The Day After Tomorrow_ A Novel - Allan Folsom [2]
Suddenly he felt hands under his chin, others under his arms, jerking him up and away. He felt himself hurtling backward. A moment later he crashed into something hard and fell to the floor, vaguely aware of dishes falling around him. Then he heard someone yelling in French to call the police! Looking up, he saw three waiters in white shirts and black vests standing over him. Behind them, his man was getting up unsteadily, sucking in air, blood gushing from his nose. Once up, he seemed to realize what had happened and looked toward his attacker in horror. Refusing a proffered napkin, he suddenly bolted through the crowd and out the front door.
Immediately Osborn was on his feet.
The waiters stiffened.
“Get the hell out of my way!” he shouted.
They didn’t move.
If this were New York or L.A. he’d have yelled that the man was a murderer and for them to call the police. But this was Paris, he could barely order coffee. Unable to communicate, he did the only thing he could. He charged. The first waiter moved to grab him. But Osborn was six inches taller, twenty pounds heavier and running as if he were carrying a football. Dropping his shoulder, he drove it hard into the man’s chest, spinning him sideways into the others so that they fell in a resounding comic crash, helplessly pinned one on top of the other, in a small service area halfway between the kitchen and the door. Then Osborn was through the door and gone.
Outside it was dark and raining. The rush-hour crowd filled the streets. Osborn dodged around them, his eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead, his heart pounding. This is the way the man had run, where the hell was he? He was going to lose him, he knew it. Then he saw him, a half block ahead, moving down the rue de Fourcy toward the Seine.
Osborn quickened his pace. His blood was still up but the violent explosion had spent most of his murderous rage and reason was beginning to set in. His father’s murder had taken place in the United States, where there was no statute of limitations on murder. But was that true in France as well? Did the two countries have a mutual extradition treaty? And what if the man was French, would the French government send one of its own citizens to the U.S. to be tried for murder there?
A half block ahead, the man looked back. As he did, Osborn dropped back into the throng of pedestrians. Better to let him think he got away, calm a little, lose his caution. Then, when he’s off guard, grab him alone.
A light changed, traffic stopped, so did the crowd. Osborn was behind a woman with an umbrella, with his man no more than a dozen feet away. Again he saw the face clearly. No doubt at all. He’d seen it in his dreams for twenty-eight years. He could draw it in his sleep. Standing there, the rage started to build once more.
The light changed again and the man crossed the street ahead of the crowd. Reaching the far curb, he glanced back, saw nothing and continued on. By now they were on Pont Marie, crossing the lie St.-Louis. To their right was the Cathedral Notre Dame. A few more minutes and they’d be across the Seine and onto the Left Bank.
For the moment Osborn had the upper hand. He looked ahead, searching for a side street or alley where he might be able to take his man out of public view. This was tricky business. If he moved too fast, he risked drawing attention to himself. But he had to move up or gamble losing him altogether should the man suddenly turn down an unseen street or hail a cab.
The rain came