the car rental center back in Paris, the agent had examined him with more than the usual scrutiny. Mckenzie understood the man’s suspicion. A young man with a face still flushed by his dash from the metro station was seeking to rent the last Mercedes sedan on the lot. Releasing such an expensive automobile to someone who did not look like a usual customer had to be troubling. Finally the agent’s latent resistance was overcome by the evident validity of Mckenzie’s American express card, not to mention the one hundred franc tip he had folded over the card. The agent also realized that the would-be renter was an American, a people known to spend money foolishly.
It had taken an extra fifteen minutes but he finally drove off the lot in the Mercedes with renewed sense of confidence. He had a reliable vehicle, the necessary highway maps, and directions to the best route east. A less expensive car would have served just as well, but if this dream world lasted long enough, Marcus would receive the bill for the Mercedes rental. That thought alone was enough to lighten his mood.
His confidence and good humor were both short lived. Within moments, he was enmeshed in the morass that was late evening Parisian traffic. Jammed streets, honking horns, and drivers with inclinations fluctuating between homicide and suicide all combined to block his progress. Even the directions provided by the rental clerk seemed to be of dubious accuracy. He was fast approaching an explosion of frustrated anger when the landmarks and passing streets began to conform to the suggested routes. A few moments more flew by before he found the A6 access. Jamming down on the Mercedes’s accelerator, he roared onto the broad highway. Surely the worst was over.
It wasn’t.
There had been a brief scattering of showers moving down from the north a little earlier in the evening. The rain had not been heavy, but it had been enough to create a sheen of moisture on the highway; just enough to cause careless drivers to slide and slip when changing lanes. None of the accidents Mckenzie encountered were serious, but they all impeded traffic. Twice he found himself locked in a line of waiting cars staring with helpless impatience at flickering taillights stretching away into the darkness. With each delay, he tried to invoke the famous Mckenzie stoicism. With each minute lost from his shrinking reserve, the facade became harder to maintain.
It was well past midnight when he finally reached the outskirts of Lyon. The city was sizable, the second largest metropolitan area in France, and even at this late hour, the traffic might be heavy in the city center. Mckenzie quickly decided to circle eastward, to work his way around the city, and then pick up the A7 on the south side of Lyon.
Once he reached the A7, he would be on remembered ground. Like the A6, it was a multi-lane highway that ran south to Avignon and on to Marseille. He had driven this road in 1982. Familiarity might be comforting but it would not shorten the distance. The clock was still ticking relentlessly. There were still miles to go. Ignoring the speed limit, he pushed harder on the accelerator. The Mercedes raced south.
Another decision was rapidly approaching. Should he turn east at Valence and try to retrace the route to St. Aubert as he had done before? Glancing quickly at the dash board clock, he rejected that choice. It was nearly 2:30 a.m. By the time he reached the little village she might already be on the road. He might find himself behind her and unable to catch up. That was not an acceptable alternative. He needed to reach that long featureless stretch of highway ahead of her. He had to be there in time to stop her.
He could think of but one other option. Stay on the A7 and speed further south another 30 kilometers before turning east somewhere near Bollene. There would still be twisting back roads to cover but at that point he would be ahead of her. He would be closer than she was to . . . to the place she was to die. Mckenzie shook his head in furious denial. No! He silently shouted to the mental image of a crushed and burning automobile. No! She would not die. Not tonight.
It was only after he had exited the A7 that the topography of rural Provence was able to clamp a limitation on his speed that local traffic law could not. The dark narrow roads were largely deserted at just past three in the morning, but the twists and turns, bends and hair pin curves still demanded a more measured pace. He dared not risk losing control and running the Mercedes into a ditch. There was also the new challenge of an altered perspective. Approaching from the south for the first time and in the dark, even the few landmarks he could recall from his previous trip were of little help. Despite that, he could sense a growing certainty about his location. He was getting closer, he would make it in time.
Marcel Portier also thought he was going to satisfy his schedule. Carefully navigating the massive moving van around a tight curve, he frowned at the undisturbed snoring of his helper curled up on the large truck seat. Mustafa could sleep through anything. The young man’s name wasn’t really Mustafa, of course, but Portier tended to call all of the Moroccan immigrants he hired as temporary helpers by that name. Since they were illegally in the country and needed the work, none ever protested.
To Portier the Arabs were all basically interchangeable anyway. His small furniture moving company had most of its capital tied up in trucks like the one he was driving. The employees he hired needed only strong backs, a willingness to work for low wages, and the good sense to keep their mouths shut when they were paid off the books and in cash. Mustafa would do as an all purpose name.
This particular Mustafa was also willing to leave his bed in the middle of the night so Portier could get an early start. The client had bought a renovated farm house in the north and wanted to start moving in early in the morning. A nice bonus had been promised if Portier could have the furniture there by six a.m. Marcel Portier never turned down bonuses.
Portier also never wasted money on vehicle maintenance unless it became absolutely necessary. The tread on the huge van’s right rear tire was getting thin. New tires were expensive, however, and he was sure that this one would last a little longer. His assessment was correct. The tire lasted only a little longer.
The hard right curve put sharply increased pressure on the already weakened rubber. As Portier steered out of the turn, he could see the road straighten ahead of him. Eager to gain a little more time, he shoved down the gas pedal only seconds before the tire blew out. Many things occurred simultaneously - all of them bad. The abrupt loss of the tire caused the van to fish tail. Portier, who was not nearly as good a driver as he believed, was slow to release the accelerator and the wild gyrations of the van gained intensity. As he desperately tried to steer out of the threat to his control, he realized that the ground on the left side of the highway fell away into a dark abyss - a gully of undeterminable depth. Giving way to a panic driven sensation that he was about to slide into that looming menace, he spun the steering wheel back to the right in a massive over correction.
Now utterly out of control, the van turned sideways across the road as it skidded northward. The heavy load of furniture, packed with a hurried disregard for balance, shifted further upsetting the truck’s fragile equilibrium. Almost in slow motion, the right side of the van lifted off the road and it began to topple like a dying ox falling inexorably onto its left side. The quiet country night echoed with the crash of impact and the grinding of metal as the van scraped against asphalt for another few feet before coming to stop.
“Get the hell off me” Portier groaned, moaned and snarled all in one sentence. The joy of finding himself still alive was undermined by the pain of being pinned between the door and the steering wheel by the weight of his young assistant who had been thrown on top of him. Portier’s humor was not improved by the realization that his predicament was entirely his own fault. That perception did not prevent him from venting his anger on Mustafa, who was apparently not seriously hurt.
“Get your door open and climb out of here.”
Grunting with effort, the young man struggled and pushed until he had forced open the van’s side door. After pulling himself up onto the side of the overturned truck, Mustafa reached back inside to offer a hand to Portier. Accepting the proffered assistance with a notable lack of grace, Portier also tried to climb out. As his head emerged into the night air he caught the first whiff of gasoline.
“Oh Merde.” Portier felt his stomach clinch. “Please,