Death by Denim (5 page)

As parks go, the one I followed her through that day was beyond beautiful. The running path wound past lakes and miniature waterfalls, and was canopied by tall oak trees that must have been hundreds of years old. Sometime in its history, the park must have been part of an estate; an elegant mansion stood at one end of the property, surrounded by an ornate fence. I imagined the running paths had once been meant for horses.

I kept a close eye on my mom’s bouncing head several strides ahead of me, pulling farther and farther ahead with every step. She wasn’t jogging; she was flat-out running. It would have been easier to keep up with her if the park wasn’t such a popular destination. The track was clogged with runners and cyclists and people simply out for a lovely summer stroll. Of course, I’m sure that’s why Lévêque had chosen that particular park to meet. Among the throngs of other joggers, they would practically be invisible as they ran side by side, sharing information. But it made it harder for me to keep my distance, still keeping her in sight without being obvious about it.

When we rounded a curve in the path, I had to slow for a woman with a jogging stroller and then again for some guy running with his dog. A group of older men were walking four abreast, and I had to slow my stride again to wait for an opening so I could get past them. Still, I managed to keep pace.

But then a group of little kids dressed in matching outfits ambled onto the path, herded by a pinched-faced teacher. Boys and girls alike wore crisp, white tunics over navy blue shorts, with round straw hats on their heads that had little ribbons dangling down the back. They were cute, but in my way. When I slowed down to avoid running them over, Mom pulled even farther ahead. I veered to the left of the group and tried to pass them, but one little boy dropped the toy boat he was carrying and stooped right in front of me to pick it up.

I stumbled to a stop. The teacher jumped forward to pull him out of my way, gushing apologies.
“Pardon, mademoiselle! Désolé.”

“Ne t’en fais pas,”
I murmured. It’s okay. But it wasn’t quite, because when I looked up, my mom was gone. I flew down the path, feeling like that little kindergart ner again. Only this time it was worse because my mind slipped back to the last time I had lost my mom in a crowd. That incident had ended with me watching her partner die.

The logical part of my brain knew it was highly unlikely for the same thing to happen again. Still, I half expected to round the bend and find M. Lévêque sitting at one of the park’s small, round tables, reading his newspaper, reaching for his coffee the way her partner, Joe, had done . . . right before he keeled over from being poisoned.

I shook my head to chase the thought away. The only thing I needed to be worried about was finding my mom. It seemed unreal to me that I could have lost her so quickly. I had been distracted for only a moment.

And then her voice echoed in my head, so urgent, reminding me to go to the station.

I drew in a shaky breath, a weight settling on my chest. Maybe I wasn’t so sneaky after all. She had probably seen me following her and ditched me. But why? What was it about this meeting that was so different from this morning? I thought of how she had been so shaken when she read the note. This meeting with M. Lévêque must be dangerous if she didn’t want me there, but if it was too dangerous for me, it would be just as dangerous for her.

Suddenly, I was unsure of what to do. Should I try to find her? She might need help. I started down the path again, but stopped before I had gone three steps. I could just imagine what she would say if I went against following the procedure she had taken such pains to spell out to me. Especially if by doing so, I messed up whatever it was she was planning. She had made it very clear she wanted me to go to the station and wait for her there.

Mom had always said to trust my instincts . . . but what if my instincts told me two completely different things?

In the end, I decided to go to Saint-Lazare as I had promised. She had made it clear that she didn’t want me with her. I slogged back to the Metro, defeated. On the map outside the gate, I was able to find Gare Saint-Lazare and determine the route I should go. I pulled one of the bills from my pocket and bought a ticket, slipping through the turnstile before I could change my mind.

The platform was crowded with commuters in suits and ties, parents with fidgeting children, tourist-types in Bermuda shorts thumbing through guidebooks, and what looked like an entire rugby team. They were all talking, laughing, acting as though it were any other normal day. I tried to blend in with them, but I’m not sure how well I succeeded in adapting their casual postures and worry-free expressions.

From down the track, I could see the headlights of the train approaching. I stole one last glance back toward the park, half hoping to see Mom jogging toward the Metro. That’s when I saw him. He was standing at the entrance to the Metro, smoking one of his foul cigarettes. The Marlboro Man. My breath caught. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it?

Just then, he turned his head and looked toward the platform. I jumped behind one of the support pillars, heart hammering. I didn’t know if he saw me, but I wasn’t going to wait to find out.

A train rolled to a stop on the tracks behind me and the doors opened with a hydraulic hiss. I jumped into the crowd of commuters and pushed my way onto the nearest car. When I looked back at where he had been standing, I couldn’t see him anymore. Where had he gone?

And why wasn’t the train moving? Cold sweat prickled across the back of my neck. Any second, I expected to see Marlboro stroll up onto the platform and corner me on the train. I looked around frantically, searching for an alternate exit.

Fortunately, I didn’t need it. The doors slid shut and the train began to move. I gripped the handrail to keep my balance and leaned against the door, resting my forehead on the cool glass as I watched the station slip away.

As the train picked up speed I studied the route map on the LED display above the door. There were eight stops before I had to transfer trains at the Champs Élysées station. Only two more stops from there to Saint-Lazare. If I figured an average of about three minutes between stops, that meant at least half an hour before I reached our meeting place. Half an hour that my mom could be in trouble.

But I tried not to think about that. I tried not to think about anything as the train rolled through station after station. People got off, more people got on. I avoided looking at any of them directly. I felt like I had a huge neon sign above my head flashing the words
Scared American
.

Located as it was in the heart of the city, the station at Champs Élysées was much more crowded than the one at la Défense had been. I’m not really used to crowds. Logically, I knew that it should be easier to lose myself in the mob at the station, but it only made me feel more conspicuous. And as I searched for the right track for the train to Saint-Lazare, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I spun around, fully expecting to find Marlboro Man lurking in one of the corners.

My mom would have been disappointed if she could have seen my lack of cool. My first time away from her in Paris and I was completely falling apart. I forced a deep breath—not the best idea in a Paris Metro station, believe me—and tried to release some of the tension as I blew it out again. It didn’t work. The best I could manage was to keep my face blank and try to blend in by walking to the next track like I had some kind of purpose.

Before I got to the platform, a garbled French voice announced over the loudspeaker the arrival of the train. At least that’s what I think it said. It was too distorted to understand, but I could see
something
approaching, so I ran to meet it.

It wasn’t until the train pulled up to the platform that I was able to read the destination sign by the train’s sliding doors. It wasn’t the one I wanted. I glanced up at the huge digital board on the wall to look for line thirteen. It took me a moment to find it. Which might be why I didn’t see him step up behind me.

He touched my arm. “Excuse me.”

Automatically, my head whipped around—not only because he spoke in English when I would have expected French, but because I recognized the voice. I could quite literally feel the blood drain from my face, and it felt like it had been replaced by ice water.

“Ryan?” I managed to whisper. I’d last seen CIA Agent Ryan Anderson in the Cascades in Washington State. What was he doing in Paris? Did it have anything to do with my mom’s meeting with Lévêque in the park? I began to open my mouth, but he shook his head just enough to signal me that I should hold my tongue.

What came next happened so suddenly that even now as I look back, it catches me by surprise. The chimes on the platform gave the closing-door warning. Just before they slid shut, Ryan grabbed my arm and dragged me onto the train.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s been a change of plans.”

I
tried to wrench away from him, but Ryan kept a firm grip on my arm, just above the elbow. I don’t know if he intended it or not, but his thumb hit a pressure point when he squeezed and it really hurt.

On a seat nearby, a gray-haired gentleman with horn-rim glasses lowered the paper he was reading to give me a questioning look. He raised his brows as if to ask if I was all right. For a very brief moment, I considered shouting that I was not, in fact, all right, but then my mom’s words swirled through my head.
Assess the situation
.
Act, don’t react.

I didn’t know why Ryan was there. I didn’t know how he had found me. Most of all, I didn’t know if he had anything to do with my mom’s disappearance in the park. The one thing I
did
know was that until I knew the answers to those questions, it would be better for me to keep my mouth shut.

I gave the man what I hoped was a reassuring smile—one that would not only convey my appreciation for his concern, but would give him confidence that I was in control of the situation. Only I wasn’t. In control, I mean. My legs shook so badly that I very nearly sank to the floor. I had to bite my tongue to hold back the questions threatening to tumble out of my mouth.

I stole a glance at Ryan’s face. Like my mom, he had the annoying ability to maintain a completely blank expression. But his eyes . . . I dropped my gaze quickly. The warm velvet brown of his eyes might have made me feel protected and safe . . . except for the fact that he had found me in Paris, where my mom and I were supposed to be completely incognito.

The man with the newspaper seemed to sense my unease and gave me one last grandfatherly glance. For his benefit and to preserve the illusion I was trying to create, I leaned into Ryan and rested my head on his shoulder. That must have taken Ryan completely by surprise because he flinched, muscles tensing before he caught himself and forced them to relax. The man didn’t seem to notice the reaction, though. He went back to his newspaper, apparently satisfied that all was well.

The train slowed, and I stumbled forward. Ryan caught me with one arm and set me back on my feet. It was my turn to flinch, because he didn’t let go of me after I’d recovered, but pulled me closer. He brushed my hair back from my ear and leaned in close so that his head nearly touched mine.

“This is our stop,” he whispered. His warm breath feathered against my neck, a not unpleasant sensation, I had to admit. He straightened as the train rolled to a stop and let his arm slide down so that his hand rested firmly at the small of my back. Not in a romantic way, but not really detached, either, just kind of . . . protective.

The doors slid open and he guided me forward. Once we were off the train, he grabbed my hand and picked up the pace as he pulled me through the crowd. I realized too late that I had forgotten rule number one. I hadn’t been paying attention to the route on the train and I didn’t recognize the platform we were on at all—the layout and posters on the curving wall didn’t seem familiar. I twisted my head around to see the station sign, but it didn’t do me any good; I didn’t recognize the name. I had no idea where we were.

Near the exit gate, the crowd knotted and snarled before feeding through the cage-like revolving door turnstile one by one. Ryan’s grip on my hand tightened and I noticed the way his jaw tensed and flexed. I could guess what he was thinking: Only one of us could go through the turnstile at a time. If I went through first, I could bolt the moment I got to the other side. If he went through first, I could turn around and run the other way. But neither scenario would do me much good.

I gave his hand a squeeze to let him know I wasn’t going anywhere. I still didn’t know what was going on, but my gut told me that Ryan was on my side, even if I didn’t always agree with his methods. Besides, I was smart enough to realize that if I took off as soon as he released me, he’d only come after me. A chase through the subway was not the best plan for keeping a low profile. Plus, where would I run
to
? I didn’t know the area. He had nothing to worry about. Yet.