Page 19 of The 9th Man

Jillian tossed him a thumbs-up.

He hustled down to the roof and landed, working the pain out of his hands, and together they crouched against the exterior wall.

“Look for a way down,” he said. “Step carefully. We don’t know what’s below us.”

Though only about a hundred feet across, the rooftop was multi-gabled, like a mountain range. They quietly navigated the peaks and valleys. Then, deep in shadow along the roof’s east side he found a gap between the buildings barely wider than his shoulders, wires and conduits festooning the walls. Every few feet linesman’s pegs jutted from the stone.

“What is it?” she asked, peering downward.

“Architectural glitch, probably. Looks like they turned it into a cable run for these buildings.”

Again, with no hesitation, she dropped herself into the gap and began picking her way down the wall. He followed and soon they were on the ground in a dark narrow alley. Drooping cables lent the passageway a jungle-like feel. He oriented himself, then headed away from the bakery toward the square’s south side.

They reached an intersection.

To the right was a dead end. To the left, fifty feet away, they could see people milling about the square. He continued straight. The next intersection was a mirror image of the last. He turned right. Ten minutes later they were clear of the square and all the excitement.

“What now?” she asked.

“We go get Benji’s lockbox.”

8

LUKE DROVE, KEEPING TO THE SPEED LIMIT, DRAWING NO ATTENTIONto them. They’d backtracked their way to his rental car, then made their way out of Brussels. The return to Genappe had taken a little over an hour, during which their wet clothes dried. Their conversation had centered on the men in the museum. Who sent them? Why? And how had they found them? Unfortunately, there were no answers. They simply had too little information to make any meaningful assessment. Clearly, though, Jillian’s inquiries had started something into action. By the time they reached Genappe his watch read 7:30P.M.and the spring evening was rapidly evolving into night.

“Turn right,” she said. “Lights off.”

He did as directed.

The gently sloped lane was bordered by grassy drainage ditches. Dirt and small gravel crunched under the tires until Jillian finally said, “Turn here.”

He guided the car into a driveway that ended before a farmhouse.

“I know the owners,” she said. “They’re gone for a few weeks.” She turned in her seat and pointed through the rear window. “That’s our backyard, to the left of that big chestnut.”

They’d not approached the house from Rue Emile Hecq on the off chance that the police, or someone else, were watching. Instead, Jillian had brought them around to its rear and a street over. Behind a tall privacy fence the house was a dark form against an even darker sky. He was about to ask about neighborhood dogs, but caught himself. Whistler had already covered that point. They were taking a risk returning. Getting arrested topped the list. Plus, there was no guarantee the lockbox hadn’t already been discovered, either by their pursuers or by the authorities. If so, he might have to make a call to Stephanie Nelle, asking her to intervene. But he preferred not to do that. The house was the scene of a mass murder. If the police thought something of investigative value was there, they’d tear it down to the studs. But maybe the obvious had caused them to be a little careless. It would not be the first time.

“I assume you won’t allow me to handle this,” he said to her. “And you wait here.”

“Not a chance.”

She was out of the car and marching off before he could protest. He jogged to catch up. “All I’m saying is, one of us should stay here and keep watch.”

“I nominate you.”

And she kept walking.

He shrugged and headed after her.

They crossed the road down into one of the ditches then hopped a wire fence into a small treed meadow of wildflowers wet from an earlier rain. After a few steps their pant legs were saturated again. They reached the privacy fence, which stood slightly taller than Luke. On tiptoes, he peered over. All of the house windows were dark. Nothing moved save the fluttering blue-and-white tape the police had strung through the bushes down each side.

“Don’t they guard crime scenes here?” he asked her.

“They’re probably out front.”

“Okay, up you go.”

He made a stirrup with his hands but she said, “There’s an easier way.”

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