The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (13 page)

The wind swept off the open fields that surrounded this wooden copse, rattling the stand of trees that sat atop the only real hill on the property. The father had promised his wife that by laying him to rest here, their little boy would always be visible to them and therefore never be forgotten.

That word sat heavily with them both,
forgotten
. Earlier, at the house, the boy’s mother had finally said what they both knew to be true, whispering her words through tears as she wrapped the body of their only child in the best sheets they owned.

“We have to forget him. If this is to work, then we have no choice.” She’d looked up at her husband, pale with grief and thinner than she’d ever seen him. “I don’t think I can do it any other way.”

“
Oui
, I know,” he said. “I know.”

To deny their little boy’s death meant denying themselves the balm of grief, those few and weak moments of relief that came from wailing and screaming at the sky. They knew this to be true: no parent can bury a son and then safely, unobtrusively, bury the agony that comes with living without him. She was right to say that their survival, not just of the plan they’d put in place, but the survival of themselves as living, breathing, human beings, depended on the total shutting down of this part of history. In effect, they’d agreed, they wouldn’t just be denying his death and their own grief, but they would be denying their little boy’s entire existence.

Now, leaves fell from the oak trees around them and cartwheeled along the ground past their ankles, golden and crisp and dead. They fell into the open grave and soon Jacques shifted, ready to get past this.

Of all those who worked on the estate, he’d been closest to the boy. He’d taught him the difference between a flower and a weed and then, when he was older, the difference between types of flowers, which ones loved the sun and which the shade.

“
Moi
, I’m more of a shade man, I think,” he’d laughed.

“Not me,” the boy had said, “I want the sunshine, like the roses.”

On his tenth birthday, Jacques had taught him how to set a snare for the hares that loped across the bare fields, a simple yet strong apparatus of wire and sticks, and then how to skin one when he caught it. The boy had watched, wide-eyed the first time Jacques cleaned a dead animal, fascinated but also, Jacques thought, a little sad.

For today, Jacques had made a cross with wood from this very copse, but the mother and father had explained how it couldn’t be there—not upright, anyway. And so Jacques had whittled the arms down until it fit flat on the coffin, and he wept as he reached into the pit and laid it down with soft hands, hands that lingered as if hoping the little boy would somehow notice this final gesture of love from a man too old to have children of his own, but who’d loved this one like a son.

When told his grave marker would have to be buried with the boy, Jacques had understood and felt a glimmer of happiness that something of his would be there to accompany the child. And he’d asked—no, begged—the boy’s parents to let him build a garden for their son, a perfect circle made of roses right in front of the house, a garden that he would tend until the day he died. The circle would symbolize the family’s unending love for their son, with soft grass cutting through it north to south and east and west, a cross, through the roses to give it meaning and to give them access to its center, a way into and through the rose patch from every direction. They had said yes.

Finally, the mother and father moved away, clutching each other with their heads close, bowed, as they made their way across the field back to the house.

With a momentous effort, Jacques and Olivier turned and picked up their shovels. They looked at each other, and with a small nod from the older man they began the rhythmic stab and tip of heavy soil into the grave. Both men flinched at those first hollow thumps as the wet mud landed on the wooden casket, but soon the fall of earth became muffled as the top and then the corners of the boy’s coffin disappeared from view. The men’s shovels became heavy with mud and they huffed with the effort, their breath steaming in the cooling air as they worked. They didn’t speak until they were done, nor did they rest, pausing only to draw a rough sleeve over their eyes, wiping at the rivers of tears that wouldn’t stop.

At the house, the mother and father let themselves into the guest room and stood hand-in-hand looking down at the bed. Another boy, the same age as theirs, lay asleep. His breathing was labored and his forehead shone with fever, but last night he’d turned a corner, moved away from the dark and jagged path that had led their son on his final walk.

The mother knelt beside the bed and took a wet cloth from a bowl, then dabbed gently at the boy to cool him down.

“He’s better,” she said. “He’s doing so much better.”

“
Bien
. We don’t have much time, we have to travel soon. If anyone finds out, if Monsieur Pichon were somehow to find out what we’re doing . . .”

“Hush,” his wife said gently. “No one will find out. And by the time they do, we will be gone.” She stood and dropped the cloth back into the bowl, then stooped over the boy and kissed his now-cool forehead. She stood next to her husband and took his hand. “He’s ours now. We have to take care of him, especially on a trip such as this.”

“I know. We can wait another few days, that should be enough time.”

“He will be eating by then.” She looked up at her husband and then back at the boy. “Our son. This is our son now.”

“Yes,” whispered her husband. “He’s our son.”

Capitaine Garcia dropped Hugo and Tom in front of the US Embassy and they went straight in to meet with the ambassador.

“Still no word,” Taylor said. “We’re still hoping he went sightseeing rather than . . . anything else.”

“Well, Paris is a beautiful city, so it’s entirely possible,” Tom said cheerily.

“And as we all know,” Hugo said, “if there’s one thing we can expect Lake to do, it’s appreciate Paris.”

“Now, now, no need to be sarcastic,” Tom said. “Paris can win over even the hardest of hearts.”

“Guys, focus,” Taylor interrupted. He looked at Hugo. “What’s your best guess, does this have something to do with his phantom intruder at Chateau Tourville, or not?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Hugo said. “I can guarantee he’s not out buying souvenirs, though. It’s possible he needed to get out and clear his head but I’d be surprised at him going to the trouble of losing his security just to do that. Very surprised. And you said he didn’t take his phone, which means he’s either forgetful or he really doesn’t want us tracking him.” Hugo looked at the ambassador. “We’re absolutely sure he slipped his guardians and someone didn’t take him?”

“Correct. He sent them both on bullshit errands, which he’s done before, so they both made sure his room door was locked before leaving him safe and secure inside.”

“And surveillance?” Tom prompted.

“Yeah, it also crossed my mind that someone knocked on his door and tricked his way into Lake’s rooms, but nope, he walked out himself less than a minute after Ruby and Rousek did and sailed straight out of the hotel.”

“Which direction?” Hugo asked.

“Toward the river.”

“And has anyone looked at his phone, or checked with the hotel to see if a call was made to his room at any point? A call from someone out of the ordinary.”

“His phone has a code and we don’t want to break into it unless we’re sure there’s a problem—you may have noticed he’s a little temperamental. I can’t imagine he’d leave it lying on his bedside table, which he did, by the way, if it contains some kind of incriminating evidence.”

“Fair enough,” Hugo said. “Any calls into his room?”

“In the two hours before he left the hotel, four. One from his brother in the United States, two from his staff there, and one from here in Paris.” Taylor held up a hand. “And before you ask, no way to know from whom, or even the number. The Crillon is a hotel, not the CIA, as they politely reminded me.”

“So a clue with a dead end, fucking marvelous,” Tom said. “Now what’s the plan?”

“Not sure, to be honest.” Taylor looked chagrined. “I was kinda hoping you boys would come up with one.”

“We did,” Hugo said, winking. “Just wanted to make sure it didn’t contradict yours. We talked on the way up, figured Tom would take lead here looking for Lake. He can get access to security and surveillance cameras via his CIA contacts and generally be more use than me up here. Whether this has something to do with the mysterious intruder and the Troyes murder I don’t know, but both need looking into. And fast.”

“Agreed,” Taylor nodded.

“Garcia’s briefing his boss right now, and if you give the go-ahead he and I will swing down to meet with the Troyes police, maybe go visit the crime scene or talk to the victim’s family.”

“You think there’s a connection?”

“No idea,” Hugo said, “but we’d be nuts not to look for one.”

“Then get to it.” He looked at Tom. “And you find Lake, Tom, whatever it takes. If you need something from me just ask, but I don’t want to hit the panic button right now.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t want a full alert with the Paris police. If he has gone out to clear his head and enjoy some anonymous time, then we can yell at him when he gets back. But if there’s a chance in hell of getting these damn talks back on track, the fewer people who know about this little breach of security the better. On both sides of the Atlantic.”

They took the A5 heading southeast away from Paris, Garcia driving his police Peugeot fast, weaving in and out of traffic as they left the city behind with rolling green fields opening up around them. Once clear of the city, Hugo called the police department handling the murder and talked to the detective in charge for the second time in twenty-four hours. The detective was unable to get away until the next day, but he’d arranged for the victim’s son, Georges Bassin, to meet them there.

The drive took two hours and by the time they arrived Hugo was ready to stretch his legs, and his back. Garcia parked behind a white Landover, sparkling clean, and a tall, thin man in his late-fifties came out of a side door to meet them. He wore a heavy blue cardigan and baggy brown corduroys, and he walked with a slight stoop. His grip when he shook hands, though, was firm and his English was flawless.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming.”

They followed him inside, taking seats in a large drawing room that looked out over a patio and, beyond that, a wide and manicured lawn. “You have a beautiful home, Monsieur Bassin,” Hugo said.

“Thank you. It’s been in my family for almost three hundred years.” He smiled. “And in some places, you can definitely tell. My mother wasn’t eager to update or even repair, so I’ll have the pleasure of doing that.”

“She lived here alone?” Hugo asked.

“Yes and no. I have an apartment in the city, I spend most of my time there. But I come twice a month, sometimes more. My children grew up here but now one lives in Cannes and the other in Australia so yes, most of the time she was here alone.”

“Did she have many friends, people who visited?”

“You want to know whether she was targeted or this was random,” Bassin said. “It’s OK, for a while I was in military intelligence. Twenty years ago. No, thirty now.” He shook his head. “Time steals a march on us all,
n’est-ce pas
?”