thought, was the civilized way to break out of jail.
He wasn’t worried about being spotted by any police officers that might be waiting to greet the train. The authorities were frantically searching for a fugitive, and he didn’t look like one. A person’s appearance, Nick had learned, was as much about attitude as facial features and build. The Ray-Bans and the relaxed, unhurried gait of a man preoccupied by the email on his phone were all he’d need to become essentially invisible. He would blend into the crowd on the train platform and let the stream of humanity carry him out into the city.
Nick sipped his coffee, settled back in his seat, and fantasized about what his reunion with Kate O’Hare would be like. He wouldn’t mind if they were both naked.
—
Kate flew to Heathrow Airport in London but intentionally missed her connecting flight to Los Angeles. She wasn’t going to leave Europe until Dragan Kovic was out of business, and she and Nick had recovered the smallpox.
She hadn’t heard from Nick yet, but before she’d left Antwerp, she received a text from her father in Amsterdam. He was boarding a flight to Los Angeles. His successful escape gave Kate some peace of mind and some assurance that Nick had also got out of Belgium safely.
Kate’s idea of airport shopping was Sunglass Hut and See’s Candy, so she was surprised to discover Caviar House & Prunier as she walked through the terminal. She was wondering how many people cracked open a $400 tin of fish eggs for an in-flight snack, when her cellphone vibrated, announcing the receipt of a text message. It was a street address in Bois-le-Roi, France, from “Dr. Richard Kimble,” the hero of the classic TV series
The Fugitive.
Nick was safe and waiting for her.
She looked up the address on Google Maps and booked the first available flight to Paris. Ninety minutes later, she arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport, where she rented a compact Citroën with a stick shift and drove the seventy-five kilometers south to Bois-le-Roi.
It was nightfall by the time she reached the tiny village, located where the dense Fontainebleau forest met a bend in the Seine. The streets were narrow, potholed, and uneven. Her car bumped along past old homes made of stone, their windows bordered with heavy shutters that had protected the inhabitants over the centuries against harsh weather and even harsher invaders.
Kate passed through the village and continued down a road that was little more than a rutted path. It ended at a property ringed by a low, rough wall cobbled together out of sharp jutting rocks and bricks and mortar. She drove through the open gate, her tires crunching on the loose gravel, and gaped at the house in front of her. Low-slung and sprawling, it was mostly stone with a leaf-strewn, sagging tiled roof. Smoke curled out of the two lopsided chimneys, and flickering candlelight glowed behind the windows.
Kate thought the picture would be complete if the Seven Dwarfs were standing in front of the house singing “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!” It was a house that belonged in a children’s storybook. It was cozy and warm and inviting.
The front door opened and Nick stepped out. He was casually dressed in a cable-knit sweater and khaki slacks. Classic attire for the country gentleman welcoming a visitor to his bucolic home.
Kate got out of the car and walked toward him. The fairy-tale image of the Seven Dwarfs faded and was replaced with the Big Bad Wolf luring Little Red Riding Hood into his lair.
“You’re the woman of my dreams,” Nick said.
“I bet you say that to every woman who breaks you out of jail.”
“Only the FBI agents.”
“I feel like I’ve given myself completely to the dark side.”
“Not completely,” he said, “but I have plans to finish the process.”
“Do those plans involve a glass of wine?” Kate asked.
“I have an excellent burgundy.”
Kate shucked her jacket and took the glass of wine from Nick. “I hadn’t
He wasn’t worried about being spotted by any police officers that might be waiting to greet the train. The authorities were frantically searching for a fugitive, and he didn’t look like one. A person’s appearance, Nick had learned, was as much about attitude as facial features and build. The Ray-Bans and the relaxed, unhurried gait of a man preoccupied by the email on his phone were all he’d need to become essentially invisible. He would blend into the crowd on the train platform and let the stream of humanity carry him out into the city.
Nick sipped his coffee, settled back in his seat, and fantasized about what his reunion with Kate O’Hare would be like. He wouldn’t mind if they were both naked.
—
Kate flew to Heathrow Airport in London but intentionally missed her connecting flight to Los Angeles. She wasn’t going to leave Europe until Dragan Kovic was out of business, and she and Nick had recovered the smallpox.
She hadn’t heard from Nick yet, but before she’d left Antwerp, she received a text from her father in Amsterdam. He was boarding a flight to Los Angeles. His successful escape gave Kate some peace of mind and some assurance that Nick had also got out of Belgium safely.
Kate’s idea of airport shopping was Sunglass Hut and See’s Candy, so she was surprised to discover Caviar House & Prunier as she walked through the terminal. She was wondering how many people cracked open a $400 tin of fish eggs for an in-flight snack, when her cellphone vibrated, announcing the receipt of a text message. It was a street address in Bois-le-Roi, France, from “Dr. Richard Kimble,” the hero of the classic TV series
The Fugitive.
Nick was safe and waiting for her.
She looked up the address on Google Maps and booked the first available flight to Paris. Ninety minutes later, she arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport, where she rented a compact Citroën with a stick shift and drove the seventy-five kilometers south to Bois-le-Roi.
It was nightfall by the time she reached the tiny village, located where the dense Fontainebleau forest met a bend in the Seine. The streets were narrow, potholed, and uneven. Her car bumped along past old homes made of stone, their windows bordered with heavy shutters that had protected the inhabitants over the centuries against harsh weather and even harsher invaders.
Kate passed through the village and continued down a road that was little more than a rutted path. It ended at a property ringed by a low, rough wall cobbled together out of sharp jutting rocks and bricks and mortar. She drove through the open gate, her tires crunching on the loose gravel, and gaped at the house in front of her. Low-slung and sprawling, it was mostly stone with a leaf-strewn, sagging tiled roof. Smoke curled out of the two lopsided chimneys, and flickering candlelight glowed behind the windows.
Kate thought the picture would be complete if the Seven Dwarfs were standing in front of the house singing “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho!” It was a house that belonged in a children’s storybook. It was cozy and warm and inviting.
The front door opened and Nick stepped out. He was casually dressed in a cable-knit sweater and khaki slacks. Classic attire for the country gentleman welcoming a visitor to his bucolic home.
Kate got out of the car and walked toward him. The fairy-tale image of the Seven Dwarfs faded and was replaced with the Big Bad Wolf luring Little Red Riding Hood into his lair.
“You’re the woman of my dreams,” Nick said.
“I bet you say that to every woman who breaks you out of jail.”
“Only the FBI agents.”
“I feel like I’ve given myself completely to the dark side.”
“Not completely,” he said, “but I have plans to finish the process.”
“Do those plans involve a glass of wine?” Kate asked.
“I have an excellent burgundy.”
Kate shucked her jacket and took the glass of wine from Nick. “I hadn’t
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