Swimsuit - James Patterson [82]
I walked back to the Hôtel Singe-Vert empty-handed, no chocolates, no flowers, no jewelry. I had nothing to show for my Ritz-to-Métro escapade except one scrap of information that could turn out to be critical.
Henri had booked a room at the Ritz.
The lobby of our small hotel was deserted, although a cloud of cigarette smoke and loud conversation floated out from the bar and into the shabby main room.
The concierge desk was closed.
I went behind the desk and grabbed my key from the hook.
I took the stairs to my room, more than anything wanting to sleep.
I knocked on the door, called Mandy’s name, and when she didn’t answer, I turned the knob, ready to tell Mandy that she had no right to be girlish and irresponsible anymore. She had to be careful for two.
I opened the door and felt instantly that something was wrong. Mandy wasn’t in bed. Was she in the bathroom? Was she okay?
I stepped into the room, calling her name, and the door slammed behind me. I swung around and tried to make sense of the impossible.
A black man was holding Mandy, his left arm crossing her chest, his right hand with a gun to her head. He was wearing latex gloves. Blue ones. I’d seen gloves exactly like those before.
My eyes went to Mandy’s face. She was gagged. Her eyes were wild, and she was grunting a wordless scream.
The black man grinned at me, tightened his hold on her, and pointed the gun at me.
“Amanda,” the man said. “Look who’s home? We’ve been waiting for a long time, haven’t we, sweetheart? But it’s been fun, right?”
All the fragments of information came together: the blue gloves, the familiar tone, the pale gray eyes, and the stage makeup. I wasn’t mistaken this time. I’d heard hours of his voice piped directly into my ear. It was Henri. But how had he found us here?
My mind spun in a hundred directions, all at once.
I’d gone to Paris out of fear. But now that Henri had come to my door, I wasn’t afraid anymore. I was furious, and my veins were pumping a hundred percent adrenaline, lifting-a-car-off-a-baby-carriage kind of adrenaline, the running-into-a-burning-building kind of damn-it-to-hell rush.
I whipped the .38 out of my waistband, pulled back the hammer, yelled, “Let her go.”
I guess he didn’t believe I would fire. Henri smirked at me, said, “Drop your gun, Ben. I just want to talk.”
I walked up to the maniac and put the gun’s muzzle against his forehead. He grinned, gold tooth winking, part of his latest disguise. I got off one shot at the exact moment that he kneed me in the thigh. I was sent crashing backward into a desk, the wooden legs shattering as I went down.
My first thought — had I shot Mandy? But I saw blood flowing from Henri’s arm and heard the clatter of his gun sliding across the wooden floor.
He shoved Mandy away from him, hard, and she fell on me. I rolled her off my chest, and as I tried to sit, Henri pinned me — with his foot on my wrist, looking down with contempt.
“Why couldn’t you just do your job, Ben? If you’d just done your job, we wouldn’t be having this little problem, but now I can’t trust you. I only wish I’d brought my camera.”
He leaned down, bent my fingers back, and peeled the gun from my hand. Then he aimed it — first at me, and then at Mandy.
“Now, who wants to die first?” Henri said. “Vous or vous?”
Chapter 111
EVERYTHING WENT white in front of my eyes. This was it, wasn’t it? Amanda and I were going to die. I felt Henri’s breath on my face as he screwed the muzzle of the .38 into my right eye. Mandy tried to scream through her gag.
Henri barked at her, “Shut up.”
She did.
Water filled my eyes then. Maybe it was from the pain, or the fierce regret that I’d never see Amanda again. That she would die too. That our child would never be born.
Henri fired the gun — directly into the carpet next to my ear, deafening me. Then he yanked my head and shouted into my ear.
“Write the fucking book, Ben. Go home and do your job. I’m going to call you every night in L.A., and if you don’t pick up the phone,