“Can’t we go back out through the cellar?” Sophie asked.
“No.” Jean-Luc shook his head. “We’d have to run right past him to get to the steps down. Best if he doesn’t know where we are.”
“Then where are we going?” Sophie asked, panting as they raced up the stairs.
“To my office.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs—he won’t find us in time. I will call down for help from the window, or better yet, we can climb out.”
Sophie’s eyes betrayed fear, but she kept his pace as they climbed the steps. When they reached the office, they paused at the door. Lazare’s voice gave the two of them a moment of paralysis.
“You always thought you were so clever!” The old man, his voice high-pitched but steady, climbed the stairs after them. “But you’ve left a trail. Didn’t you learn—always cover your tracks?”
Jean-Luc looked behind him and, sure enough, both his and Sophie’s blood had dripped as they had run, leading their pursuer straight to them. “Damn it,” Jean-Luc spat under his breath. “Hurry, come in.” He pulled Sophie into the office. Propping a desk against the door, he reassessed the situation.
“Please?” Sophie turned and offered her hands, her wrists rubbed raw from the tightness of her bindings. Jean-Luc used the sharp point of the fire poker to slice through the rope and release her.
“Thank you,” she said, massaging her wrists.
Jean-Luc, hearing the old man’s steps approaching the doorway, looked to the window. “Come, this way.” They ran to the windows, the glass panes as tall as doors and running the full length of the wall. In the summer heat, the window was swollen and stiff, hindering Jean-Luc’s attempts to open it. With Sophie’s help, they eventually pried it open, just as Lazare began to bang against the door.
His entry was momentarily blocked by the propped desk. “Oh no, it’s not very nice of you to lock me out. Won’t you let me in?” The old man’s voice bore the mad determination that drove him on in spite of his injuries and old age. He banged again on the door, and the desk began to slide.
“Stay away,” Jean-Luc shouted, his voice hoarse, but he saw the desk moving and knew that Lazare would soon gain entry. Jean-Luc’s vision began to blur, his blood slowly draining from the wound in his thigh, but he forced himself to remain upright.
“It’s too high to jump,” Sophie said, looking out the window at the little alleyway that hugged the building. The same alleyway through which Jean-Luc had entered.
“Yes,” Jean-Luc said, agreeing. “Hello! Anyone?” He called out to the dark street, to the abandoned alleyway, but his yell was met by only the bark of a dog. Now the door to the office burst open and Lazare entered, his mouth spread in a fiendish smile, his hand wielding the knife.
Sophie, with a desperate bravery, charged at the old man. Before Jean-Luc could react, Lazare dodged her charge and pulled her into his arms. Turning her to face him, he punched her hard across the face with the handle of the dagger. She fell to the ground, her body limp. He turned his gaze on Jean-Luc.
Jean-Luc lifted the poker to lunge, but Lazare still wielded the knife he’d held earlier. Seeing Sophie lying on the ground, Jean-Luc’s anger threatened to overtake him. “If you touch her again, I’ll kill you.”
“You know, citizen, there was a time when I took a liking to you.” Lazare’s voice was a quiet hiss as he slowly stalked toward Jean-Luc. “I offered you a place on the world’s stage, and instead of cooperation, you chose to thwart me at every turn. But your short, pitiful story is over. When I am through here, you will not even have a family left to mourn you.”
The old man lunged, the knife held aloft. Jean-Luc parried the thrust, swinging the poker violently, smacking the old man’s hands. To his dismay, he saw that Lazare still held the knife. The old man regrouped and charged again, straight at Jean-Luc’s abdomen. His ferocity caught Jean-Luc off guard; all he could do to avoid the knife was step back. Now he had his back nearly against the wall. He was cornered, and both he and Lazare knew it, judging by the gleam in the old man’s eyes. All that was behind him was the tall open window. He could jump to the street, but that would mean certain death as well.
Lazare lunged again, this time slashing the blade at Jean-Luc’s throat. Jean-Luc sidestepped, but his thigh was in such severe pain from the earlier wound that he was unsteady and he banged into his desk. He groaned in agony, clutching the bleeding gash as his vision became mottled, his gaze dizzy. The poker fell from his grip just as Lazare’s knife grazed the side of his waist, tearing through his waistcoat and the flesh just below his ribs. It was a superficial wound, not fatal, but it served to stun Jean-Luc. Now, unarmed, he stared in horror at the knife-wielding madman before him.