The Frenchman

By Barbara Boudreau

Jean LaChance is the Frenchman–infamous lone thief escaping his past. Following a lucrative heist, he and his partner plan a rendezvous to split their score. At the rendezvous, LaChance instead finds Lilly Parsons and her three children. Over four days they find trust and belonging for the first time, and lives of loneliness and despair begin to melt away. One rainy night, Lilly flees in a panic with the kids in LaChance’s car that unbeknownst to her holds the heist money. Now LaChance is in mad pursuit of the woman and children he has grown to love, unsure of their motive for leaving and taking the money. What will he do when he finds them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Boudreau
• Release date: Oct 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463504147

Barbara Boudreau

The Frenchman, Barbara’s first novel, was born onboard their sailing vessel Offbeat in February, 2009 when they were stuck by the weather in Spanish Wells, Eleuthera, Bahamas. She woke from a dream of the first scene, got up and wrote it down, and in several months, it was a book. Love of music and nature have defined Barbara’s life and driven a wanderlust that led her from Bering Sea to the high plains savanna of central Africa, to six years in Hiroshima, Japan. Exhausted from all the jet lag, she finally settled in Gloucester, MA with her jazz drummer and sailor husband, Al Boudreau. Together, they make music on a regular basis with their jazz band. By day, she works as an Interpretive Coordinator for Mass State Parks and is a Certified Interpretive Guide. She has a B.S. in Fish and Wildlife and an M.S. in Natural Resources and has published articles about conservation, interpretation and sailing. Read her blog: bbboudreau.com/updates. Look for her sequel--"Death of The Frenchman" soon!

Book preview

Early Praise for THE FRENCHMAN:

From the beginning of this fantastic novel through to the end, it holds you on the edge of your seat, not letting go.... for anything.

The Review Hutch

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

One vital lesson I have learned through this process, is that while a novel is penned by one person, it takes an entire team to really write a book.

My dear friend Nancy Gavin gets first chair. Her tireless support, invaluable feedback and love of reading were absolutely essential in arriving at the final version of The Frenchman. I really couldn’t have done it without you – YLC! Warm hugs also go to friends who read and provided commentary or research support: Peter Anastas, Margaret Bleau, Lisa Carlson, Carol Ciulla, Alanna Manning, Rebecca Parris (my mentor, my hero), Jen Schafer, Frank Thomas, Amy Wilmot – you guys are the best.

The Finish Line Writer’s Group of Gloucester was pivotal in providing comments on so many aspects of the book – character development, story line, dialog. The Frenchman experienced major improvement under your review. Our leader Terry Weber Mangos – thank you so much. Also to Lois, Jane, Doug, Linda, Maura, Cindy. Just keep going.

Allan Penn, you beauty – thank you for taking a chance on me and bringing me the team of amazing literary agent Becky Thomas and copy/line editor Jen Safrey. Keep up the honesty, Jen. There’s nothing better. Becky, you’re so patient. Thanks to Olivier André for the French edits.

Thank you Dad for telling me years ago that I should be a writer.

Last, but not least, to my wonderful, loving husband Al Boudreau who left me alone to write and always believed in my talent. I love you, More Than You’ll Ever Know. My dear Lila, thank you for your patience and constant companionship. You were with me every step of the way.

Chapter 1

THE FRENCHMAN

California desert, October early 1990s

The late-model Chevy hurtled down a two-lane highway that sliced a razor-straight line through endless wasteland. The driver was a Frenchman from the city, and had never seen country quite like it. Barren desert stretched flat for miles to the horizon, interrupted by an occasional erect cactus – an icon of the climate, fringed by creosote and more creosote. A roadrunner dashed across the path of the car and dove into the scrub on the opposite side of the road. It was the first one he’d ever seen with his own eyes, and it took him a while to figure out what it was. His only context was the American cartoon bird with the bright blue comb who repeatedly escaped from Wile E. Coyote.

A white salt line encircled dark stains on the armpits of his shirt in spite of the blast of cold air from the vents on the dash. His breath came in gasps. There was no place to hide on the flat plain. On the other hand, there was no one around either. Just as soon as he had collected the money, he would get out of this country, which was frightening in its exposure. Maybe he would chance a return flight to France. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could smell the aroma of the dark coffee and hear the music of the streets. America was puzzling; people seemed frantic ̶ or maybe just angry, he couldn’t decide which. Besides, they talked incessantly about nothing. The only thing that held him here was the prospect of the money begging to be grabbed. His cunning mind was well suited to his profession and extremely effective in the United States, Land of the Free, Home of the Fast Buck.

Drawing in a breath, he stretched back in his seat and calculated the distance to his destination. Another fifteen miles. Hopefully, Dewey would be there so he could conclude business and leave before dark. The desolation of the desert was certainly much worse at night. The search for Dewey in the city had ended in defeat, and sent him to the only place the man might be hiding. There was no guarantee that Dewey would be there, but the Frenchman had to start somewhere. He cocked the rearview mirror toward his face, and his tired reflection stared back; he looked old. Thank God this job promised to be a fair haul, because he wanted out of the robbery business. There had to be a game that was less risky, easier on the nerves. He shook his head and sighed. For now, he would make the pick-up, retreat to Los Angeles, and disappear. After a hot shower in a nameless hotel, there would be plenty of time to think.

The mile posts swept by and he eased up on the accelerator as the car approached mile 256, where a small, nearly obscured road on the left dropped abruptly from the pavement of the highway and vanished into the brush. He stopped the car and stared at the dirt track. The Frenchman’s instincts screamed trap. One way in, the same way out? Dewey’s drunken directions were correct so far. He was barely an acquaintance—certainly not a friend. For several minutes, the car idled softly on the side of the road. He opened the door and stepped out, walked around the front of the car, and crouched in the middle of the track. There were no tire marks. Clearly Dewey had not yet arrived. The Frenchman stood and looked around to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The highway was empty for miles. He got back into the car, lit a cigarette, and sat for a time, considering his situation. The take was fair – at least two hundred fifty thousand dollars for a relatively easy job. It seemed a shame to pass it up, and certainly, Dewey was not capable of outthinking him. Either Dewey was coming and simply had not yet arrived, or he had skipped, which would necessitate pursuit, interception, threats – and possibly use of the handgun riding like a silent partner on the passenger’s seat.

The man sighed again. Money was what he needed right now, plus an end to this frustrating chapter. Perhaps he was being paranoid. He stretched back into the seat, shifted the purring Chevy into drive, and turned down the narrow track.

Chapter 2

PRESCOTT’S STASH

Richard Prescott was a wealthy retired businessman living just outside of L.A. He employed the old-school practice of hiding cash, and his was under the floorboard beneath the foot of his bed. Becky had discovered it by accident after servicing the old man late one night.

Prescott was in the shower, and Becky was dressing in front of the mirror, a cigarette dangling precariously from her lips, when she dropped one of the small diamond earrings that a john had given her for Christmas. Cursing softly, she crawled on her hands and knees until she found the runaway jewel just under the foot of the bed, wedged into a crack in the floor. After retrieving the earring, her curious fingers pried at the board which angled up with ease to expose several black plastic trash bags. Her painted eyes sprang open and trembling red fingernails dug at the plastic until the top bag disclosed its contents: bundles of bills with plenty of zeroes. The slam of the shower door made her drop the board back down, and when Prescott emerged from the bathroom, she was sitting with her legs spread on the foot of the bed, offering a little bonus. Prescott never suspected a thing.

Though sex paid Becky’s room and board, she indulged recreationally as well, and Dewey Jensen was one of her occasional lays. Two weeks after the discovery of the money, she and Dewey were smoking a joint after sex in a motel outside the city, and she had spilled her little secret.

There were three big bags in there, honey, she said. They were all filled with hundreds and twenties, I swear. I know exactly where they are.

Dewey handed her the bottle of Old Thompson and helped her tip it farther back than she intended.

Oh! he laughed. That’s a good girl.

He wanted her as drunk as possible.

I don’t know, pumpkin. It sounds kind of risky to me, Dewey said.

"No, no, no, it was right there, lots of it, piled up under the floor at the foot of the bed. We could go right in there and get it. It would be easy."

It sounded easy. He helped her to more of the bottle and kept the questions coming, eventually learning the location of the house.

Suddenly, Becky stopped talking and lurched forward.

Oh, God! she cried and groped her way on hands and knees across the bed. She fell face first onto the floor, and Dewey was amazed when she popped up on her feet just as fast and made it to the bathroom. Sounds of retching and splashing liquid painted a picture Dewey didn’t care to see. He dressed quietly and slipped out the door, carrying his shoes until he hit the bottom of the stairs. He would never call her again, and she didn’t know his phone number or where he lived. Girls that type were like flies on shit; they were everywhere.

Dewey Jensen was a small-time thief with a petty record and a drinking problem. He stole because he didn’t know how to do anything else. His trick was the easy buck; he lifted appliances and electronics that would move quickly on the street. This job was perfect for him, and maybe enough money to get him away from his current situation, away from those three snotty kids and their needy mother. He could get into a major game that assured big scores.

Dewey had to have a plan. He went day after day to scope out Prescott’s house, parking in various locations and sitting for hours with a pair of binoculars watching the place, trying to determine whatever patterns the old man might have. Prescott lived alone and spent most of his time at home, but after two weeks, Dewey discovered he left on Thursdays at four thirty in the afternoon, returning by ten o’clock the same night. There was a maid who left daily by five o’clock. The fact that he had discovered a pattern was amazing, even to him. During his reconnaissance, he had also discovered the location of the bedroom, off the back deck overlooking the long sweep of valley.

The third Thursday after Prescott’s gold Mercedes had wound slowly down the long driveway to the road below, Dewey waited for the maid to leave and then snuck up to the house. His soft-soled sneakers padded up the stone steps. His arms were goose pimply with excitement. He peered through all the front windows. Low light inside threw shadows over simple but expensive-looking furniture. Large paintings of various mediums graced the walls, and jealousy burned like a hot coal in Dewey’s chest, nearly derailing the purpose of his visit. The neighborhood was ghostly quiet. He sidled around the back with such obvious suspicion that anyone watching would mark him instantly. Once in the relative safety of the backyard with no possible witnesses, Dewey slipped back into his bumbling self. He thumped up onto the back porch and pressed his face against the window by the back door. His eyes swept the kitchen, with its costly appliances, built-in wine rack, and breakfast nook, then down the hallway to the front door, and yes, there it was. Next to the door, a steady red light blinked back at him. Damn. Of course the house was alarmed, and most likely wired directly to the police station, a short ride away.

What to do about the alarm? Dewey cupped his hands around his face and memorized the look of the alarm pad. He straightened up and swept his face smears off the window glass with a sleeve. He crept back down the steps and out to the front yard, where he glanced around furtively before tiptoeing cartoon-style down the middle of the driveway to his truck, which he gunned down the road toward the city, straight for Bobby’s Bar and some thinking time.

Two blocks from Bobby’s, Dewey pulled the battered truck to the curbside in front of Acme Electronics. Wire grating imprisoned the large plate glass windows, advertising the neighborhood character. Dewey stood inside the open shop door several seconds to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. A bulky, heavily tattooed man behind the counter looked up just long enough to commit Dewey’s face to memory, then resumed his concentration on the Hustler magazine clamped in his sweaty hands.

Hey, Dewey offered with no response from Tattoo. A quick scan of the shelves revealed a similar alarm pad.

S’cuse me, Dewey said.

Tattoo looked up begrudgingly, set his girlie magazine down on the counter, and grunted to his feet. Dewey pointed to one of the models on the shelf.

That’s a Guardian Alarm system, the man said. One of the most popular for residences ’cause it’s virtually burglar proof and easy to set.

Tattoo launched into a monologue for several minutes about the safety features and backups, remote capabilities, various time settings, and silent alarm option, while Dewey listened numbly to the nearly foreign language with a deflating ego. At the end of Tattoo’s speech, Dewey concluded that if he attempted to break into Prescott’s house alone, he would get caught.

Back on the street, he turned in the direction of Bobby’s Bar to clear his head and settle his nerves. A drink was just what he needed. Within minutes, he had gone from giddy to glum and needed an attitude readjustment. As soon as a drink sat before him, he lit a cigarette and scoped the room.

A tall, lean man sat alone at the end of the bar near the front window reading a newspaper. Expressionless eyes framed a distinctive nose which sloped directly from his forehead. Something about the stranger drew Dewey. The appearance of intelligence and discretion, certainly, but more than anything, he had the look of a pro. Pro what, Dewey could not tell, but he had to find out.

Dewey picked up his drink and wandered down to the end of the bar, where he sat two stools away from the man. When the stranger glanced up from his paper, Dewey greeted him with a friendly smile.

Hi there! How’s it going? Dewey said.

The man nodded his head but made no reply, and returned to his newspaper. Dewey waited several more minutes, then noticed the man’s drink was almost gone.

Bobby! Get this man a drink, would you? he yelled to the bartender. The thin man looked up suspiciously at Dewey while the bartender poured his drink, which he picked up slowly and tipped in Dewey’s direction.

Thank you, he said softly.

You’re not from around here, are you? Dewey pried. Dewey Jones, he said— cleverly, he thought, using an alias. He extended his hand.

Ignoring the outstretched hand, the man nodded his head, but made no move to speak or continue the conversation. Dewey bought him another drink when that one was gone, and when the drink arrived, the man put down his newspaper slowly and addressed Dewey in a thick accent.

What do you want, my friend? the man asked.

Nothing, just being friendly to a stranger. Wow, you’re foreign, right? Dewey said, tipping his drink.

Now he had the man’s attention, and used the opportunity to talk about the city, the fact that he had grown up here, dropped out of high school, and lived in the country. The man listened; disinterested apart from the fact that Dewey was interested in him. After ten or fifteen minutes of pointless small talk, the alcohol began its reckless mission. The subject of alarm systems arose too abruptly, and the stranger knew they were now discussing a job.

Dewey had been right about one thing. The stranger was a pro. Jean LaChance was a talented French thief who had spent the last eighteen months hiding in L.A., pulling jobs that made him just enough money to pay rent and keep him sharp. Los Angeles, though revolting to LaChance, was a perfect hiding place for its size, its anonymity, and its easy jobs that would keep him afloat until it was safe to return to France. He wanted just one more sizeable score.

LaChance was a person of interest after the last job in France a year and a half earlier, and had fled the country to let it cool down. Enough time may have elapsed, and he was ready to collect his savings and head to a warm southern location to erase his past. He had been waiting for a counterfeit passport on order from a local contact.

His flight from Paris had been just in time, with the cops arriving at his flat just minutes after he had left. LaChance had raced to the airport and bought a ticket to the first familiar city he saw on the departures board. He knew no one here, had no safe house, and until he could return to France, had no access to most of his savings. His visit to the bar had been merely out of boredom and a bit of depression about his current circumstance. Though weird, the chance meeting with Dewey smacked of karma that spoke to the Frenchman.

LaChance turned his full attention to Dewey, now drunk enough that he was running his mouth without thought. They talked for another hour, and finally Dewey fell off his bar stool. He was done for the night. LaChance paid the bill, picked up the drunken thief, and walked him out the door and down the street to where he had rented a room by the week. He deposited Dewey on one bed, then reached around his back and drew the Glock 9mm out of his pants, sliding the gun underneath the pillow on the other bed. A patient man with an eye for opportunity, he would wait to determine how this drunken fool might be his ticket out.

Chapter 3

THE RENDEZVOUS

The Chevy Caprice crept down the rough dirt track for nearly a mile, an endless drive with the poor condition of the road. Ominous dark clouds had begun to gather in the western sky. Suddenly around a corner, a derelict two-story house appeared at the road’s end. No vehicle was in sight. Except for a few chickens scratching around the steps, the house looked deserted.

LaChance stopped the car and assessed the situation. He glanced over to the Glock for reassurance. Dusty streaks on the windshield exaggerated the destitute condition of the house. He drummed heavily on the steering wheel with his index fingers, aware that the car was in full view of the house. Suddenly, a young boy rounded the left side of the house, clutching a small-gauge rifle in one hand. He took one look at the car, yelled something LaChance couldn’t hear, pounded up the wooden steps, and disappeared inside the front door. The man sat still, ready for just about anything. A young woman appeared behind the screen door. Her right hand held a butcher knife which gave her a violent appearance that was oddly offset by a flowered ruffle on her apron. She came out and stopped on the top step of the porch, her eyes never leaving the car and its sole occupant. One by one, three young children appeared and stood sheltered behind her legs. The oldest boy still gripped the rifle in his right hand.

The car had stopped within shouting distance of the house. Though the situation presented no immediate danger, LaChance picked the gun off the seat and slid it down into his waistband. He wanted to be ready. He pushed on the heavy car door, which gave a loud groan. His large boot landed softly on the dust in the road. Nobody on the porch moved. Muted clucking filled the expectant silence between car and house.

Can I help you? the woman shouted, guarding the children with her body. The hand clutching the knife brushed back a lock of fallen hair.

LaChance stood slowly, facing the porch the entire time.

I’m looking for Dewey Jones, he shouted back.

He’s not here. I don’t know when he’s coming back.

In the short lull that followed, every instinct in his body told him to get back into the car and drive off, but where would he go? Angry dark clouds spewing spears of lightning drew his attention to the western horizon. He looked back at the woman.

She called out again. He may be back tomorrow. There’s a hotel about twenty-five miles north of here.

LaChance hesitated and leaned against the open car door. He had already driven over one hundred and fifty miles today, and with the waning light, was not anxious to get caught out in empty, unfamiliar country. The wind had started to pick up. He made a quick decision.

He told me to come today. I think I should probably wait.

The woman turned her head to speak to the children, who went back inside, leaving her alone on the porch. She again faced the man and raised her arms in a shrug.

I’m sorry, I don’t know when he’s coming back, she repeated.

LaChance shifted his weight and looked back at the approaching clouds. The woman was clearly trying to hide fear, a fear that was understandable given the circumstances. A twinge in his gut told him to give her a break.

Thank you. I’ll wait in the car.

He sat back down in the driver’s seat and closed the door. The woman stood for several seconds on the porch, then turned slowly and walked back inside. LaChance leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. How long would he have to wait? His muscles ached for rest, and he slowly coaxed his body into relaxation. Distant growls of thunder broke the silence of the desert landscape.

A sudden tapping at the window jerked him awake and he reached instinctively for the Glock. The woman was standing at the car window in the ruffled apron, no longer holding the butcher knife. Her arms were folded across her chest, and her tight expression exposed her fear. He opened the window.

Whatever you have going with Dewey is your business, but please don’t involve us. I have three little kids. We don’t have anything.

Her tough demeanor was betrayed by a tremble in her voice. LaChance glanced at the car clock and realized he had been out for a half hour. He blinked his eyes and looked again at her. She looked terrified, but realized that he was not going away and that she had no defense. She had seen the gun, now clutched in his right hand. He put the gun back down on the seat and pushed against the car door. She stepped back, more than a little guarded.

LaChance stood to face her. She was around thirty with shoulder-length dark hair and the boyish country look of jeans and a T-shirt under the apron’s flowers.

I’m Lilly, she said, offering her hand. Up close, LaChance saw that her eyes were a beautiful crystal green.

Hello, he said. He took her hand and looked into her face. A rush surged through his body as their hands and eyes met. Though he was reluctant to use his real name, he decided that it would not matter.

My name is Jean. Please don’t be nervous. I . . . I didn’t know anyone else would be here. I have business with Dewey. I promise to leave you and your children alone.

The woman visibly relaxed and re-crossed her arms gently.

Okay, then, she said. Okay. Thank you.

She turned away and started back toward the steps. He watched her go and felt badly for her. They were certainly isolated. He could never know how terrified she might be with him sitting outside.

Almost to the steps, she stopped short, turned slowly, and started walking again to the car, her eyes focused on the ground. She stopped halfway to him and looked up.

Are you hungry? I’m just putting dinner on the table.

LaChance smiled slightly, and she returned the smile with a tilt of her head.

I’ll eat outside, if you like.

Lilly turned her head and looked out over the desert floor. Where was this going? Why was he here? The fright of seeing the gun had kicked her heart into high gear. She was certain the fear showed on her face. Her forehead was slick with sweat.

The handsome stranger possessed a melodic accent—French, most likely, or Canadian. He was soft-spoken and thoroughly polite, juxtaposed with all of the men who ran