The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [93]
In spite of herself, her thoughts flashed to the gun hidden in Grey’s waistband. A darkness rose up inside her like a tide. He wasn’t coming back.
A low purr snapped her to attention. The sound grew as a car drove into view in the distance. The little green Fiat slowed as it approached the bend. Squinting, Claire made out a lone man inside. She crawled closer. The road was dangerous, she knew. But they’d never to make it to Paris on foot.
A Frenchman. He had a cigarette in his mouth, a jacket over a turtleneck. He was slumped low in his seat, his head tilted down as if he were barely watching the road.
Claire climbed onto the asphalt as he approached. She waved her arms in front of her, a welcoming smile. The brakes squealed as the car stopped.
“Madame, what is wrong?” Voice concerned, his hands gripped the wheel.
As she walked up to the window, her gaze slid over a permit hung from the front window bearing a swastika stamp. “Well, Monsieur—” She pointed the pistol in his face. “We need a ride.” She loaded the girls into the backseat and slid into the front seat next to him, the gun trained on his chest.
His gaze fell on Anna’s bruised face. “I’m a doctor.” When Claire didn’t respond, he pointed to the permit on his windshield. “That is why I am allowed to drive. I’m a doctor and need to see my patients.”
“You need to drive.” Claire glanced at the permit. “Docteur Lagarde.”
He clenched his mouth and pulled onto the road. Claire curled up in the seat so she could face him, rested the Luger on her knee and tried to ignore how much it hurt her shoulder.
He glanced at Anna in the rearview mirror then at the pistol in Claire’s hand. “It is not impossible to guess how you might have acquired a German officer’s pistol. But I must tell you it is not necessary to point it at me. I would like to help you.”
“No. It’s better this way. If you are a good man, a patriot, then you will willingly drive and won’t have anything to worry about if you are questioned. If not, well, that is what the bullets are for.”
He sighed, turning his eyes to the road. “D’accord.”
The girls curled up asleep on the seat behind her. The exhaustion she refused to feel all day submerged her. Claire rested her head on her palm, elbow propped on the seat, Luger pointed forward.
Claire jolted alert when the car stopped, lights out, off the side of the road in the trees. The doctor said nothing, lit a cigarette and inhaled as if it were his last. He glanced at her then at the gun.
“We are outside of Vernonnett in le Forêt de Vernon. The checkpoint is over the next hill.” He pointed past her into the forest. “Just out of sight, there is a small path, like an animal trail. It leads to the river. That is where the smugglers work, where they load cargo on barges for Paris they don’t want regulated by the Germans.”
Claire squinted into the forest. “How will I find them?”
“They’ll find you. They are well armed. The pistol will do you no good. But perhaps with the gun you can buy passage.” He looked back at the sleeping girls. In the dim light, his face was etched with exhaustion and sadness. Like a man who has found his limits and was haunted by how insurmountable they were.
Claire knew how he felt. “Thank you.” She reached back to wake Marta.
Claire led the way down the trail with Anna sleeping in her arms. Marta trudged behind with the bags. Guided by the sliver of a moon, feet testing the forest floor before each step, they inched through the darkness.
The moon dipped from view. Their strides faltered. Claire bunched fallen leaves together to make a small bed between trees. Marta was too tired to do more than pull Anna in tight and wrap her coat around her. They huddled close, Claire leaning against the tree, gun in her hand, head resting on arms crossed in front of her. She closed her eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Snapping