I’m back in the little village where I bought Cat clothes and found us a ride toOurika Valley. There are enough tourists here that I dinnae stand out, and I know how to keep a low profile. I dinnae know why I’m here, only that it’s the closest I feel to Cat. I force myself to focus, to see everything around me like a normal tourist, out for a stroll.
The street market looks the same as before, bairns darting back and forth between the stalls, shouting. A man tosses a date to his Barbary macaque, who catches it with its clever wee hands. Older ladies with weathered faces cat-call each other and one steps closer, shoving a brightly colored bolt of cloth at me.
“shay' lizawjatik aljamilati?Something for your pretty wife?” she asks me, nodding at my wedding ring. The fabric is cotton, light, and gauzy. I rest my hand on it. It’s a deep green color. Almost the color of my wife’s eyes.
“'ana la 'uwmin bialhaz, walakin hadhih hi taewidhati almahzuzat alyawma.I dinnae believe in luck, but this is my lucky charm today.” I hand her all the dirham notes I have in my pocket.
She beams at me.“adhhab mae allahi.Go with God.”
Within minutes, my radar is back on, the awareness that I’m being followed. I amble through a couple of narrow streets, turning the corner. My shadow is still there. I step into the first quiet alley I find, waiting to attack.
“tawaquf! la tadribini!Stop! Don’t hit me!”
Here’s a lad who never learns his lesson.
It’s the same teenager who tried to rob me last time. His hands are up, dark brown eyes wide. “I know why you’re here,” he says in careful, brokenEnglish. “You want the king of the castle.”
My grip tightens on his shirt. “Are ye talking about Hugo Dubois?”
“Naeam,yes. My brother and cousins worked in his cave. They were paid almost nothing.” He spat to the side. “My brother’s arm was broken and they still made him work.”
“Ye will show me where it is, and I will make sure your family is taken care of for life.” My throat is dry, and my hands are sweaty, gripping my bolt of cloth. My lucky charm.
Chapter Thirty-Three
In which the right color is Caribbean Blue.
Catriona…
Also three days later…
“Ma chere, I must leave you for a few days.”
We’re having dinner together in the stupidly enormous dining room of his villain’s lair with a table that seems to stretch as far as a football field, covered with flower arrangements and endless platters of food that no one will eat. It’s something Hugo insists on, including dressing up, which is why I’m wearing a poofy Stella McCartney creation in a lurid shade of yellow and he’s in a full black tuxedo with tails. It’s the most conservative thing I’ve seen him wear.
“Oh? I canna imagine ye wanting to miss this next trial,” I take an inelegant gulp of wine. The bottle is a1869 Château Lafite Rothschild, which I believe from Hugo’s ramblings was purchased at an auction for around two hundred thousand pounds. I know the way I’m throwing it downmy gullet like it’s a boxed wine at a college party is slowly decayingÉdouard’s soul as he pours me another glass.
“Oui,we are so close,” Hugo nods mournfully.
He has no idea how close I am. He’s sharp, more cunning than I am, but I have my tricks. “Why are ye leaving, then?”
The darkness I’d seen before seems to drop on him like a shroud. “Ridiculous things. Petty annoyances. Sometimes, only a visit from me, a few words of confidence, can restore the balance of things and end any misunderstandings.”
The few times I’ve been close to his study, I’ve heard him screaming on the phone at some poor, hapless soul on the other end. Labs broken into, contracts dissolved, murderous Albanians. And I know exactly who’s behind it.
Da and Lucas have been busy.
Hugo reaches into his tuxedo pocket and grunts irritably. “The muscle memory of reaching for a good cigar after dinner, it’s hard to break.”
“You’re still smoke free, even now?”
“Oui,”he says sourly, “since that day in the lab with you.”
“That’s impressive, truly. They say weaning yourself from tobacco is even harder than giving up heroin,” I say cheerfully, enjoying his misery.
“Yes, well.” He scratches his arm, “The nicotine patches have been of help. But it is mainly self-control, of course.” He’s been wearing those nicotine patches like a necklace, pulling another one out of his pocket and slapping it next to the other whenever his craving hits hard. He’s stashed packs of them everywhere, like a squirrel set for winter- in his jackets, his lab coat… If I’m lucky, he’ll die of nicotine poisoning and save me the trouble of murdering him.
“Ye dinnae remove the old patch,” I scold. “You’ll make yourself sick. Take it off.”
