Today's Reading
He started after the man, then stopped. The man had turned right when he ran out of the room. Not the direction he had come from, and John remembered why. The staircase to the roof was on the right side of the hallway. And the roof had a few touchpoints with neighboring buildings. He was impressed. The man had scouted his escape routes like a highly skilled thief.
He knew if the man made it to one of those touchpoints, catching him would be difficult. John preferred strength, not speed. That didn't seem to be the case for the man. He had to beat him to the roof, which meant going up the hotel's facade. He walked onto the balcony, then tossed the duffel bag over to the first terrace, the one closest to the pipe. Better there than in the man's room.
John perched himself on the railing, then exploded skyward. He grabbed hold of the rooftop, and his one hand slipped a bit, causing his heart to thump. He was rusty, and he knew it. He secured his hold, then pulled himself up and onto the roof. John wiped his palms on his pants, then blinked hard. That was close, even for him. He hurried to the stairway door.
The door swung open, and the mystery man spilled out. John stood his ground, blocking the man.
A look of exasperation flooded the man's face. He turned his palms up as if to ask, "Really? You're up here now?" He turned to go back down the stairway, then tilted his head to listen. He stopped. John heard it too— Paul bounding up the stairs.
John saw the man panic. He was doing some internal calculations, and he didn't like the result. A few seconds passed. The man's eyes dropped to the ground in front of his feet. John exhaled, relieved. The first step in giving up.
Then the man took off running, not for the other buildings but toward the front of the hotel. John froze for a moment. There was nothing there, no escape line, no bridge to another building.
"Wait!" yelled John. "Where are you going?"
He took off after him, but the man had a good start. John adjusted his approach, angling toward the roof's edge, hoping to save in distance what he couldn't in time. Ten feet from the edge of the roof, John dove at him, his right hand catching the collar of the man's jacket. They tumbled and slid, and the man's lower body crept over the roofline. Then the rest of the man followed.
He felt the man's weight suspended in his jacket, wriggling like a worm on a hook, swatting at John's hand. That created a problem, and it wasn't his one- handed grip. He guessed the man to be around one hundred fifty pounds, and John knew he could hold that weight with either hand. No, the problem was momentum. The man's movement was inching John toward the edge. He extended his left arm, looking for something to grab, and caught hold of a spire.
They both stopped moving. The man hung in the air, supported only by John's hand. He heard Paul rush through the stairway door and pause.
"Over here! I've got him." John was well- positioned. They weren't going anywhere. He looked down at the man, thinking about how to get him back onto the roof. The man looked up, his eyes locked onto John's, and he let loose a deep growl of anger. John watched as the man looked down to the street. Through his right arm, John could feel the man's body relax. Then the man raised both arms and slid out of his jacket.
And just like that, he fell to his death.
CHAPTER TWO
Francie Stevens flipped the hair out of her eyes and aimed her Delahaye 235 Chapron sports car at the narrow opening between the two stone buildings, standing like pillars at the entrance to the village of Tourrettes- sur- Loup.
"We'll cut through here and take that winding road to Antibes," she said. "We'll be back at the hotel in no time."
"If we make it back alive, that would be wonderful," said Maude Stevens. "I might even celebrate with a cocktail."
"That was in the cards anyway," Francie said, smiling. "You're the one who wanted a drive in the country. And I'm happy to take you. Just thought I'd add a little excitement."
She reached forward and patted the car's dashboard, feeling the engine's rumble through her lambskin glove. "Easy, girl. Mother isn't used to so much speed."
Francie adored her Delahaye and had insisted on the cabriolet model so she could drive in the open air. Like today, a picturesque drive through the countryside. Perfect weather, perfect scenery, and now a perfect Riviera sunset. The heat of the sun warmed her shoulders, and the balmy air curled around her windshield and tousled loose strands of hair that had broken free of her chiffon scarf, failing terribly at holding it all in place.
...
