I could see that only one table was occupied—a middle-aged couple was mid-meal. The son of the landlady at the B and B told me that, unlike in other parts of Europe, the people in the Languedoc region dine early, so I assumed they weren’t getting many more customers even indoors that night. I stood at the archway waiting to be seated, although there wasn’t a staff person anywhere to be seen.
Eventually, a harried waiter / front desk / concierge / bartender came out of the kitchen door located behind the bar.
“Madame? Avez-vous une réservation pour une personne?”
Is he kidding? It’s empty.
“Ah, no, sorry. Two for dinner, please.”
He switched to English. Damn those French!
“This way…”
He led me across the red stone tile floor to a table in the center of the room.
My dad always taught me to keep my back to a wall so I could see who was coming in, while Donald always preferred sitting in the middle of a room so he could shoot (photos!) while running out. I went with my father’s advice, and asked if I could instead be seated at the last table against the back wall, right next to the glowing fireplace. I wanted to be able to see everyone who walked in.
“Ah, our most romantic spot! C’est romantique!”
Yeah, wait’ll you get a load of “Gramps.”
I was a full ten minutes early, so I checked out the wine list, which included Vin de pays d’Oc, Vin de pays d’Aude, Vin de pays de l’Hérault, Vin de pays du Gard. Not knowing one vin de pays from the next, I went with the midrange red, hoped for the best, and waited nervously for Pantera to show up.
7:25, 7:30, 7:35 … Where is he? Is he bagging on me? Is he huffing and puffing up the hill?
By 7:40, the couple had finished their meal and got up to leave. I turned on Sadowski’s phone—just to see if there was a signal, and there was.
I couldn’t help myself. I had a text message.
I am regrettably running approximately 15 mins late. Y. I left you an e-mail as well.
I checked the new untraceable e-mail address. Same message.
How did he get that address? I’ve set myself up. I’m screwed.
The waiter brought the wine, and I sipped it shakily. Something inside me was warning me against the whole thing. Get up and leave. But where do I go? He’s got a bead on me—whoever he is.
I stood up to leave anyway—I’d get in the car and drive the hell away from that town—when I heard the little bell on the hotel’s wooden front door jangle as the door opened and shut. The long shadow of a man darkened the wall against the archway as he made his way inside. Long and lean—even in shadow, that was clear.
The shadow took shape as the man reached the dimly lit archway. Leather jacket, jeans, and a bad attitude that was obvious even in that “romantic” French light. So was the bulge at his hip under that jacket.
The sumnabitch is packing.
Pantera entered the arch and turned full-face into the brighter light of the dining room.
Shock turned to panic and my heart started racing like I’d been shot up with adrenaline. Fight or flight kicked in. I tried to get up, but my knees buckled under me. I tried again but he’d already started walking toward me in the empty restaurant. He stopped, looked directly at me, fixing me in his stare, and then nodded his head in smirking acknowledgment.
Oh, God! It’s the German! And my back is to the wall.
For the first time in my life—including my time in Iraq—I literally had nowhere to run.
29
Was Pantera my hunter, or was this not Pantera at all? Pantera should have looked older. This one, however, was sort of ageless—hard to peg—craggy face notwithstanding.
It isn’t him—it’s my hunter.
I stood and backed up against the wall as he came closer. I was smack against the fireplace wall now. He motioned for me to sit, and when I refused, he came around and grabbed my arm with incredible strength and forced me into a chair. With the other hand he pulled a chair out for himself and sat down next to me.
“No sense trying to run,” he said, his in-person voice a combination of honey and poison. “Mind?” he asked as he picked up the bottle of wine and studied it. “We have some great wines here in Languedoc. This isn’t one of them.”
He nonetheless poured a bit, held it to the light, and said, “Nice color, though.” He smelled it. “Even with a medium-grade wine, there is nothing like the bouquet of a local French.” Then, holding it by the stem, he tasted it.
“Nicer than I would have expected.” He filled his glass then and lifted it. “To you, Ms. Roussel. It has been a very good hunt.”
I found my voice. “I’m not a deer—even if I look like I’ve been caught in the headlights.”