Death by Denim Page 3

  I took the paper, mentally shaking my head. Duh. Our message wasn’t folded up inside the paper, it was in the paper. Clever. “What am I looking for?” I whispered.

  Her eyes never left the page. “We’ll know when we find it.”

  I’m proud to say I was the one who spotted the notation. Actually, it was just a number, written in red ink with a fine, slanted script: 0900. I found it above an article about Jim Morrison’s grave, which lay in a famous cemetery just outside the city.

  “This is an interesting article,” I said. “Take a look.”

  She glanced at the paper I held before her and murmured, “Mm-hmm,” and then turned back to the section she was reading. I deflated. Maybe the number wasn’t significant after all. But then Mom folded her portion of the paper and stood. “Etes-vous prête à partir?” Are you ready to go?

  I tried not to smile too big. “Oui, je suis prête.”

  We arrived at the cemetery a little bit early. The notation had indicated nine A.M., written in military time. We probably got there around eight-thirty. Even then, we had taken our time getting there; it was only a few miles away from where we’d been. In the end, though, there wasn’t a whole lot we could do to waste time that early in the morning.

  The sun had barely risen farther in the sky, but the temperature kept climbing. And the humidity. I had watched the clouds gathering overhead and hoped they would cool things down, but they just seemed to hold the moisture in the air.

  We wandered through the monuments and grave-stones waiting for him, feeling hot and sticky. After having spent the night on the train and slept in the station office without the benefit of a toothbrush or a change of clothes, I was starting to feel pretty rank. All I wanted was to make the contact and go find a nice, cool shower somewhere.

  I got half my wish. The clouds dropped lower and then opened up, pouring down rain as if we were standing under a spigot. We ran for the cover of the trees, though we were already soaked through. Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the rain stopped, though I didn’t trust the remaining clouds. Still, no sign of Lévêque.

  I was just beginning to think that we had misinterpreted the message when finally I saw him. M. Lévêque, all suave in a designer summer-weight trench coat, strolling along the path toward us. And at least he was smart enough to be carrying an umbrella. He stopped just a few headstones down from where we waited and stood, as if paying his respects to the unknown dead. Mom inched nearer to him, but she didn’t look in his direction.

  “I’m glad to see you’re safe,” he said in a low voice. His accent was not French.

  Mom barely nodded, keeping her eyes downcast.

  “Where have you been?” he continued. “You disappeared off the map. Didn’t tell anyone where you were, what you were doing …”

  She bent and straightened the shriveled stems of long-dead roses at her feet. “We were in Lyon,” she said simply. “I thought it best we keep to ourselves for a while.”

  “We can’t protect you if we don’t know where you are, Natalie.”

  “I understand. Do you have our new cover?”

  “Not yet. There have been some … delays.”

  Her posture went rigid. “What kind of delays?”

  “Funding, documents. I’m sorry. We’ll meet this afternoon on the running path at the Bois de Boulogne. I hope to have some news for you then.” He turned to leave, but called over his shoulder. “I’ve left you some things with Joan of Arc.”

  And with that, he strode away. Mom watched him leave, her face completely blank. “Go get the umbrella,” she said.

  “What umbrella?”

  She gestured with her eyes and I followed her gaze to see M. Lévêque pause at the cemetery exit. He folded his umbrella and hung it by its hook handle on the gate as he peeled off his raincoat. He folded the coat neatly over his arm then ambled away from the cemetery without a backward glance.

  I ran and grabbed the umbrella, pretending to call out to him in case anyone was watching. “Monsieur!” But of course, he kept walking. I tucked the umbrella under my arm. I could feel the crinkle of paper. Money. Or more instructions.

  When I returned, Mom was not waiting where I had left her. My first impulse was to run down the path looking for her, but I knew that was irrational. Don’t let your emotions rule your actions, Mom said. I fought the urge and stayed where I was until she returned, carrying two shopping bags—one in each hand.

  “What are—”

  “Walk,” she said.

  I turned and strolled out of the cemetery with her as if it was the most natural thing in the world to have picked up an umbrella and bags in a graveyard.

  We didn’t open the bags until we were safely checked in to a nearby hotel and locked in our room. Mom looked inside the first bag and threw it to me. “This one’s yours,” she said.

  I opened it like a kid at Christmas. “What is this?” I held up a running shoe.

  She pulled out a new pair of running pants and held them against herself for size. “You heard him. We need to meet on the running paths this afternoon.”

  Whatever. I was just happy to have clean, dry clothes to change into. I tossed aside my soaking-wet Vans and slipped my feet into my new Pumas. They fit perfectly. M. Lévêque was my new best friend.

  If only I had known our friendship would turn out to be so short lived.

  Since we didn’t have to meet M. Lévêque until late that afternoon, Mom mandated that we use some of the time we had to kill by taking a nap. I knew she was big on the rest-when-you-can thing, so I didn’t argue, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep this time.

  I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering who I would be in my new life. I doubted we would stay in France; that cover had been blown. I hoped it would be somewhere near the ocean. Somewhere like home. The thought summoned images of my dad back on our island. A deep sadness settled on my chest as it always did when I thought about him. He would be so worried about me. I hoped my note had at least brought him some comfort.

  As they often did, my thoughts then drifted back to Seth Mulo. Where was he? Was he still safe? The last time I’d seen him, he was leaving to deliver a ring The Mole wanted in exchange for Seth’s dad. I could still feel his arms around me before they came for him. I never even said good-bye; I couldn’t make myself form the words. Now I worried that I would never get the chance.

  The CIA was supposed to be with Seth on that mission, protecting him, that much I knew, but nothing else. Whenever I asked my mom about him, she would assure me he was safe, but that’s about all she would tell me. The last time I asked, she took my hand, but her grip was not gentle and mom-like and comforting. The pressure of her fingers felt like a warning. “We’ve talked about this,” she said evenly. “Seth is safe now. Let him go.”

  I pulled my hand away. How easy she made it sound. Let him go. Like he was some carnival balloon on a string that I could just let loose and forget once he had floated away.

  She didn’t understand.

  Seth and I shared a bond that Mom with all her agent smarts should have anticipated when she sent him to our island. He was sensitive and smart and made me feel special when I was with him. And more than that, we understood each other. We had been through hell and back together. How could she ask me to turn my back on that?

  A familiar ache swelled in my throat, and my chest felt at once heavy and hollow. I didn’t want to admit it, but maybe my mom was right. Seth was gone. For his safety, as well as our own, I could never see him again. Thinking about him all the time was like slow torture. Whether I liked it or not, I had to let go of his memory.

  I pushed off of the bed and padded into the bathroom, where I took a long, hot shower, washed my hair, and had a good, long cry. I hoped that it would get easier as time went by.

  Mom woke when I came out of the bathroom and headed in for a shower of her own. By the time we were both dressed in our new clothes, my stomach was starting to growl. We hadn’t eaten since
dinner the night before and that seemed like a long, long time ago.

  I sat at the desk, thumbing through the guest services book the hotel had left in our room. “Can we order room service?” I asked. “I’m starving.”

  Mom paused from combing out her wet hair. “I saw a patisserie on the corner this morning. Why don’t we go grab something?”

  “Is that okay?”

  She picked up the room card and the roll of euros Lévêque had left for us and stuffed them both in her pocket. “Sure. We can cut through the hotel lobby to minimize exposure.”

  I tossed the amenities book aside and bounced off the bed. “How long until we have to meet at the park?”

  “Not until after he gets off work at five. Another couple of hours. We have time.” She opened the door and stepped aside. “After you.”

  I was feeling a little better since my cry in the shower. Not much, but a little. I wondered if it showed, this monumental decision I’d made. Would Mom notice? I caught a glimpse of myself in the elevator mirror as we rode down to the lobby. As far as I could see, I looked exactly the same—only in more expensive clothes. You know, the kind that real athletes wear: a layered racer tank and matching shorts, both made from that lightweight fabric that’s supposed to wick the moisture away from your skin. At least that was different. I suppose that was the best I could expect.

  In the lobby, we had just started walking to the door when the desk clerk called after Mom.

  “Pardon, Madame.” He waved an envelope at her. “Il y a un message pour vous.”

  The smile froze on her face. She thanked him, and accepted the message with about as much enthusiasm as she might have taken a vial of toxin. She turned it over to read the front and that little muscle at the side of her lips started twitching again.

  “Quand est-il arrivé?” she asked. When did it arrive?

  The clerk started speaking rapid-fire French, apologizing like he thought he was in trouble. He said that he had just begun his shift a short time ago and didn’t know when it had arrived, only that it was there when he got in. “Je ne sais pas,” he kept saying, “je ne sais pas.”

  Mom managed a smile and thanked the clerk, assuring him that all was well. But I could tell she was shaken. She tucked the envelope into her pocket and suggested we use the restroom before we left for our day about town. If I hadn’t already guessed something was up, I knew then; we weren’t headed “about town.” We were just going to the patisserie next door. We detoured to the ladies’ room, where she locked the door and leaned up against it. Gingerly, she tore open the envelope and read the note inside. For the first time I could remember, she let her blank facade slip. Her eyes grew wide and her lips turned down, parting just enough to draw in a gasp. She stole a quick glance at her watch.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I need to go. Alone.” She pushed the door open to one of the stalls and started ripping the note into tiny pieces, letting them drop into the toilet. “Do you remember our meeting place?”

  I stared at her. “I don’t understand. Isn’t that only for if we became separated?”

  “We will be. But only for a short while.” She flushed the note away and turned to face me, but she couldn’t meet my eyes. My stomach felt hollow. This was not my usual in-control mom.

  “What is it?”

  She just shook her head and raked her fingers through her still-damp hair. I couldn’t help but notice the way her fingers were trembling. That’s when I got really scared.

  “Mom …”

  She grasped my hand. “Wait for me at the phone booth under the glass dome at the Saint-Lazare station. And if you don’t see me within—”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  She shook her head. “Not this time.”

  “Why? What’s wrong, Mom?”

  “Aphra, I need to ask you to trust me on this. I’ll tell you eveything as soon as I can, but now is not the time. I’m sorry.”

  “How long will you be?”

  Ignoring my question, she pulled the money from her pocket and peeled off four large bills. “Put these away. Wait for me at Saint-Lazare. If I am not there in two hours, go to the U.S. consulate.”

  I was genuinely scared by then. “What’s going on? What was in that note?”

  Finally, Mom gave in. “It was from Gérard Lévêque,” she said in a low voice. “He says we must leave Paris immediately. I’m to meet him for instructions.” She kissed me on the forehead. “Wait for me at Saint-Lazare. I love you.”

  And then she was gone.

  If ever I needed a signal that she still thought of me as her little girl, that kiss was it. And as much as the gesture made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, I didn’t want her to see me as a helpless little girl just then. I needed her to believe in me. Maybe that’s why I chose to do what I did.

  I waited for a few seconds and then eased out of the ladies’ room to follow her. I know I had promised that I would wait at Saint-Lazare, but I couldn’t leave her. Like she said that morning, when a person lets her emotions think for her, that’s when she gets into trouble. Well, the way she had reacted, I knew the note had evoked an emotional response that wasn’t allowing her to think rationally.

  The desk clerk barely glanced up as I ran from the lobby, which was a good thing because I’m sure my face would have betrayed too much. I tried to hide the worry as I jogged down the street toward the Metro, but I’m not sure I succeeded.

  I hid behind the station sign, watching my mom pace up and down the platform, waiting for the train. I felt naked. Exposed. Because I could think of only one reason Lévêque would warn us to leave Paris. The Mole had found us again.

  When the train arrived, I slipped onto the car next to the one my mom took. I positioned myself behind a large man in a Les Bleus T-shirt and watched her through the sliding door.

  Every time we made a stop and more people pushed on board, my chest grew tighter and tighter until I could barely breathe. And each time the doors slid closed, it felt like a snare snapping shut, over and over again.

  Mom got off the train at the Esplanade de la Défense station. She jogged along a gravel path that followed the contours of the Seine until she had to stop for traffic at the intersection of a large bridge. On the other side of the bridge stretched a huge wooded park.

  I ducked and hid in the bushes along the path until the route was clear, and then eased out into the foot traffic, following her down a wide path that led through the trees.

  If she hadn’t been distracted, there’s no way I could have gotten away with following her without her knowing. It just served as further proof that she was not herself. She needed me.

  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 gro
up 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.