“I must say, Professor, we were curious about that hefty donation. I’m afraid we humble policemen rather thought of teachers and scholars being much as we believe ourselves to be—woefully underpaid.”

“I am capable of saving,” Dubois said icily. “I live very plainly, as you can see.”

“The house is quite enchanting,” Javet said, smiling casually as he glanced around.

“The house is quite old, and felling down around my ears,” Dubois snapped back.

“Ah, well, then, I had hoped there might be some help you could give us. If you think of anything, please call.”

Javet nodded politely, turned, and left by the door which was just at his back, since Dubois had positioned himself in the entryway to keep the inspector from stepping in farther.

When Javet was gone, Dubois leaned against the door, his heart beating too quickly, his palms sweaty.

He swore. Javet was an ass. But he was trouble. Pure trouble.

As was the American. Dubois smiled. The American was a problem that could be solved. He just had to say the word.

Feeling better with that thought in mind, he went into his kitchen and poured himself a large measure of good Russian vodka.

Yet as he stood at the window, his heart began to sink. His mouth and throat went dry, despite the liquor. In a gulp he finished off the double shot before turning.

He knew he was not alone.

His visitor stood at the door to the kitchen and stared at him contemptuously. “You fucked up, Dubois.

You fucked up—and you’re going to pay for it”

Dubois’s glass fell to the floor as his visitor took a step toward him.

CHAPTER 7

At last, Jacques was sleeping.

Tara had done her best to listen, to pretend that she believed, that she understood. But he had seen her expression—one that she hadn’t been able to hide when he expressed his belief regarding the murder—and he had immediately become upset. He had suddenly forgotten his English and switched to French, speaking so quickly and so wildly that she hadn’t begun to understand what he had been saying.

And fear had set in.

Her grandfather was losing his sanity. He was such a wonderful man, and he had cherished his ability to think and reason all his life.

To think that his mind might be going ...

It was horrible.

But in time she did calm him. She convinced him that she would keep an open mind. She assured him that she could find out what the police were doing without ever having to say that she had been there when the murder occurred. She could be a concerned tourist, just trying to feel safe in the city of Paris, and in the little village where she was staying. She had sworn that though she found his words impossible to believe, she would keep an open mind. And he had gone to bed.

Long after, she sat out on her balcony. She wondered whether or not to tell Ann about the incident, then knew that she couldn’t betray Jacques. She had to pray that the police would find the murderer quickly.

That would set his mind at rest.

She worried that perhaps shell shock was setting in, now that he had returned to Europe after having been in the States so long. It had been on the front here that he had fought, a special Resistance fighter with the Allied troops. Perhaps he needed to talk to someone, a trained professional, not a granddaughter who doted on him and was involved so deeply and emotionally.

As she worried, Katia came to tell her that Ann was on the phone. Her cousin was bright and cheerful, swept away in the workaday world. “Meetings, meetings, meetings! We have meetings about when to schedule meetings!” Ann told her. “But do you know what? Despite what has happened, we’re going to go out. I have one of those special little shock weapons, you know. Long ago, Grandpapa insisted I carry it And then I have mace, as well—which your father insisted I carry.”

“Yes, I know. He insisted I have it in New York, as well,” Tara said.

“The really big city.”

“Paris is a pretty big city.”

“Of course, but we won’t exactly be in Paris tonight.

We’ll stick close to home, and be smart, watchful, and wary. You’re not afraid to go out?“

“No.”

“Good! I need a few drinks. A few laughs. And maybe a few dances with a handsome man. Or, at least, a man. Come to think of it, just for a dance, any old geezer— or young one—will do. Listen, I’m working late, so I’ll just breeze by, beep the horn, and you’ll come down, if that’s all right. We’ll go to La Guerre—it’s just in town, not too far from the church. If you’re not afraid of going near the church, that is.”

“I hardly think that the murderer is going to stick around the site of the murder,” Tara said.

“Is everything all right there?”

She hesitated, then answered quickly, “Yes, fine. Grandpapa is sleeping.”

“Bien! He won’t mind that we take a night out together. He is always pleased when his family remains close.”

“I’ll be ready when you beep.”

Tara hung up from her conversation with Ann. She needed to go out. To a smoky, chatty, loud bar.

Where there might be drunks and lechers ...

But sane drunks. And ordinary lechers.

Sleep ...

Sleep too often meant dreams, and dreams too often meant nightmares.

Nightmares were often made up of the past.

He could almost feet the pain again. The agony that seemed to beat continuously against him, flesh and bone, outside, inside.

He could remember the men speaking, the doctors staring down at him. He could remember the needles, the way they injected him, tested his strength, his reaction to pain. He remembered the helplessness, the agony, the rage.

There was the doctor in charge, who saw to it that he was secured to the bed with steel clamps every time he would begin his experiments. The doctor didn’t bother to make introductions, but he liked to inform the lieutenant that he could be referred to as the god of death at any time. The men called him either Doctor or General Andreson. Sometimes, when the lieutenant twisted and turned, damning him, Andreson would lean close, as if he listened to rhapsodic music rather than the screams and curses of a man in agony. Then he would touch the lieutenant’s head almost tenderly and tell him, “Damn me, if you will. By any name, for I use several. Damn me ... curse me, for your words are just a melody in my mind.

Your strength is quite incredible. You should be dead by now, but you are not Doesn’t that make you the least bit curious? Ah, but it fascinates me!”

Andreson was a master of torture and pain. And as long as he lived, the lieutenant would not forget him.

But he could remember Dr. Weiss as well. The man who would stand in still silence, hands behind his back, face grim, as so much went on. And he would never forget the way that the man came to him in those times when the others were gone. The cooling cloth on his head. The pills quickly placed under his tongue, antidotes to pain.

He knew that Weiss stole the pills. And he knew that Weiss risked his own life to help in any way.

When he tried to thank him, the man would redden and reply, “We are not all monsters. We are so many good people.

But we are afraid. And fear ... well, fear is the greatest weapon on earth.“ The lieutenant formed words with his lips. “Thank you. Thank you. I still believe there is a God, and he will bless you.”

The slim little man with the wire-rimmed glasses reddened even more. “If you would thank me at all, please believe that there is goodness among my people. Those who love their children, who honor God, who abhor ... pain.”

The pain pill began to work. He could almost smile. “I know, Doctor Weiss. I know. I don’t hate people, I hate rulers who have no regard for human life. Not that it will matter, will it? I will never get out of here alive.”

“Oh, I think that you will live,” Dr. Weiss said, and the sound was almost sad and bitter.

“No one else survived, did they?”

“No one, no one among the Allies, and no one of our soldiers, either.”

“So strange ...”

“You don’t know, do you? You don’t understand at all what happened, do you?”

“We were shooting, they were shooting, and suddenly, it seemed that every wolf in Europe was fighting its own war.”

“Poor boy ...”

Dr. Weiss smoothed back the hair from his forehead, looking to the windows. He stared back at the lieutenant uneasily.

“They want to know your strength. They want to use you. They want to know just how you have survived ... and if and how you will continue to survive. But you see, I know.”

“And how is that?”

Dr. Weiss didn’t seem to hear his question. “Somehow, and soon, I must get you out of here. I must.

They will realize your strength, and they will be afraid, and they will destroy you. I must think ... must think.”

He was drifting to sleep, but he could not help but think of Weiss. The man had showed incredible kindness at severe risk.

“I am probably more than half dead already,” the lieutenant said. “Don’t do anything foolish. Your country will need men like you, when this is over.”

Again, the doctor wasn’t looking at him.

He was staring out at the night.And he stared back at the lieutenant, his features contorted in fear. His words came haltingly. “I pray... I pray ...”

“What is it?” His words were beginning to slur.

“I pray that it is not you who kills me.”

He woke himself up with a jerk. Sweat was running down his back. Sleep, rest. Dreams, nightmares.

God, no more!

That night, La Guerre was hopping.

The bizarre murder was a topic of conversation, but not one that seemed to concern many people.

A band was already playing when Ann and Tara arrived. They were doing mostly American pop hits.

The tables were full. There were a few seats left at the bar and Ann and Tara took them. Ann instantly introduced her to Tomas, the bartender, as her American cousin. Tomas told them he had an especially good house wine that night, did they want to try it? They did.