"So much for imagination." Houston laughed and kissed Jan.

"Want to fool around?"

He grinned and turned the key. They stepped inside their room. The place was dark except for the dim light from the hall that cast their silhouettes across the floor.

"The thing is, I don't care what St. Laurent was up to. All I want to know is where "

He flicked the lights, and in mid-sentence Houston halted.

Chapter 10.

They stared toward the bed. A man lay propped against the pillows glaring at them.

In his middle thirties, square-jawed, with a thin nose and short dark hair combed straight from right to left, the man looked sick, perhaps because his stubble made his face seem gray. His clothes were dark crew sweater, wool pants, crepe-soled shoes.

Astonished, Houston felt a scalding panic. He received too many messages at once. Jan's sharp grip on his arm transmitted fright. Conflicting instincts prompted him to shout for help, to flee with Jan, to grab the phone, to storm in and confront this man. His will became a flywheel. Then the flywheel caught and jammed and froze, and he stood paralyzed.

"Please shut the door," the man said in a deep, calm voice. The words were English, but the accent was distinctly foreign, though not French.

Too many details. Houston was conscious that he hadn't moved, that he was gaping, that while blood roared in his head he wasn't breathing.

"Please," the man repeated. "Shut the door."

"No," Jan said.

Adrenaline insisted. Forced to act but with no other clear directive, Houston shut the door before he understood what he was doing.

"Pete!" Jan said and tried to grab the door.

But Houston raised a hand to stop her. He glared toward the man. "All right, I closed it."

From the bed, the man considered him, then breathed out slowly. "You'd better have a d.a.m.n good reason," Houston said.

"I'm calling the police," Jan said. She stalked across the room.

"I wouldn't do that, Mrs. Houston."

As she grabbed the phone, the man jumped off the bed. Jan's eyes enlarged with fear. She recoiled hard against the wall. The man pressed the cradle down and yanked the phone away from her.

Pete lunged. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it, get your hands away from her! I'll ram that f.u.c.king phone "

The man swung toward him, the phone raised as a bludgeon. Houston stared in horror at the coldest, most unfeeling eyes he'd ever seen. He stopped abruptly.

Frantically he stumbled back.

"Don't make this complicated," the man said.

"Tell me what the h.e.l.l you want."

The man set down the phone. "I should have thought it was obvious. The same as you. Pierre de St. Laurent."

The name was like a coin that rattled in an empty metal cup, or like a diamond's screeching over gla.s.s. Instantly it shut all other thoughts from Houston's mind.

"You know we're looking for him?"

"Everybody does," the man replied.

"But how . . . ?"

"The clerk whose records you went through. His life is dull. He sharpens it with gossip. Two Americans inconvenienced him. The name Pierre de St. Laurent means nothing to him. But the older folks remember. After thirty-seven years, the sudden mention of the name is news. It's not surprising that I know about your search."

"That doesn't give you any right to "

"Mrs. Houston, you look uncomfortable. Please sit down, why don't you? While we chat." The man had earlier used "folks." Now "chat" confirmed it, Houston thought. The idiom was less American than British.

Houston glanced toward Jan, whose eyes were more wary than frightened now. She kept her distance as she circled toward a chair. For one tense instant, she appeared about to yank open the door. But then she sat.

"Are you some kind of cop?" Pete said. "A "

" person with some interest in this matter. Nothing more. Don't make this more mysterious than necessary. I too have been looking for him."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you. It's delicate. A private motive."

"You won't tell us? But you're asking us for help?"

The man began to laugh, but without mirth or relaxation. The sound was like a consumptive's cough.

"You don't understand. No, it is I who offer you help. You have reached a blank wall in your search. But I can help you past it."

"How and why?"

The man squinted. "Why? Because my efforts aren't successful. It's possible that with your fresh view you may notice a detail I've missed. And how? With this address. The city known as Ron-cevaux. Rue Gabriel. One hundred and thirteen."

"He lives there?"

"No more questions. You have all you need to know."

"And if I find him?"

"You tell me."

"But how will I find you?"

"You don't. I'll come to you."

The man moved smoothly toward the door.

"Remember. Roncevaux. Rue Gabriel. One hundred and thirteen." He gripped the doork.n.o.b. "Mr. Houston. Mrs. Houston."

Nodding, he slipped out.

The door clicked shut. Pete glanced at Jan. Exploding into motion, he ran toward the door. He yanked it open.

The hall was empty. in "Pete, let's stop this."

"What?"

"I'm scared."

Houston, concentrating on the curve he was approaching, couldn't take the time to look at her. The Citroen took the curve smartly, then sped down a straightaway. He had his window low. He smelled the cool, fresh morning dampness. As he glanced away from fields and fences, Houston saw that Jan was ashen. "I'm scared too," he said. "That doesn't mean I'll back away."

"You're being stubborn."

"You're d.a.m.n right I am. What's more, I'm angry. I woke up yesterday expecting I'd see my father's grave. But everywhere I went I got the runaround. I heard all kinds of reasons why I couldn't find that grave. At the cemetery, Andrews as much as said I was crazy. I met a priest who wouldn't talk to me. A clerk whose records don't go farther back than nineteen fifty-one. Mon-sard who spins fantastic stories about nineteen forty-four. And then that creep who takes a catnap on our bed and thinks he's the midnight messenger."

"I still say we should go to the police." "Think about it. We went over this last night. The cops might never find that guy. Suppose they did. The most they could charge him with is trespa.s.s. There's no sign he broke in. We checked our stuff, and nothing's missing. So the cops would want to know what he was doing there. They'd want to know what we discussed with him. Imagine their reaction if we told the truth. A disappearing grave. A villager who vanished back in nineteen forty-four. They'd treat me like the superintendent did. They'd think I'm crazy." "I'd feel safer if we spoke to them."

"Who says we're in danger? No one's threatened us. Besides, we'd have to stay in town while they investigated. But ten days from now, we fly back home. I'd like to get this fool thing settled and enjoy what's left of our vacation." "No, there's more than that."

The Citroen droned smoothly down the two-lane road. The sun was wanner, higher.

Houston glanced at fields on either side and saw farmers at their work. He shrugged. "What makes you think there's more?"

"You just admitted you're scared."

"Because of something nagging in my head. A thought that isn't clear yet. If Pierre de St. Laurent was even half as selfish as Monsard believes, you tell me why he took the time to write a letter to my mother, why he promised to maintain my father's grave. And then abruptly disappeared. I'm sure the answer to that question's simple. But I won't sleep easy till I hear it. And I'm terrified that there won't be a simple answer, even any answer."

"All right, promise me."

He studied her.

"I won't complain," she said. "I'll shut my mouth and go along with you on this. In Roncevaux, I'll wait while you go off and ask your questions. But if you can't find anything, you have to promise that you'll stop this, that you'll whisk me off "

" to pa.s.sionate, exciting places." Houston laughed. "That's what I'm doing. Hey, I'm taking you on an adventure."

"You're a con man." Janice laughed.

Then suddenly, in sick, hot, squirming fear, he heard her scream. His foot kicked spastically on the accelerator. The Citroen surged forward with a rush that pressed him back against the seat. His startled hands torqued the steering wheel. The car swerved sharply right, then left, before he had control.

He stared at Jan as quickly as he could. Her eyes were panicked, huge and black and bottomless. Her face was twisted, stark and white. Her scream became a hopeless moan.

He had to watch where he steered. As the girders of an ancient bridge loomed closer, Houston heard the roar beside him. On his left. He had been hearing it behind him. In his rearview mirror he had seen the van dart close, its visor down so that he couldn't see the driver's face.

But now relentlessly it rushed beside him, black, immense, its din so loud that Houston barely heard Jan's screaming. Nonetheless he felt her panic. They raced toward the bridge.

The bridge was narrow, one-lane, girders hulking on each side. As Houston squinted horror-stricken toward it, he felt oddly as if he were speeding through a tunnel, his perspective lengthened. Hurtling past a road sign, Houston didn't need to read the French to know that its equivalent in English was no pa.s.sing.

"What the h.e.l.l is wrong with " But he never had the chance to finish, for the van veered toward the Citroen to squeeze it off the road. Except there wasn't any road. A line of pine trees stopped abruptly on the right. Beyond them, an abyss dropped to the river.

"Pete!"

The van collided with the Citroen, a harsh, metallic thud that shuddered through the car. Houston thought too late about the brakes. The bottleneck was petrifying. All he managed was to steer. Again the van struck the Citroen. He felt the jolt. His door bulged inward. If he didn't steer away, he'd hit the bridge. He had a vision of the car's disintegration, of himself and Janice bursting through the windshield.

Houston didn't know he'd veered. The van raced forward through the bottleneck, and weightless, Houston stared at open sky. The falling car began to tilt. He saw the far bank of the river. Then the car upended, plummeting. He gaped at churning water.

Vacuum. Soundlessness. The rush of empty air. He didn't have a chance to brace himself. Perversely, Houston felt a vague euphoria, a hush, a silent peace.

Although the water's froth looked soft, the car hit as if it had struck cement.

The impact parted Houston's jaws. The recoil snapped them back together, cutting his tongue. He shot out a hand to cushion Jan.

Then he was gagging, choking. He couldn't see. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. His sense of balance was reversed. And then he realized that he was upside down. His lungs revolted from the water he'd inhaled. The more he coughed, the more he felt the spurt of water down his throat. His eyes were open, but the muddy water in his eyes was worse than blindness. Drowning, Houston thought that he would lose his mind.

He fumbled with the seatbelt. He had never fastened it. He grappled with the door, but it was frozen. He felt Jan move beside him. He lunged through the window it was open, he remembered as if the sky above was every goal he'd ever wanted. His belt caught on the window frame. He wedged a foot against the steering wheel. He kicked and suddenly was free. His shoulder sc.r.a.ped against a rock. The current caught him. He surged upward as his chest exploded and the darkness seemed to thicken. He heard murky, hollow echoes roaring in his ears.

He had to breathe at last. It was that simple. It was necessary and instinctive.

And precisely at that moment, as he breathed, he broke the surface. He emerged in brilliant sunshine to the cool, sweet, pure, refreshing air.

He filled his lungs, thrashing to keep his head above the current. He pivoted to look for Jan. Oh, Jesus, she was down there!

Houston waited. He kept waiting. As the current sped him farther downriver, he couldn't wait any longer. Drawing breath, denying weakness, he dove, clawing down.

His stomach cramped. He jackknifed inward, head colliding with his knees. At once the coldness of the water numbed and soothed him. He was sleepy. Then he saw a haloed figure, and he knew it was his father.

Chapter 12.

Death was not at all what he'd expected. Neither dark, nor terrifying, it was soft and calm and gentle. With his father here to guide him, Houston felt no fear at all. He had so many questions for his father. Weeping, Houston found that he was looking upward as if he were once again a boy. His loving father stood above him, but the haloed face was indistinct. There were no features. As Houston stretched to see more clearly, frantic for the vision, straining on his tiptoes, he was angered by the hand that fell across his shoulder from behind.

The hand was dragging him away. He yanked the hand off. But the hand gripped even stronger. "Let me go!" he shouted, raging. Houston stumbled forward toward his father. But now other hands were grabbing at him, pulling at his shoulders, clutching at his waist. He struggled, flailing. "Let me go!" he screamed hysterically. His sight was blurred. His eyes were thick with tears. "He's my father! Don't you understand!" But the hands would not allow it. They kept yanking at him, jerking hard to drag him backward. "Help me!" Houston shouted, begging to his father. But his father only gazed at him with pa.s.sive, formless features. "Not again! Don't let it happen!" Houston wailed. Instead his father, eyeless, studied him. Then with a shrug, his father raised his right hand, waved it slowly once in mute farewell, and smoothly turned and walked away. His father's back receded toward the distance, swallowed by the mist. "You've got to help me!" Houston shouted. "You're my father!" But he didn't blame his father.

Houston blamed the hands that clutched him, and he spun in total livid rage to strangle those who held him.

Light stabbed at him. Noises flooded over him. He tried to shield his eyes, to plug his ears. But someone held him, pinned his hands. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" Houston shouted.