Chapter 12
The Warners had dinner at the Fontaine de Mars, Ryan’s favorite restaurant. It was a
high-end typical French bistro, with delicious food, which Bart always enjoyed too
when he visited. They skipped dessert and finished early, because Véro wasn’t feeling
well. She had just started having morning sickness at odd times, mostly in the evening,
for the past week. They decided to walk home to get some air, and Bart said he was
going to visit Halley. He hailed a cab outside the restaurant, and would be at her house
in ten minutes. He called her from the cab.
“We ended dinner early, Véronique wasn’t feeling well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Pretty standard stuff, I think, but she wanted to go home. Are you up for a visit, or
too tired?” It was only nine o’clock, but she had hardly slept the night before, after the
midnight call from the thief, or whoever it was. It was most likely him.
“Actually, I’m wide awake. I’ve been snooping. I found some photo albums in the
library, and there are photographs of my landlords’ home in Marrakesh. It looks like a
palace.”
“A lot of the French go there, and I think there are some spectacular homes.”
“And yes, I would love to see you,” she said, answering his question.
“I’ll be there in five minutes.” He was pleased that she wanted to see him. He had
thought of her all day, and of how little he knew about her. The things she said were
intriguing, passing mentions of her childhood, her history with her daughters’ father, and
the love of her life who had died of a brain tumor. She didn’t say much about it, but he
had the feeling that she had been through a lot. She wasn’t bitter, and she had a positive
outlook, but reading her books, he had always felt that she was a woman with deep
feelings, a rich life experience, and compassionate nature. And compassion often came
from suffering. Meeting her had confirmed it. She had a deep well of feelings that she
kept carefully hidden. He wanted to slowly unravel the protective layers, and get to
know her better. And he had a feeling that much of her writing came from her own
experience.
He rang the outer bell when he got there, which buzzed in the house. She answered
through an intercom and let him in, and when he entered the inner courtyard, he saw her
waiting for him in the doorway, smiling to welcome him. Out of the corner of his eye, he
saw a surly-looking man watching him from behind a curtain in the lodging near the
outer door, and he guessed that it was the guardian she had mentioned and didn’t like. It
was easy to see why. He looked unpleasant and menacing. Bart paid no attention to him,
walking swiftly toward Halley, and they went into the house and closed and locked the
door.
As he had before, he found the house warm and inviting, and she led him into the
library and offered him a glass of wine. It was cozy being with her in the handsome
room, lined with leather-bound books. “I love this place,” he said, looking around and
admiring it again.
“So do I. And the owners’ palace in Morocco looks amazing in the photographs.”
She pulled out the big leather album and showed it to him. Their home in Marrakesh
was enormous and spectacular, the interior filled with Asian art, and the décor had a
faintly Moorish look to it. It was very exotic.
“They must be interesting people,” he said, intrigued.
“He’s a famous architect, I discovered, reading about them online. And she’s an
interior designer.” The Paris house was beautifully done in classic French style, with
some magnificent antiques and a few modern pieces and paintings that blended well.
Halley and Bart talked about a variety of topics, jumping from one subject to the
next, favorite books, favorite cities, favorite vacation places, their college days. He had
gone to Harvard, and went to business school there for his MBA after he got his
undergraduate degree. “And where did you go to school?” he asked her.
“Connecticut College. It’s not an Ivy, but I got a good education, and was happy
there,” she said modestly. He had to remind himself sometimes that she was a major
best-selling author. She was so discreet that she never played the star or acted like a
diva.
“Who did you live with after your father died when you were fourteen, or would
you rather not talk about it?” he asked thoughtfully. She hesitated and then told him the
truth.
“I didn’t live with anybody. He died in a car accident, in his fifties. And his will
provided for me after the age of eighteen. He didn’t expect to die so young. He had no
living relatives, and neither did my mother, who was dead by then too. So I was sent to
a state orphanage in New York City for four years.” He looked shocked when she said
it. He hadn’t expected that. She looked as though she had always been comfortably
brought up in the lap of luxury, but that was only true until she turned fourteen. “I’m
sorry, I know that sounds awful. But it wasn’t so bad really. I was safe. I was the oldest
girl there for most of the time. The girls were very nice and a lot younger. The younger
ones always went to foster homes, or got adopted. I was too old for anyone to want to
adopt me. They tried me out at two foster homes, but I didn’t fit in, so I got sent back. I
preferred it really, the two foster families were complicated, and they wanted someone
younger. I wasn’t really unhappy at the orphanage. In a lot of ways it was better than
living with my parents.” That said volumes about what her family had been like, and
touched him, and she said it very simply. She wasn’t pathetic, and seemed strong to him.
“I led a very banal early life,” Bart said. “I had adoring older parents, and an easy
existence. They got along, they didn’t get divorced. They weren’t unusual, they were
very conservative and old-fashioned, which is why they made such a fuss when Ryan’s
mother got pregnant. They thought I should marry her, but they didn’t like her. But they
expected me to do the ‘honorable’ thing anyway. They had a long list of concerns about
her, and it turned out that they were right. It was all pretty standard stuff. But your being
sent to an orphanage when your father died sounds like something out of a novel.”
“It wasn’t what I expected. I was shocked at first, like a prison sentence, but I tried
to make the best of it, and it showed me another side of life. There was nowhere else
for me to go. I left the orphanage when I turned eighteen. I had graduated from high
school early, and the trust my father left for me kicked in. It wasn’t much, but it was
enough to live on, and provided for my college education, so I took advantage of it, and
put it to good use.” She seemed very peaceful as she said it. She seemed to have no
bitterness about the situation her father left her in. She was matter-of-fact about it.
They talked for two hours, and then he put down his glass. The red wine she had
served him was an excellent French wine that she had bought herself. She wasn’t
emptying her landlords’ cellar, she purchased her own. It struck him how resilient she
had had to be to survive in a state-run orphanage. It couldn’t have been as easy as she
made it sound. But she had definitely made her peace with it. He heard no resentment in
her tone, and she didn’t criticize her father for landing her in that situation. It showed
remarkable generosity on her part.
She walked him to the front door when he left, they stopped talking, and he kissed
her gently and held her for a minute. She loved the feeling of being in his arms. It
comforted her after the aggravations of her day.
“Will you call me if anything happens, Halley? I mean it. I don’t want you scared all
night again. I can come over and sleep on the couch.”
“I’ll be fine now that the locks are changed,” she reassured him, and she looked
happy and peaceful after chatting with him. Once again, they had covered a lot of
ground.
She locked the door behind him and turned on the alarm, put their glasses in the
kitchen, and went upstairs to her bedroom. It was a pretty room. She sat on the bed and
opened her computer. She had no emails from the girls. They were still on the boat until
the next day. She was checking her other emails when the phone rang. She didn’t look to
see, but she thought it might be Bart, thanking her for the evening. She picked her phone
up with a smile.
“I know you’re home. I saw your friend leave,” the same deep foreign voice said,
the one she had heard the night before. He was watching her house, maybe right outside.
“You won’t escape me. I know you want your bag back. You’ll have to pay me for it. I
know what it’s worth. You’re just like all rich people, you think you can cheat the poor
and use them. You want to poison people’s minds with your trashy books.”
“I don’t know what you want. If you return my bag, the police will stop looking for
you. That must be worth something to you,” she said very directly, trying to sound
calmer than she felt. Her hand was shaking again as she held the phone but her voice
was steady.
“It’s worth nothing. The police are fools. They won’t catch me, they never have
before.” As she listened to him, she determined that the accent wasn’t French. Spanish
maybe, since the police said he was Colombian. “If you call the police, I’ll kill you,” he
said, and a chill ran through her. It was as though he were watching her, standing in the
room. “Don’t forget, I have the keys to the house where you are staying. I can walk in
anytime I want. But you have to get me the money first. All you had were five thousand
euros in your bag. I need more than that. When I’m ready, I’ll tell you how much I want.
Sleep well, ’Alley.” And then he hung up. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, his voice
had been so oppressive and his words so frightening. He sounded cold-blooded, and
she had every intention of calling Major Leopold in the morning. But she had to get
through another night first. At least he didn’t seem to know that the locks had been
changed. But he had seen Bart leave, so he had been right outside, watching the house.
And all kinds of information about her was in her bag. She had another thought then. She
picked up her computer, and typed her name into the search line. Her bio came up
immediately with her age and the number of books she’d published, and a guess about
her net worth was in the first line. He had obviously read it too, and thought she was
infinitely richer than she was. She made a very healthy living from her books, but she
didn’t have anything like the fortune they claimed. And all it did was spur someone like
him on. She hated the kind of information that floated around the internet, which incited
criminals and creeps.
She wrote down what he’d said as she remembered it, to tell the major the next day.
She didn’t get undressed. She just lay on her bed, with the golf club near at hand,
wondering what they would do about him. Major Leopold admitted that they had never
been able to catch him, and had tried for years. She wondered if he had stalked and
threatened his other victims, or only her. Something about what he’d found in her bag
provoked him, maybe just the value of the bag itself. Even she had to admit that it was
outrageous. In some places you could buy a house with what the bag was worth now.
She felt guilty about that at times, but she worked hard to earn a living. And she couldn’t
go home to get away from him. Without a passport, she was trapped in France until she
got the new one. Eventually, she could go home and escape him, but without her bag,
and she would love to have it back, not for its monetary value, but because it was a
familiar object she loved, and it was hers.
She felt breathless periodically throughout the night, when she thought about him.
She hated the fact that he wanted to frighten her and he had succeeded. And more than
anything, she hated the word “victim.” She had grown up as one, her mother’s victim,
her father’s, his friends’. She had vowed never to be a victim again, and now she was.
Tears filled her eyes as she thought about it. She wanted not to be afraid of him, but she
was. He was stealing her peace of mind from her, her feeling of safety, which was
worse than the theft of the bag.
Several times during the night, she thought she couldn’t breathe and would faint. Her
heart was pounding, and she dozed off at six in the morning, and then woke up with a
start two hours later. She helped herself to a cup of coffee in the kitchen. She tried to
read the paper online, but she couldn’t concentrate.
She called Major Leopold at nine o’clock sharp, and he answered on the first ring
this time. She read the thief’s words to him exactly as she had written them down.
“He’s a really bad guy. He’s trying to terrorize you. I loathe men like that, who
victimize women,” he said with feeling.
“I’m not a victim,” she said in a harsh tone, reacting to it viscerally. “He committed
a crime against me, but I’m not a victim,” she repeated, to convince herself. “He has no
right to do this to me.” It was a reign of terror to control her by fear so she would give
him what he wanted. It was all about money for him. For her it was about something
much more important. He was dragging her back into a world of helplessness and fear,
and jeopardizing her recovery that had been solid for years.
“You answered the phone,” Leopold reminded her.
“He was watching my house, right here. I had a friend visiting, the caller saw him
leave.”
“He wants to frighten you into paying what he wants, for your own bag. It’s
blackmail. He rules by terror.”
“Very effectively,” she added. “Should I hire a bodyguard?” she asked him.
“I don’t think you need one. I think he just wants to scare you into paying some crazy
price. If I was worried, we could assign a policeman outside, but I don’t think it’s
necessary.” The bag’s real price was crazy enough. In the right auction it was worth a
fortune. But she didn’t want to sell it, or buy it. She wanted it back. It was rightfully
hers. Just like her safety and peace of mind. “We will find him this time. I have too
many people working on it not to. We can track his every move through our cameras and
informants. Sooner or later, he’ll make some stupid mistake, and we’ll catch him. Until
then, you’re safe at home, and with a car service and driver, you’ll be fine.” She didn’t
feel fine, though. She was terrified, again.
She called Bart after talking to the detective, who was championing her case, and
diligent about it.
“Peaceful night, I hope?” Bart said when he answered.
“Not exactly.” She read him her note of the conversation too. It gave him chills, just
as it had her.
“Halley, you can’t go on like this. He’s stalking you. I have an idea. Maybe it’s
crazy. You told me the inspector said they’ve been trying to catch him for years, and they
haven’t been able to.”
“He said they’re closer than they’ve ever been. They have all their informants
looking for him.”
“I have a friend in Washington in the FBI. I know there’s an FBI office here. I’d like
to call him and ask if the office here could lend a hand, or at least talk to the French
operatives, and see if the local agents on the ground here want help to find this guy. Do
you want to move to a hotel?” The idea suddenly occurred to him.
“I’d have less protection there, with maids in and out of the room, room service
waiters. Here, at least I can lock myself up with the alarm on. At a hotel, he could walk
into my room dressed as a bellman, and I wouldn’t know it’s him.”
“He wants money from you. I don’t think he’ll hurt you before he gets it. He wants to
scare you enough so you’ll pay him anything to get your bag back and get rid of him.”
“It’s working,” she said with a wintry smile.
“Will you let me call my friend?”
She hesitated, but nothing else was helping. And she had nothing to lose. The thief
had stolen the bag six days before. It wasn’t long in real time to catch a felon, especially
a smart one, but it felt like an eternity to Bart and to Halley. Her new passport hadn’t
come yet, and she didn’t want to leave. She was still hoping that by some miracle they
would catch the thief and find her bag. He obviously hadn’t sold it, if he wanted to sell
it back to her. Or maybe he had, and this was just another scam to get money out of her.
It was a profitable business for a man like him, who would stop at nothing to commit a
crime, and had no respect for other humans. She wondered how far he would go, and so
did Bart.
“Okay, call your friend.” She gave Bart the contact information for Major Leopold,
and the case number of the complaint she’d filed.
Bart called her back an hour later. “My friend is going to call the Paris office, and
see what they can do to help. The French are touchy about interference from other law
enforcement agencies, but you’re an important person, you’re famous, and it won’t look
good for them if they can’t catch him, or if he does something worse. Let’s go out to
dinner tonight, you need to get out of the house and have some distraction.” He felt
terrible for her. “Ryan has to work late tonight, and Véro just wants to sleep right now.
She feels awful in the evening. Let’s go to a nice restaurant and forget the bag for the
night.” She wasn’t in the mood, but he was being so kind to her, and so helpful, she
didn’t have the heart to refuse. And she was enjoying getting to know him.
“Okay, but nothing too fancy. I have nothing to wear except the dress I wore on New
Year’s Eve. And I’m afraid to go shopping, if he’s following me.”
“You would look gorgeous in a potato sack. And I loved that dress on you. I’ll call
you back when I get a reservation, and let you know what time.”
“Thank you, Bart, for everything,” she said warmly.
“Thank me when I accomplish something. I haven’t yet.” It was a good excuse to see
her, and he felt genuinely sorry for her, and worried about her. He didn’t like the turn it
was taking.
After they hung up, she called Major Leopold, and said that a friend had contacted
the FBI.
“We don’t need outside help,” he said stiffly, “we’re doing all we can within our
department.” He sounded defensive.
“I’m sure you are, but maybe they can make some suggestions, or offer their help.
And actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to check out the guardian here. He is so
overtly surly and disagreeable, maybe he’s in cahoots with the thief now.” She gave him
Henri Laurent’s name, the name of his employer and their address, and guessed him to
be in his late forties or early fifties.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” the major said. She hated to hurt his feelings with the
FBI contact, and they hadn’t had long to solve the case, but she was grateful for any help
they could get. If they took too long, the thief might sell the bag in a panic for any amount
before they caught him. If there was any hope of getting her bag back, she wanted to at
least try.
Bart sent her a text that said he’d pick her up at eight, but he didn’t say where they
were going. She didn’t care as long as it was with him. His presence was very
comforting and kept her going, from one day to the next. She felt strangely disoriented
being in a foreign country with a thief threatening her life.
She tried to continue editing her manuscript that afternoon and couldn’t concentrate.
Both her daughters called her. They were sad to leave the boat and had loved their trip.
They conferred after they talked to her, and even Olivia thought she sounded fine.
Halley started getting ready at six, and at seven-thirty, she was sitting in the study,
waiting for Bart to arrive. She was wearing the same black dress she had worn on New
Year’s Eve, with a different necklace and big gold flower earrings with diamond
centers. The doorbell rang at the dot of eight and she let Bart in with a broad smile.
“Thank you for all the time you’re spending with me. I know you have things you
want to do with your son.”
“I do, but they’re both working, and they won’t miss me. And they want to spend
quiet time with each other.”
He had a car and driver outside, and they left the house quickly. The reservation for
dinner was at Alain Ducasse, where Bart knew they’d get an extraordinary meal. He
wanted to distract her and impress her. She was quiet and poised on the way to the
restaurant, and she relaxed visibly as the evening wore on. He could see how stressed
she was before that. She put a good face on it, but he could tell she was nervous. But
with a little glass of Château d’Yquem at the end of the meal, after an excellent
Bordeaux before that, she was in a warm haze as Bart paid the check, and a few minutes
later, they walked out of the restaurant and through the Plaza Athénée hotel to his car
waiting outside. He had Halley get in quickly in case they’d been followed, and gave
the driver the instruction to take them to Halley’s house. It had been a delicious meal
and a lovely evening, and they headed toward the Alexandre III Bridge to cross over to
the Left Bank. For Halley, being with Bart put the stalker into perspective. As
unpleasant as it was, it was a nasty episode and having her bag stolen and everything in
it had upset her, but it wasn’t fatal or a tragedy, and she felt safe again being with Bart.
The bag and the thief shrank in importance, balanced by a civilized evening. She felt as
though she was getting her bearings again. The calls from the thief had made her feel
helpless and vulnerable.
They passed in the vicinity of the Faubourg St.-Honoré as they chatted in the car,
and were suddenly faced by a wall of police, and additional squads in riot gear. They
were all carrying machine guns, and the riot police had bulletproof shields. It looked
like a war zone, and Bart frowned as he glanced out the car window. There was a tank,
and police buses and vans lined the streets. A wall of riot police stopped their progress,
and a police officer holding a machine gun approached the car, with a fierce expression,
with his partner right behind him as backup. Bart and Halley were being driven in a
Mercedes, and were obviously a respectable couple with a driver, as both police
officers signaled to lower the windows and glanced into the car. Nothing they saw was
alarming, but they were expressionless as they demanded everyone’s ID papers.
Terrorists hid in many guises, and no one was exempt.
The driver handed over his license, and Bart handed the police officer his passport.
Halley didn’t react for a moment, and whispered to Bart.
“I don’t have a passport yet.” He nodded, and spoke calmly to the officer, who was
flipping through Bart’s passport and handed it back. His partner had given the driver
back his license. They looked expectantly at Halley, and she showed empty hands. She
spoke to them in her limited French.
“I’m American. My passport was stolen a week ago. My bag was stolen, it was in
it.” The policeman answered her in heavily accented but adequate English.
“You must have an identity card or passport,” he said firmly.
She showed him the copy on her phone, getting nervous as Bart stepped in. The
driver had checked his phone by then and knew what the problem was. There had been
an attempt on the president’s life by armed gunmen at the Élysées Palace. Two of the
terrorists had been killed at the Palace, but four had escaped and were at large. A
massive manhunt was on in the area to find them. Traffic had been stopped all over
Paris, all emergency vehicles and riot squads were deployed, and the exits from the city
had been blocked.
“Please exit from the car,” the first police officer said to her, and conferred with his
partner, who went to get his superior.
Bart spoke to the officer. “My friend was the victim of a theft a week ago. All of her
identification papers were stolen with her bag,” he explained again, and Bart spoke to
Halley over his shoulder. “Do you have a copy of the complaint with you?” he asked
her. Her eyes were wide as she shook her head. She had left it at the house, not thinking
she’d need it.
“Exit the car now,” the officer said in English. Bart opened the door, she stepped
out, and he got out with her. “Stand aside,” the officer said to Bart, and it was clear that
this was not the time to argue, with half a dozen machine guns pointed at them, since
there appeared to be a problem. Halley stood alone with the police a few feet from her,
in her black dress and coat and high heels. She looked like what she was, a very
attractive, chic woman, who appeared to be totally harmless, but the police were taking
no chances.
A senior officer approached then, assessed the situation, and spoke to his men in
French, as Bart spoke up again from where he stood and didn’t attempt to approach. He
didn’t want to exacerbate the situation, and remained visibly calm and cooperative.
“This woman is a famous American writer,” Bart said clearly in English. “If you
have access to the internet here, you can look her up. Her name is Halley Holbrook, and
I can vouch for her.” He took a card out of his wallet, making slow, smooth, measured
gestures so as not to startle them. He handed them the business card that said he was a
CEO, and he looked important.
“She must have a passport or an identity card, not a copy on her phone,” the
superior spoke firmly. “You have one, she does not.” He signaled to his men then. “We
must keep her in custody, in garde a vue, in supervision until she can prove her identity.
Paris is under a state of emergency, monsieur.” And before Bart said anything, there was
an officer in riot gear on either side of Halley, and they were leading her away, with a
determined grip on her arms. She glanced over her shoulder at Bart, trying not to panic,
while he wanted to stop them, but doing so would have risked both their lives in the
circumstances. They could have been shot if the slightest movement was misunderstood.
She had to go with them, and be taken into custody.
“I’ll take care of it right away,” he called out to Halley, and she nodded, and
followed her police guard looking docile and scared. Her life felt totally out of control
suddenly. Bart had his phone immediately in his hand when he got back in the car, and
called his friend in Washington. It was still early there. He didn’t answer and Bart left a
message. Before they put Halley in a police car, they searched her and took her phone.
“Could I keep that?” she asked in French. It was her lifeline and it frightened her
even more to give it up.
“No.” They pointed her to get in and she did, and Bart saw the police car leave the
scene almost immediately, and they told his chauffeur to drive on a few minutes later.
By then the driver had informed Bart of the attempt on the president’s life. They had
pulled out all the stops to find the four fugitive attackers. Bart’s heart was pounding as
they left the scene. He felt terrible for Halley. They’d had such a nice evening until then.
“Do you know where they’d take her?” Bart asked the driver, and he shook his head.
“To a police station, but they won’t tell us which one. They won’t let her go until
she gives them proof of her identity.” Bart called his friend again and got no answer,
and then remembered that he had Major Leopold’s contact information in his phone, to
share with the FBI, when Halley had given it to him. He quickly called him, got no
answer, and left an urgent message, explaining what had happened, and asking for his
assistance.
Five minutes later, as they reached the bridge to the Left Bank, after driving between
walls of riot police, Bart’s cell phone rang. He hoped it was his FBI friend, but it was
Major Leopold.
“I have located Madame ’Olbrook, and vouched for her,” he said calmly. “I am very
sorry. Paris is in an uproar, with a manhunt for the men who tried to kill the president.
And she had no physical papers. I need to give her a temporary identity paper. I should
have thought of it,” he said, feeling sorry for her.
“Thank you very much, Major. Where is she?”
“At a police station, being held until someone picks her up. I can assure you, she is
well. I told them that she is a very important American. They took her out of the cell,
and put her in an office at the police station. Can you pick her up? Or I can send an
officer from our detail,” he explained.
“Tell me where it is, and I’ll go straight there.” She was at a station near the City
Hall, the Hôtel de Ville.
“I’m very sorry. This is an unusual circumstance,” the major explained. “She is a
foreigner with no identity she could prove, and they had to follow regulations in a state
of emergency, particularly an attempt on the president’s life. This is very serious. They
are mobilizing all our forces.” Bart had never seen so many police in his life, in all
manner of uniforms, although mostly the heavy-duty CRS riot police.
“I understand,” Bart said. “The poor thing has had a rough time between the theft of
her bag, the thief’s threats and stalking her, and now being taken into custody.”
“Please extend my profound apologies to Madame. It was a formality,” Leopold
said regretfully, and Bart told his driver to go as fast as he could to the address the
major had given him. Bart was eager to get there and rescue her from the traumatic end
to their evening.
He expected to find her in a state of hysterics, or fury, when he got there, but neither
was the case. Bart gave his passport to the officer at the desk of the police station at
City Hall. The officer in charge had already been notified that an American VIP had
been rounded up at the Faubourg, and she had been cleared by a senior officer of the
Sûreté Territoriale. Someone would be arriving to get her.
They had Bart wait while a female officer went to retrieve Halley from the office,
and handed her her cell phone as they walked her back to where Bart was waiting.
Halley thanked the officer politely with a small smile. It had been quite an evening.
The officer was surprised that Halley wasn’t complaining or hysterical, and was calm
and polite. She told a colleague that a Frenchwoman would have been raising hell, but
the American was astonishingly gracious and well mannered. They walked her back to
where Bart was waiting and tears filled her eyes the minute she saw him. She tried to
look composed but it had been upsetting and frightening for a few minutes. They had
refused to tell her what was happening, until they came to inform her that Major
Leopold had cleared her, and she would be free to go when someone came to get her.
And without her phone, she couldn’t call Bart.
She walked straight up to Bart and he put his arms around her and held her tight. He
could feel her shaking even with her coat on. “It’s all right, Halley,” he said softly,
smoothing a hand over her hair, and then holding her tight again to calm her. She had
been very brave until then. “Let’s go home now,” he said gently, and she nodded and
regained her composure as they left the station. She looked dignified when they left.
She took a deep breath of the night air when they left the building with all its shouts
and ominous noises and uniformed officers running everywhere. Bart looked her over
carefully. There was no visible damage and she still looked impeccable.
“Are you okay?” She nodded with a cautious smile.
“Yes,” she said as she exhaled. “It was pretty scary for a minute. I didn’t know what
they would do to me, or where they would take me. I’m sorry to have caused you all this
trouble, Bart. I didn’t even think of needing ID papers.”
“You couldn’t know, and even if you did know why it was happening, you couldn’t
have stopped the police without the proper ID. Just put it behind you. I’m sorry it
happened at all, to spoil our evening,” he said sympathetically.
“I had a wonderful time at dinner.” She smiled at him, and was relieved when they
got back to her house. She wanted to take a shower and get rid of all the dust and grime
and terror of the police station.
Bart walked her into the house and was sad to see how exhausted she looked. It had
been an upsetting experience. She’d had too many lately and they had taken a toll. There
were shadows under her eyes.
“I thought they were going to keep me there, or arrest me for not having ID.”
“Thank God you had given me the major’s number. He called me back very fast and
got right on it.” She nodded, almost too tired to speak, and he kissed her and left a
minute later. She walked upstairs, took her phone out of her pocket, and glanced at it as
she dropped her coat on the bed. She saw that she had four messages that had come in
while the police had her phone. Two from her daughters, who must have wondered
where she was. And two from a blocked number, and tears filled her eyes when she saw
them. She knew they had to be from the stalker, and she suddenly had the same feeling
she used to have as a child with her mother, that no matter what she did, or where she
hid, she could not escape the beating that was coming. It had taken her years of therapy
to get over that feeling of dread and a punishment she could not avoid, no matter how
fast she ran, or where she hid, or how good she was. She crawled into the bed then
without getting undressed, and curled into a ball, as the tears rolled down her face. Like
her mother, Tomás Maduro, the bag thief who was stalking her, was an evil she couldn’t
flee, and no one could save her. She was powerless and alone again. It was déjà vu, and
a feeling that brought the past rushing back to her with a vengeance, and in her heart, she
became a helpless child again, no matter how old or big or successful she was now.
There was no escape, and she thought he would find her and kill her in the end.
