Chapter 5
Chapter Five
If the bone room was supposed to terrify her and cow her into good behavior, her captors were way off the mark.
These sad old bones were no threat at all—it was the people in the subterranean passages that would kill her.
The man they called Flambeau had tied her too tightly, and she wiggled her fingers to try to keep the blood flowing.
She was still a little dizzy from his fists and she shook her head, trying to shake some sense back into it.
The man in the other room was a dead ringer for Bastien, albeit with darker hair and eyes. His hair was long—surely he hadn’t been gone long enough for it to grow. And there was no way he would sit so calmly and discuss her murder, no way he would let that man hurt her.
Unless it was the only way to save her. Bastien’s tortured past could contain any number of people who could put him in this situation. He’d fought with her, told her he was going. Why had she been fool enough to follow?
But she had stared at that cold, immobile face and doubt began to creep in. Could Bastien have a long-lost twin brother? It seemed absurd—like something out of a soap opera, but there had to be some explanation. A cousin, even? But if that man wasn’t really Bastien, then where was her husband?
No, he had to be Bastien. Which meant he had stood aside while she was beaten, which meant he might stand aside while she was killed.
What would he do then, go back to her babies like nothing had ever happened?
Not that they were babies—Swede and Sylvia were teenagers now, half sweet, half obnoxious.
What would happen if their mother simply disappeared?
Would they ever know what happened to her?
She squirmed in the chair. The place was silent, as silent as the bones laid out in rough wooden trays around her.
Maybe they’d all gone, never to return, and left her tied up.
The bonds were tight, but sooner or later, she’d get out of them, escape into sunlight again.
What would she do then—run to Peter Madsen to have him make sense of this and hug her babies who wouldn’t want to be hugged?
It was the best she could hope for. Those dark, soulless eyes had stared at her with no recognition, and while Bastien could be a chameleon, there was no faking that. She was a stranger to him, plain and simple.
He didn’t make a sound in the rough stone pathways. One moment she was alone, bemoaning her situation, the next he was there, looking at her from the wrong eyes.
“Do you feel like talking?” he said almost casually. And she realized with sudden horror that he held a knife in one hand, casually, as if it were an afterthought. Bastien had always been very good with a knife.
“Is everyone gone?” she said, not daring to hope.
“Just you and me, chérie. Were you thinking of bribing me with your body? I’m afraid I’ve got access to better ones.”
That stopped her for a moment, absurdly hurt. She brushed it away, vowing to make him pay for it eventually. “Bastien, what is going on? What are you doing, who are these men, why are you pretending you don’t know me?”
He gave a weary sigh. “Haven’t you learned your lies won’t do you any good, madame?” He leaned forward, close, too close, and the knife was at her throat. “I…don’t…know you. Now tell me why you’re here.”
“Move that knife.” Her voice was like ice.
To her surprise, he did. He ran the edge of the blade along her jaw, a twisted caress, and she held very still. If she moved, he would cut her throat, she knew it without a doubt.
“You’re pretty in an American sort of way,” he murmured, moving the blade down the side of her neck. “Maybe I could find a use for you after all.”
“Please,” she said in a strangled voice.
“Does this bother you?” He pulled the knife away. “You’re too squeamish for the business you’re in.”
“I’m not in any business! Bastien, why don’t you recognize me?” she cried.
“Because I have never seen you before today.” There was flat truth in his voice. “There is no one here—I don’t have to pretend. You’re a stranger. So, you are going to tell me what you’re doing here before I lose my patience.”
Fear and anger warred for control. She went with anger. “Your henchman knocked me out and dragged me here.”
“My henchman?” he echoed with a cold laugh, so unlike Bastien’s. “I don’t think Flambeau will like that. I can keep him under control, at least for now, but he’s taken a liking to you and sooner or later, I might let him have you.”
For a moment she was silent, shocked. He meant it. His threats were not to impress the men with him, they were real. And she wondered if she could be wrong.
But if this really wasn’t Bastien, then where was he?
“Do you have a brother? A cousin who looks like you?” she was desperate enough to ask him.
He laughed that icy laugh. “I’m an only child. The world is in trouble enough with just one of me. So, I gather you’re not going to tell me the truth?” He held the large knife casually in his hands, as if he’d forgotten why he had it.
She stared at him in confusion and dawning horror.
One thing was certain—he truly didn’t remember her, and all her attempts to make him see the truth were falling on deaf ears.
He would kill her, she thought. He would cut her throat and get rid of her body, but sooner or later, his memory would return and he would know he’d killed her. He wouldn’t be able to live with that.
“The truth is you look like my husband,” she said, steeling herself. “But I can see that you’re not him.”
He didn’t look particularly gratified. “Not the man in the picture—I told you that,”
“Well, I didn’t believe you,” she said wearily. “He’s been missing for weeks and I’m desperate to find him.”
“Chérie, if a man no longer wants you, you should just let him go.”
It felt worse than Flambeau’s fist. Was he telling her something? Was this a kind of code to get rid of her?
“But I love him,” she said helplessly.
“A Frenchwoman would have more dignity.”
“There is no dignity in love.”
“Ah, a philosopher. Are you ready to die for love, madame? Because that is what will happen to you, unless you tell me the truth.” His voice was silky smooth, the knife still dangerously close.
“I have told you the truth. That is a picture of my husband, who you can see looks very much like you. But he isn’t you, I can see that.”
“Can you, now?” he purred.
“And I need you to let me go so I can find him. I’m no harm to you—I don’t know who you are or what you are doing, and I couldn’t find you again if I tried. Just let me go.”
“I’m afraid not. Not until I’m satisfied you’re telling the truth.”
“But I am!”
“We’ll see.” He turned away from her, and she wanted to cry out his name, and he would laugh and say he knew her, and everything would be all right.
But her face was stiff from Flambeau’s blows, and she knew there was no easy answer. “Could you at least untie me?”
“And have you run away screaming for the gendarmes? I don’t think so.”
“I’ll stay put, if that’s what you want. I promise.”
“I’m not a man who believes in promises,” he said. And he walked out the door, leaving her alone with the bones once more.
“The house was closed up tight and there was no sign anyone had been there in days,” Anderson said, taking the seat across the desk from Peter Madsen.
Peter closed his eyes in intense frustration. “Are you sure? The place is a fortress, and it could look like no one’s there.”
Anderson shook his head. “I know when a place is abandoned, boss. She’s gone, and there was no way I could break in to see if I could find any clue to where she went.”
“Fuck,” Peter said succinctly.
“I should have gone sooner.”
“I doubt that would have helped,” Peter said, sitting back. “She’s somewhere in Europe, searching for him, and I haven’t any idea where. Probably Amsterdam. You need to get over there, see what you can find.”
“I’ll check flight manifests, see if I can track her. Assuming she travelled under her real name.”
“Bastien’s smart enough to have given her an alternative identity and the papers to prove it, but he probably didn’t tell her about it.
Wherever he is, he doesn’t want to be found, and he’d never put Chloe in danger if he could help it.
Check the security cameras at the airports, especially Amsterdam’s Schiphol.
It’s not like she’s an operative—we’ll find her easily enough.
” He just hoped he was right about that.
Chloe had spent a harrowing time with Bastien years ago, barely surviving, and she’d had Bastien to look out for her. She’d be useless on her own.
She shouldn’t be that hard to find. Anderson could scoop her up and bring her to them, and she’d have a nice vacation in the English countryside with her children. But who the fuck was he kidding—as long as Bastien was missing, there’d be no nice vacation for anyone.
He had everyone looking for him—Taka in Japan, Reno in LA, MacGowan from his posh life in Pennsylvania.
He even had Madame Lambert and Killian keeping an eye out, though they were so well-embedded in their current life that their resources were only enough to keep them safe.
He didn’t hold out much hope. Bastien had disappeared completely, and a man with Bastien Toussaint’s past and skills could never be held against his will.
Peter would keep on looking, but he had the gloomy belief that Bastien wouldn’t be found until he damned well wanted to be.
For the time being, he needed to concentrate on finding Chloe.
She had no idea the trouble she could get into—Bastien hadn’t built a fortress because he was paranoid.
The two of them had enemies, from fifteen years ago, but some of them had long memories.
Getting their hands on Bastien Toussaint’s wife would be a coup.
Bastien would show back up, he had no doubt about that. The man had nine lives times nine—wherever he was, he had to be fully in control. He would return, find his wife gone, and Peter knew who he’d blame.