Dr. Richard Kimble: I didn't kill my wife.331Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEH111leYgw
Deputy US Marshal Samuel Gerard: I don't care.
--Harrison Ford and Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive, 1993
THE TOWN OF BELROUX, France, is unknown even to some French natives; Mischa recalled getting a blank stare from Felice when she'd recommended it at as a honeymoon destination. Belroux is in the Loire region, about two hours southwest of Paris, tucked between Périville and Alennoît, just off the A10 on the way to Tours.
Sebastian and Mischa had visited that place back in 2005, during a week long vacation in France. First in Paris, then in the Loire Valley, touring the glorious castles and the vineyards, marveling at the majestic countryside, and getting tipsy on unbelievable wine, including a Sancerre that became her favorite thereafter, mostly because it reminded her of that brief window of time when Sebastian Knapp and her were insatiably in love.
The MapQuest directions got her as far as the exit for Periville, which is not to say that the directions stopped there, but rather that they stopped making sense at that point. But, what the hell. Once she was through Periville she was navigating tiny roads clustered inside a town.....maybe that town was Periville, maybe not; it had been seven years, after all-----and she just kept looking for the large rectangular signs that said LE DOMAINE in their elaborate front until she made it through to a narrow, two-lane road that paralleled the Loire River.
It was dawn, that gorgeous interval when the countryside was waking up, when the air still had that slightly crisp feel, even with the extended summer this year. Mischa drove in complete solitude the final twelve miles until she saw the open gates on the right.
Le Domaine was an old thirty-acre feudal estate, complete with an ivy-covered castle and neighboring mansion, which later became a hunting lodge before it settled into its current form, a series of rental cottages. Though the owners had succumbed to modernity and put in tennis courts and an Olympic-sized pool, which she could have done without, its true appeal lay in the acres of manicured gardens, the tranquil pond, and the vast swath of virgin forest. It was, as she remembered it seven years ago, the most romantic place on earth.
The Audi's tires crunched over the gravel as she made her way through the entrance to the parking area. She tucked the Audi in the farthest corner of the lot, against a row of hedges. She got out and stretched her arms and legs and inhaled the clean air.
"Well, bird, you made it this far," she said.
She was dressed well. Donatello had packed one of Felice's finest outfits for her, presumably so she wouldn't look out of place driving an expensive foreign car as she made her way across central France. She was wearing a navy jacket, white blouse, and gray skirt. She pulled her hair out of the rubber band in which she'd gathered it; most of it had already fallen loose, anyway, as her dirty locks were barely shoulder length.
Directly in front of her was the castle, which housed the reception area and restaurant. It was bordered with manicured shrubs, its walls covered in leaves that had turned gorgeous shades of auburn and yellow. She could see through the windows that preparations had already begun for room service and housekeeping for the cottages. The fifth from the end was where they stayed, a standard room with exposed wooden beams and flowered wallpaper and rustic furniture. It was where Sebastian and she spent the better part of three days.
She shuddered and snapped into focus. She got into the backseat and changed into the running outfit Donatello had given her. Her wardrobe request had been twofold: first, something nice, so she could walk into pretty much anywhere looking like a relatively normal person; and, in addition, running clothes, which served a dual purpose.....she could blend in anywhere, and if it ever became necessary, she could run like hell.
She strolled the gardens in her running clothes, passing two members of the waitstaff pushing carts along the stone path from one of the service cottages. Her role was simple enough: a tourist staying here who had gone for a morning run and was cooling off with a stroll. She acted as if she were out of breath and smiled at them. They pleasantly said, "Bonjour," and she pleasantly replied, "Buenos dias." She'd come to learn that her slightly olive complexion, despite her Anglo-Irish background, allowed her to pass for a Spaniard or an Italian, and if anyone were ever trying to place her later, it'd be better if they didn't remember her as Mischa Barton, the actress, the American.
She walked along the stone paths. The sun had barely risen, so it was nearly pitch-black as she navigated the forest area. The paths would almost wound almost all the way through the acres of forest. Almost. She discovered that there was a decent patch of woodland in the back where nobody seemed to tread.331Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7azTch8RGT
She looked back to be sure she was alone. It was just her among an acre of quiet trees. The ground was blanketed by fallen leaves that crunched under her feet as she found a secluded spot behind a thick tree.331Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhmgksAPovB
She took another deep breath and burst into tears. She dove into the leaves, rolled through them, dug her hands into dirt, tasted and smelled and felt freedom for the first time in more than a year. She cried out and laughed and moaned. She looked up through the trees at the morning sky, marveling at its majesty. She could stare up at the sky as long as she wished. She was free!331Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj4Pvnhugln
Just a little. And then she had some work to do.331Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSs5nuBDd9a
Because they were coming for her. And she knew one man, in particular, who wouldn't rest until he found her.331Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQBMs50aNQv
