Two black eyes, shaded by bushy, overhanging eyebrows, hung in place over a shaggy black beard that said nothing. The rifle held its position.
"I guess he doesn't understand. Tell him in French." Silence. Molly didn't respond. "Molly!" Bill whispered. "Hey!"
Three separate realities melted together into the present situation for Molly. "Beg pardon?"
''I said tell him in French."
"Tell him what?"
"What I just said. Where have you been?"
"I'm not entirely sure. What did you say to him?"
Bill groaned. "I told him he can have the money under the seat and the car, too, for that matter. We just want him to get that cannon out of our faces. Can you tell him that? I don't think he speaks English."
Molly relayed the message in French. The eyes, the beard, the rifle never flinched.
"That's odd."
"I guess he doesn't want money or cars."
"Perhaps he's deaf. Do you know sign language?"
"Nope."
"Nor do I."
"Oh, well. If he is deaf, I guess he'll have to stay that way."
Molly chuckled in spite of herself. "Might there be a chance of help from the item beneath the left seat?"
Bill studied the layout. The man stood on the far side of the car and leaned over the top. "Not a chance. We'd be running right down the barrel." He assumed a cowboy accent. "Ah'm afraid he's got the drop on us, Tex."
"Beg pardon?"
"Never mind. Bad joke."
"Incomprehensible, at any rate."
"Thanks a bunch."
"If you two are quite through with this little charade I will ask you to step apart and put your hands on your heads." The voice caught them both by surprise. It had a heavy French accent, but it sounded like it should have come from an early adolescent rather than from a gunman with a thick beard.
When Bill had relaxed his grip on Molly and eased away from her, he said, "What do you want from us? I told you where the money and stuff is."
"I am not a thief or a robber, Monsieur American."
Molly lifted her hands to her rather disheveled hair and asked, "Well, then what are you? And why do you insist on pointing that--that monstrosity at us?"
The man gestured with the rifle at Bill. Bill moved his hands to his head and entwined his fingers. The man with the rifle said, "You are spies, Madame. Secret police. We do not want your kind here. Yet, if I release you you will return with more police. So I must kill you."
Bill let his hands fall and began to laugh. Molly joined the laughter but kept her hands in place. The man's chin/beard slackened a little and the pinpoint black eyes widened a bit. "I see nothing amusing about killing you, Monsieur. Madame."
Bill gasped, "Secret police? I'm sure!" He laughed some more. "How many secret police have you ever seen playing in the water and necking in the woods? Secret police! Oh, this is giving me a bellyache!" Bill went on laughing.
"Necking? What is necking, Monsieur?"
Through her laughter, which now approached the level of Bill's, Molly answered, "Making l'amour. If you were there more than five seconds you couldn't have missed it."
"A trick! To make us think you are not secret police. The spies, they do many such things to deceive us."
Bill roared. "Well, if I'm secret police I never had a more fun assignment. Maybe we should tell that guy back at the checkpoint that we're secret police and see if he'll forgive us. "
Molly's knees gave way under the weight of mirth. "Indeed!"
"Checkpoint?" The eyes flitted back and forth. The brows pulled together to discuss this puzzlement. "What checkpoint? Forgive what? I do not understand."
Molly panted, "What my darling nephew and future husband is saying is that we're fugitives from the police. When we left Paris we had to shoot our way out. We wounded a gendarme and helped a prisoner escape. The gendarme seemed rather upset about the whole affair." Renewed laughter overlapped the last three words.
The eyes blinked. The beard worked up and down. The youthful voice said, "Nephew? Future husband? You shot a policeman? I--I do not understand. You make no sense."
Bill ceased his laughter and sighed, still trying to suppress a chuckle. "It's a long story. Will you please put that thing down?"
"Very well, Monsieur. But make no sudden moves." He lowered the rifle.
Bill turned to Molly, who was in the process of getting up. "Do you realize this guy nearly blew our brains out and we laughed ourselves silly over it?"
"Indeed. We must be in love!" She started to laugh all over again, and Bill joined her.
Francois Leblanc tested his right arm. The man at his side scolded him. "You must not move it for several days. You will reinjure yourself."
"Bah! You forget to whom you speak."
"I speak to a man out of whose body I have just taken a bullet, Monsieur Leblanc. You must keep the arm immobile or you will reopen the wound. Remember that I am your doctor. I know that of which I speak."
Leblanc looked up from the hospital bed to the crisp young face that bobbed above a clean white smock. "How long?"
"Four, maybe five days. After that you can use the arm, but you must be careful."
"Will I be well enough to hunt down that cursed American who shot me?"
The doctor shrugged. "Again, if you are careful. This American wounded more than your shoulder, did he not?" He smiled.
Leblanc sat up. "You overstep your bounds, friend doctor. I can still make shredded meat out of you!"
The doctor took a step back and the smile faded. "Calm yourself, Commander Leblanc. I meant nothing." Leblanc lay down again. "I understand the big American has a strong punch."
"I would not know. He did not shoot me with his fist."
"But he knocked Charles out with one backhanded punch. Broke his jawbone, in fact. Is this not so?"
Leblanc shrugged his left shoulder. "Charles was caught by surprise. I will not make this mistake. I will hunt this American Christian down and kill him." He gazed out the window. "I will show him how exquisite the desire to die can be. He will beg me to put a bullet in his brain. And his woman? He will beg me to kill him if only that he may not see what I will do to her."
A chill shook the doctor's spine as he studied the broad jaw, the thick, merciless lips that so casually spoke of torture and murder. A heavy brown mustache topped the upper lip and supported the wide, flattened nose with the odd crook in the bridge. Deep-set, vicious brown eyes glared out from under a a set of dense, almost tangled brown eyebrows. A deep brown shock of hair covered the ears and nearly reached to what on most people would have been a neck. To the doctor it looked more like the base of an oak tree.
To break the eerie silence the doctor said, "Has headquarters given you approval to go after them?"
"l have not asked yet," Leblanc's deep voice growled as the eyes still stared out the window. "But they will approve it. They will." He nodded slowly.
"Gimme a crescent wrench," Bill's voice echoed as if in a bucket.
"What is a crescent wrench, Monsieur Bill?" the young voice asked.
"The adjustable one."
"Oh. Here it is."
Bill's groping hand caught the wrench and snaked it back under the fold-up hood of the tractor. Clanking noises followed.
"Can you fix it, Monsieur Bill?"
"Stop calling me Monsieur Bill. Plain old 'Bill' is fine, Paul."
"Very well. Can you fix it, Plain-Old-Bill?"
A groan answered him. Bill's head emerged, followed by his hands. One hand held the wrench, the other an engine part.
Bill held up the part and shook his head.
"What is that?"
"Fuel pump. I'm afraid it's shot."
"The secret police must have shot it. I certainly did not."
Bill laughed. "No no, I mean it's worn out. You need a new one."
The boy's countenance fell. "Where can we get a new one, Plain-Old-Bill?" He had long since taken off the false beard and eyebrows. The face underneath looked to be about fifteen.
"I wish I knew, Paul." Bill turned the pump over a few times. "You know, on the other hand, maybe I can fix it. Do you have any soft leather around the place?"
"I do not know. I will ask Mama."
The boy turned and dashed toward the little white farmhouse. Bill followed in a thoughtful walk. Paul met him at the door with what seemed to be a light coat.
"This is leather. Will it work?"
Bill took the coat and felt it. "You know, it just might." He looked up into the eyes of the lovely blonde woman who stood behind Paul. "But I'll have to cut it to do what I'm thinking. I don't want to ruin something you need."
The pleasant hazel eyes smiled and the head nodded. The face was basic but very attractive, and showed a few lines of hardship. The blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which hadn't escaped the smudges of flour that interrupted the smiling cheeks here and there. Even with the lines, smudges and everything else, Marie Jarnais was a knockout.
"It is all right. We do not use it."
Bill shrugged. "Okay, if you're sure--"
"I am certain. If you can use it to fix the tractor, by all means use it."
Bill sat at the wooden table and drew two screwdrivers and a pair of pliers out of his pants pocket. As he loosened the screws on the fuel pump, he mumbled, "I read about this in shop class once. I've never done it before, but I think-- oomph!--I remember what to do."
Paul sat down opposite Bill at the table. "What will you do?"
Bill looked up at him and smiled. "This pump uses a diaphragm, sort of like what you use to breathe. If it cracks or gets a hole in it, the pump won't work. Most of these things are made of rubber, but I read that a good piece of soft leather makes a good replacement. We'll see if they were telling the truth."
Marie Jarnais wandered toward the table. "My husband knew many such things. He would fix everything." She laughed bitterly. "For it seemed that everything was always broken. Now he is gone and we have noone to do these things."
"When did the tractor break down?"
"Last week," Paul answered. "While we were planting. We planted much of the field by hand." Pride filled his voice. "I did most of the planting, and I drive the tractor. When it works, of course."
Bill laughed. "It sounds like you take good care of your mama, Paul. Now, if I can just--there!" The two halves of the fuel pump popped apart.
Paul's eyes devoured the device's inner workings. "What is this? What is that? What is this?"
Bill couldn't remember the names of all the parts. "That's a frammistat. That's a dingfod. That's a doohickey."
"Is that what you called them in Mr. Palmer's shop?"
Molly's voice startled him. Bill turned to see her standing behind him, trying to look denouncing. "Hi, beautiful. I didn't know you were inside."
"I just entered this moment. Frammistats and doohickeys, indeed."
Bill turned back to the pump. "You know, you're right. I believe at Palmer's shop this was a doodinkle, not a doohickey. Ouch!" he yelled as Molly cuffed him on the side of the head. "Boy! Ask a girl to marry you and she thinks she owns you and can get away with anything!" He whirled to grab her, but Molly was already clear over by the door.
"And she's right," Molly taunted as she ducked out the door.
Bill started to get up and chase her, but his eye caught Marie off to one side, staring at him. A little embarrassed, he sat down again and addressed the fuel pump.
"You'll have to excuse us. Neither one of us has really felt safe for a long time, and we're feeling a little playful. Just burning off nervous energy."
Marie motioned to Paul, who had sat quietly during the whole episode, to go outside. Paul excused himself under the pretext of having chores to do and left. Marie swished her way over to the table again and sat down by Bill. She spoke while Bill tinkered with the fuel pump. "I have often felt playful, but I had no one to play with." She smiled invitingly and let the thought hang.
Bill looked up at her. Her eyes twinkled. He gulped softly and forced his gaze to the object in his hands.
"But you like to be playful too, oui?"
Bill's heart pounded in his ears. Is she saying what I think she's saying? He tried to sound distant. "Depends on what the game is."
She put her hand on his and stroked it teasingly. "I think you know the game well, Monsieur Bill." Her light soprano voice was just above a whisper.
Bill put the pump down and tried to retract his hand. Marie closed her grip on it. As she leaned her face closer to his, Bill tried to protest. "Look, Marie--uh, Madame Jarnais. I appreciate--uh, that is, I'm flattered that a--a nice lady like you--uh, is, ah, interested in me, but Molly and I--"
"She is old," Marie interrupted. "I am nearer to you by many years. Why, she could be your mother!"
Bill hated to say it, but Marie's breath was hot on his face. He had to get out of this mess somehow, so he said, "And I'm less than ten years older than Paul, your son."
The tactic didn't work. "Ah, but I had him when I was very young. His father--my husband--and I, we, how do you say? got into trouble. I was fifteen when I bore Paul. He is now fourteen. And my husband is gone. And I am lonely. And you are beautiful. And I am yours." She bobbed forward suddenly and caught him in a double liplock. He tried to pull away, but she had him behind the head with her right hand. When she came up for air, she panted, "We are alone. We may do as we please. Let us slip into the next room and--"
Bill tipped his chair over backwards with a loud crash. Marie lost her grip as he tumbled back. Once on the floor, Bill executed a back somersault and landed on his feet. He stood in a linebacker's crouch, waiting to dodge in case she made another move.
Marie laughed, but stayed in her chair. "Does this mean no?"
"Yes--I mean, no--I mean--that's correct. Yes, this means no. Does that make sense?"
Her laughter glistened in the afternoon sunlight that streamed in the windows. "I understand, Monsieur Bill. Please sit down. I will behave. I promise."
Bill edged over to the chair, sat it up again and eased himself into it. No sooner did his pockets touch the seat, however, than Marie swarmed all over him again. She whipped the rubber band out that held her ponytail and let her long blonde hair fall all about Bill's head and shoulders. Bill thought he would suffocate.
Bill tipped the chair over again, but this time Marie went with him. He found himself on his back on the floor with Marie crawling about his chest and abdomen. Desperate to get out of such a compromising position, Bill groped until he found a left shoulder here and a right thigh there. His arm and back muscles cracked as he hoisted the squirming woman as high into the air above him as his prone position would allow. He then rolled to his left side and dumped her rather unceremoniously on the floor. As he scrambled to his feet, Bill puffed, "You said you'd behave!"
Marie winked sassily at him. "I did not say how I would behave, my handsome one."
Bill ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. "I think it's time Molly and I moved on. I'm sorry, Madame Jarnais. I do love her, and I won't cheat on her."
"How can it be cheating on her when you are not married?"
Bill sat back down on his chair. Marie stayed on the floor. Bill's hands trembled a little. "Any sex outside of marriage is wrong."
"By whose rules?"
"The Bible's rules."
Marie's face brightened. "Ah, you are Christians!"
Bill smiled. "Yeah. Are you?"
Marie shrugged. "I do not even know what that means. But I have heard that Christians have great respect for a book called the Bible. We had a family Bible here once, though we never read it, so I do not know what it says. The secret police took it away when they took my husband away. So I still do not know what it says, except that now you tell me it says I am wrong to be lonely and to desire a magnificent man such as yourself. But no matter. I am still lonely and I still desire you. Do you find me attractive?" She crossed her legs indian-style and lifted her knees to make her dress go up.
Bill quickly averted his eyes to the ceiling. He decided not to answer the last question. "It doesn't say those things are wrong. What it does say, and it's true, is that there's a right way and a wrong way to deal with them. Especially the loneliness part. Believe me, Molly and I both know how it feels. But you don't solve it by attacking and and every person you find attractive. You--"
"If this is going to be a long lecture, may I sleep?"
"Only if you put your legs down."
"Very well. They are down."
Bill looked down and then turned toward the kitchen area. "You said they were down."
"I lied."
"I figured that out." His eye caught the items on the table. "I'd better finish fixing this fuel pump so Paul can drive the tractor after we leave."
Marie hesitated, then asked, "Are you hungry?"
"Is that a trick question?"
"Pardon?"
"Never mind."
Marie got up off the floor and trudged back over to the table. This time she sat opposite Bill, who kept himself intent on the pieces of metal in his hands.
After several moments of silence Bill stole a quick glance at Marie. She sat with her chin in her hands, elbows on the table, looking dejected. She studied his work, but the look on her face said she really didn't care what he was doing.
At last she spoke. "Do you think I am pretty?"
Without looking up, Bill said, "Very."
"Yet you do not wish to--"
"No."
"Why not?"
Bill looked up from his work into her very attractive face. As he surveyed her feminine countenance he realized that the storm was over. She didn't affect him now like she had a few minutes earlier. Inwardly, he cheered and gave thanks. "I already told you why not. A, it's wrong, and B, I'm in love with Molly. Not necessarily in that order, but those are my reasons. It has nothing to do with you personally."
"Was I too--too--how do you say?"
"Aggressive?"
"Yes. Aggressive. Does this bother you?"
Bill shrugged. "It certainly didn't help, but like I said, the answer would have been the same no matter how you asked the question."
Marie sighed. "I have been alone a very long time."
"You never give up, do you?"
She gave him a confused look. "I do not understand."
Bill put the parts down and leaned back in his chair. "You said the secret police took your husband away after the war because he spoke out against some government policies. But the war was only a little over six months ago. Yet you say you've been alone a very long time. You make it sound like years."
Marie snapped to attention and pounded the table with her petite fist. "It feels like a very long time! When your world turns to sand and life as you know it no longer is, the time feels like forever! Do you not understand this? Or are you a machine like the ones you fix, and not a man at all?" Her eyes spat at him.
Bill took a second to consider the sweeping changes in his own life: the transition to a new land and culture, uprooting even from that, becoming a fugitive, falling in love--he nodded and said slowly, "Yes, I do understand. Please forgive me. I was out of line."
Captain Pierre Marchand looked up from his desk into the parody of a face. The hatred that erupted from every oversized pore twisted the features into a subhuman caricature. But he knew better than to laugh. "I am sorry, Commander Leblanc. I must deny your request. Your wound is not yet healed. Besides, after so many days they will be impossible to find. Take some time off instead. Go home and mend."
Leblanc glared at the little man behind the desk. "If you give me time off I will only use it to hunt them down by myself. I am going after them, with or without the help of the force."
Marchand stood up. He was a full head shorter than Leblanc, and looked more like a CPA than a police captain. "You are this determined, Francois?"
Leblanc nodded. "I despise Christians to begin with. But most of them are placid. They go to the jails, the stakes, the gallows like wide-eyed calves to the slaughter-house. But this one, he shoots, he hits--he is not like the others. Perhaps because he is American, perhaps because he seeks to defend the woman. I do not know. But he has humiliated me. Overcome by a Christian? Fagh!" He spat on the floor. "I must correct this error. I will correct it. Make no mistake, friend Pierre--" He was one of a handful of gendarmes who could get away with calling Marchand by his first name, mostly because Marchand was afraid if he didn't let Leblanc get away with it Leblanc would pulverize him--"this big American will be mine. Do I have your support, or must I prove that I do not need it?"
Marchand laughed nervously. "Very well, my large friend. You are right, of course. These people are Christians, and that makes them dangerous enemies of the state. And they practice violence, as you and poor Charles well know. That makes them doubly dangerous. Therefore, we are fully justified in instituting a manhunt. You will have full authority over the hunt, and you may hand pick twenty officers to assist you. Have your vehicle and arms requisitions on my desk two days before you are ready to depart. Do you have any questions?"
Leblanc reached into the inside pocket of his uniform coat. "No questions. We will leave in two days, if our supplies must take that long. Here is a list of ten men--I do not need twenty, but thank you for your generous offer--and supplies. I await your orders to depart." He stiffened into attention and gave a painful open-hand salute, which Marchand slowly returned. As Leblanc left, Captain Marchand studied the lists and shook his head. The man's audacity was unbelievable, but he did tend to get the job done.