And I knew then that I never had a chance with her, and I never would.
That my mother would be gone forever if I didn’t do something.
If I didn’t put a bullet in Gautier’s head, setting the both of us free.
I swallow hard and knead the steering wheel, peering through the rain, trying to refocus my thoughts. I can’t think about my mother anymore. I just have to think about getting this done.
Finally done.
So we’re finally free.
The address I chose is an abandoned stone house on the outskirts of the nearest town. I’m sure it used to be quite something back in the day. In a way, it reminds me of the Dumont maison, had it succumbed to years of loneliness and neglect. In the right hands, the house could become something beautiful, but no one has loved it in such a long time.
The house reminds me of me. It reminds me of what I once was and what I was reduced to after his abuse. I could have really become something if he hadn’t removed my soul, stone by stone, replacing it with something dank and wet and dark.
I also chose the house because there is more than one way into it. I’m not a spy, but I consider myself smart enough. I knew that this would be an uphill battle, that all the cards would be stacked against me. I knew that Gautier might catch on, and either way, he wouldn’t come alone.
But I would be ready for him.
I park Pascal’s car down a lane a mile from the house, hiding it behind an old barn. Then I get out, leaving my bag behind on the seat, and grab the gun. I hold it low to my side and make my way through the darkened woods of maple and chestnut trees. The clouds have gathered here, spitting with light rain, and thunder rumbles in the distance. It’s far darker than it should be for nearly eight p.m.
Near the edge of the woods is another barn, actually a stable meant for three horses. It’s all decayed sawdust and spiders now. But this barn has a secret. Back in the 1940s, during the war, whoever lived here prepared for the worst and made a tunnel connecting the barn and the house. If the Nazis ever showed up at their door, they’d be able to sneak everyone out through the tunnel and either hide in the barn or make a run for it through the woods.
The trapdoor in the barn is easy to see. I imagine in the past it was under a bale of hay, but that hay has long since decomposed.
I lift it up and reach down for the first step with my free hand, where I’ve stored a small flashlight. I was only able to come here twice recently on my days off or if I was sent into town—it’s a long walk. But I actually discovered the house when I was a teenager, a place for me to hide and dream about justice.
The light is faint, but it’s enough. I slowly go down the six steps until my feet hit the dirt floor. I close the trapdoor above my head and shine the light forward. It’s dusty and full of cobwebs, and I hear the squish of gross things beneath my feet, but I don’t feel any fear.
I feel nothing at all.
That is, until I approach the end of the tunnel, where in the dim light I see the stairs leading up into the house. The door there is narrow, barely wide enough for one person, and opens up in a closet in the kitchen, what used to be the pantry.
I wait beneath it, trying to listen. I hear footsteps walking on the main floor, slow and methodical. Almost pacing. They probably searched the place already. Gautier knew I was still at the house and he would have beat me here, but he might think I have hired help or an accomplice.
Not Pascal, of course.
My heart sinks at what I had to do to him. It didn’t feel good to hit him, but I had no choice. I just hope I didn’t do any real damage, though his pretty-boy face can stand to look a smidgen ugly for a little bit.
Okay, here goes nothing.
I’m going to go up these stairs, then I’m going to slowly, quietly open the door in the floor.