinctively, to see the man with the torch pull it out of his mouth, then breathe a gust of fire, and the crowd went “Ooooh!” again.

Zoe’s eye had caught a sudden movement farther down the street, though—a man jerking around too fast to look into the window of an umbrella store. His build was big and ropy, and he had a long brown ponytail, like the man who had attacked her with the chain in San Francisco.

She pretended to watch the fire-eater, while he admired the umbrellas. He didn’t turn his face her way once, kept his attention right on those fascinating umbrellas no matter how many times the crowd oohed at the fire-eater’s antics. He was the man who’d killed her grandmother, she was sure of it. He’d followed her from San Francisco, followed
her to the museum and then to the shop, just as the old man had feared.

Zoe started walking again, just another tourist admiring the brightly lit bistros and shops, the cream stone buildings with their gray dormer roofs and lace iron balconies. She stopped at a newspaper kiosk and pointed to a copy of
Le Monde
.

She dug into her jeans pocket for a couple of euros, then deliberately dropped them on the sidewalk. She bent over to pick them up, and as she straightened, she looked into the side mirror of a parked car.

The ponytailed man was only a half a block behind her now, closing fast.

The guy must’ve figured he was made because suddenly he gave up all subtlety, running full out now and right at her.

He got within a couple feet of her and made a wild grab for her satchel. She swung around, slamming her elbow under his chin, and sent him reeling into a parked car.

Then she gripped the straps of her satchel with both hands and ran.

S
HE DASHED ACROSS
the wide street just as the light was changing. Behind her she heard the screech of brakes, horns, curses in French.

The shops, the cafés, they were all open, full of people. Maybe she should run inside one, shout for help, for a gendarme, but it would be a nightmare. She didn’t speak French, and what could she tell them? The whole altar-of-bones thing sounded insane, and the icon … What if they confiscated the icon? She was the Keeper now, she couldn’t let them have the icon.

She glanced back over her shoulder. She’d put a little distance between herself and the ponytailed man, but he was still coming fast. She had to lose him, but how?

She ran faster, everything around her a blur of lights and faces. Couldn’t they see a man was chasing her? Ahead of her she could see the bell tower of a church, thought about trying to hide inside, then changed her mind. She could just as easily end up trapped.

She twisted her head to snatch another look behind her and knocked into a hot-chestnut cart. She tripped, nearly fell onto her hands and knees. Pain shot up her thigh.

She stumbled around a corner and onto a narrow street jam-packed with an outdoor market and throngs of shoppers. She cut around a fish stand and nearly fell again when her heel slipped on a piece of rotting kelp. She wove in and out among the marble-topped tables of a
salon de thé
, bumping into them, not caring.

Her coat sleeve caught on the wheel of a wagon full of yellow flowers. She tugged, couldn’t get loose, couldn’t get loose … She felt panic, hot and terrifying, blur her eyes. She gave one more hard tug, and her sleeve pulled free.

She looked behind her. Bobbing heads, so many heads, but she didn’t see him. She turned back around just in time to keep from slamming into a woman pushing a baby carriage.

Suddenly he was there, lurching out from behind a rack of handbags. He was smiling at her and she’d never been so afraid in her life.

Zoe made a little juking move. He bit, twisting right while she went left. He lunged at her, grabbing for her satchel again. She dodged to the side at the last second, and his momentum carried him into a pyramid of oranges.

Zoe ran past him, leaped over rolling oranges, and darted in one door of a pastry shop, then out the other. She could hear a lot of yelling behind her, but she didn’t look back.

Z
OE RAN DOWN
a street—no shops or cafés here, only a few people. Ahead she could see the lights of a bridge and a tourist boat below on the Seine.

The street that followed along the river was wide, the traffic murderous. She raced across it just as the light changed, setting off a flurry of horns, shaking fists, and more French curses.

I’ve lost him. Please, God, let me have lost him
.

She slowed to a walk, panting, her heart pounding in her ears as she
took a crowded footbridge. She looked downriver and finally saw something she knew—the massive lit towers of the Notre Dame cathedral thrusting into the night sky.

The cathedral would, surely, be full of tourists and tourist buses. Maybe she could sneak onto a bus and ride it to a nice big hotel with a staff who spoke English. And room service. What she wouldn’t give right now for some room service.

N
OT ONLY WERE
there no tourist buses, the big square in front of the cathedral was practically empty of people, too.

The floodlights cast the side streets in deep black shadows. She felt exposed out in the open, in the light, but the dark streets leading to who knew where seemed worse. She hadn’t lost him; she couldn’t see him but her skin crawled with the feel of him. She strained her ears, listening, listening …

Running footsteps slapped the pavement behind her.

Zoe ran.

T
HE STREET SHE
ran down spilled onto another bridge. A large group of Japanese tourists was crossing over, coming toward her. Zoe plunged in among them.

But she was too tall. She could still see the ponytailed man, and if she could see him, he could see her.

She wasn’t going to escape him. Maybe she should just toss him the satchel and be done with it. But the letter …
they will kill you and all who come near you simply for knowing too much
. The bastard had left his knife in her grandmother’s chest, but he could also have a gun. Would he dare to use it on a Paris street? Probably.

A hand grabbed her arm, startling her so badly her heart jumped up into her throat. A smiling man got in her face, pointing to the camera he held in one hand. “Take picture?” he said. Zoe shook her head, tried to get around him.

She looked ahead of her, toward the other end of the bridge. Another
man stood there, just stood there as if waiting. For her. He was dressed all in black and it was too dark to see his face, but she was so scared of him she wanted to vomit.

He took a step toward her, then another and another. He reached into his coat pocket and—

A gun. He had a gun
.

She looked over her shoulder. The ponytailed man moved through the oblivious Japanese tourists like a shark, smiling, closing in on her.

Zoe backed up until she was pressed against the wrought-iron railing. She was so afraid, so frozen with it, she couldn’t think.
Please, God, please, what am I going to do?
The ponytailed man was coming from one end of the bridge, and the man in black was coming from the other, and she had no where to go but …

She looked down at the rushing, black, icy waters of the Seine. She was standing on a low bridge, and the water was running high, but it still looked like a long way down. Then she saw the bow of a barge, coming out from underneath the bridge, moving fast, with bound newspapers piled on it as high as a house.

Zoe didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the railing with both hands and vaulted over it. She hung by her fingertips for one long, agonizing second.

Then she let go.

S
HE HIT THE
bundles of newspapers hard, driving all the air from her lungs.

Finally her chest heaved and blessed air came rushing in. She lay there, shuddering, praying she hadn’t broken anything, afraid to move and find out. Then she smiled. She’d jumped from a bridge and landed on sodden piles of
Le Monde
, and she’d survived.

Maybe, just maybe, some
toapotror
magic was going on here. She still didn’t move, though, even after it began raining hard, splashing her face, getting in her eyes, up her nose. She shifted one leg, then the other. Thank God her arms worked, too. She felt as if her chest had gone through her back, but nothing was broken, and she smiled again.

She sat up slowly and looked back up at the bridge, fading now into the distance, the rain veiling it, but she could still see the ponytailed man where he stood at the railing, looking down at the river. The man in black was gone.

I’m alive, you bastards, I’m alive. The Keeper’s alive and she’s still got the icon
.

Then her euphoria died as she saw the streets and buildings float past her. Where was the barge going? Would it stop even once before it got all the way to Le Havre?

The river flowed between quays, sheer and steep as cliffs. About every twenty yards, shallow steps carved into the stone laddered up to the street. But to get to them, that was the thing. The water whipped by, fast and cold and treacherous. She had a horrible feeling she’d used up her share of luck.