N’DJAMENA
Hurtubise was in the apartment less than one minute before he sensed trouble.
Gabrielle gave him a perfunctory kiss that set bells ringing—the farthest kind from romantic bells.
Alarm bells.
“What is it?” he asked.
She looked up at him—he was four inches taller—and bit her lip. He mistook it for a pout, and Gabrielle Tixier could pout with the best of them. A sensual, little-girl pout perfected over years. She used it to manipulate men.
When she turned away, he grasped her arm and spun her around. “I asked, what is it?”
“I feel terrible,” she replied.
“Yes, I can see that, Gabrielle.” He modulated his voice, allowing just enough flat tone to imply something pending. Something probably unpleasant.
“I did what you wanted,” she said, immediately regretting the defensive whine building at the end of the phrase. “I met the American woman again and we … talked.”
“You did more than talk. You drank. A lot.” It was a statement of fact; a certainty like magnetism or taxes.
She touched her forehead and flicked the light brown bangs. “Yes. All right. We drank. A lot. We learned about each other. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
He folded his arms—a sure sign of irritation—and leaned forward. “Don’t play games, Gabrielle! I set a hen to catch a hen, and now I am beginning to think that the American hen was a chicken hawk.” He stared her down; she never could meet his eyes for more than several seconds.
She plopped into the only comfortable chair and looked at him again. “I…” Her voice trailed off.
“What did you tell her?”
Her mouth opened. Nothing followed. Finally she swallowed and croaked, “I … I don’t know. Not everything.”
He sprang at her, raising a hand, and she flinched from long experience.
Hurtubise stopped in midstride. He realized that if he struck her again, this time she probably would leave. Personal considerations aside, she would also take any useful information with her.
He knelt before her, balanced on one knee. “Gabrielle. I’m sorry. I told you four years ago that I would never do that again. And I keep my word.”
She was crying now, tears tracking down both cheeks. “Marcel … I’m so sorry. I thought I could handle her. Honestly I did. But…”
The emotional dam burst and the sobs came. She leaned forward on her elbows, her slender torso visibly shaking with each painful exhalation.
He reached out, touched an arm, and squeezed. Harder than he intended, but a calming gesture nonetheless.
Inside, his mind was raging.
Marcel Hurtubise was nothing if not composed. He was aware of the American phrase “control freak.” Commandez le phénomène was as close as he could come. But however you said it, he had it. “Come here, my darling.” He wrapped his muscular arms around her and pulled her to him. Over her shoulder, he glanced at his watch and estimated that she would tell him what he needed to know in three minutes.
It was more like five.
When she had confessed all she could—everything she could remember or thought she could remember—she allowed herself to relax a bit. By now she was feeling more certain of herself. It had happened before—a long period of good to excellent behavior followed by an inevitable lapse leading to confession, contrition, and forgiveness. Sometimes Gabrielle wondered if Marcel had been a priest in a previous incarnation.
But there was always the penance. In this instance, it came on an icy wind.
“Good, Gabrielle. Very good. It is always best to tell the truth. I cannot make things better without knowing everything. You understand?”
She nodded briskly, not trusting her voice.
“Very well.” He stroked her hair, tracing the line of her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. “We must assume that she knows about the mine, so there is only one thing to do.”
“Yes?”
“Kill her.”