by Bryan Davis
I pray that you will open your eyes to the truth. Remove the scales from your eyes. It is the only way you can survive and take care of your beloved sister.
Your friend,
Michael Servetus
My hand trembled. The letter slipped away and floated to the floor. The moment it struck the stone, it withered until it crumbled into dust.
Tears flooded my eyes. For Michael, for Jean, for Pierre, for Joan, and most of all for my father. I had no chance to speak to him about anything important, that I loved him, that I missed him, that I wished he were here to tell me what to do. They had all left this world for a second time, never to return.
The tears burned. It seemed that flames ignited and sizzled across my eyes. Like a ghost, Francine appeared in front of me, holding the brooch as she entered the mausoleum, as she took the other brooch from the dead girl, as she asked me to find the ring and the pendant, and, finally, as she waited for me to take off the ring before suggesting that we drink wine.
In the images, she poisoned her mother and worked with Dr. Cousineau to hang her body. She brutally stabbed Marguerite with the poker, meticulously washed the end, and put it back in place at the hearth. She pointed a gun at me and then at Justice, ready to shoot us in order to get the ring and avoid dying from the poison.
How did Francine realize so quickly that she had been poisoned? Was it a mere guess? No. She knew what lurked in one of those wine goblets. The ghostly Justice had not poisoned her. She merely switched the goblets to protect me, and by so doing, she protected my sister.
A mask fell from Francine’s face, revealing a monster, a devious witch. This was my blindness. All along, Francine had been the killer, and I was too sightless to realize it. She conspired with Dr. Cousineau to kill her mother to get the inheritance and the clues to finding a treasure. But why kill a poor, innocent woman like Marguerite? To keep me running? To make sure I stayed in the catacombs? Might that have been the motivation for the bishop’s murder as well, to keep him from doing harm to me before I could find the pendant she lusted for?
What a fool I had been! A blind fool who sought the love of a brutal killer and in so doing abandoned a woman who loved me with all her heart. And now I had escaped to the catacombs once again, another cowardly run to my shelter where I could hide encased in dead men’s bones.
I shook my head hard. No. I couldn’t stay here. I had to go back to Justice. She needed me. Wounded or not, I could make it back to her.
I grabbed the lantern, tied its line to my waist, and struggled back up the ladder. Pain and exhaustion slowed my progress. Muscles cramped. Blood streamed down my chest and back. But I had to keep going. I had to find Justice.
When I arrived at the top, I staggered toward the brook, morning’s first rays providing light. Cold wind knifed through my clothes. In my hurry, I had left Marc’s coat behind in the catacombs. No matter. With thoughts of Justice driving me forward, I could brave the chill, if only I could get there without bleeding to death.
At the opposite side of the brook, two women stood near the bridge—Justice and the prostitute I had seen earlier. The prostitute whispered into Justice’s ear, then turned and walked toward the city.
Justice set a foot on the bridge. Water rushed over the sagging center, threatening to tear the platform away. No one but a blind person would dare try to cross.
I grabbed the lantern’s handle and ran as fast I could, shouting, “Justice! Stop!”
The sound of rushing water swallowed my cry. The moment she set her full weight on the bridge, it gave way. She toppled into the brook and disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I dashed to the water’s edge and dove in. In the underwater dimness, I searched with wide-open eyes and flailing arms. After several seconds, my fingers brushed flesh. I latched onto a wrist and held on as I splashed toward shore.
Several seconds later, I pulled Justice onto the school side of the brook. I knelt, sat her upright, and slapped her on the back as she coughed up streams of water. Blood oozed from a cut on her scalp and another on her lip, perhaps from striking rocks or part of the bridge. Both wounds had already swelled more than I would have guessed possible in such a short time.
When she finished coughing and began breathing with wheezing gasps, I sat and gathered her into my arms. “Oh, Justice, why did you come? You could have drowned.”
She whispered fractured phrases through the wheezing. “I had to ... find you ... help you ... stop bleeding. ... I brought the … needle and thread.”
Barely able to speak, I whispered, “Marc and the inspector just let you leave?”
Her voice settled to a low, sniffling lament. “They were busy with Francine’s body. While they tended to her, I sneaked out the back door and walked in the school’s direction. I asked others for help, and a kind woman showed me the way.” She touched the cut on her lip. “I bumped into some things, but it doesn’t hurt much.”
I rose and helped her stand. The frigid wind cut through our wet clothes and made us both shiver. The threadbare dress she wore clung to her body like a second skin. She could die in a matter of minutes. “We have to get you warm, or you’ll catch your death.”
I felt for the lantern, but it was gone. The current must have stripped the line from my body. With the bridge torn away, we couldn’t cross the brook unless we walked at least three miles to the next bridge. We would freeze by then. And I couldn’t build a fire, since everything that could burn was too wet.
My own wounds stabbed me again. The cold water had temporarily numbed them, but now the pain returned with a sharper edge. “We’ll have to go to the catacombs. It’s warmer there.” I helped Justice walk to the trapdoor. I stepped onto the ladder first and coaxed her down with constant instructions and affirmations, mimicking how Jean had guided my steps on the sometimes unreliable rungs. Although new pain spiked with every grasp of a rung, I forced a calm voice, not wanting to worry Justice any further. The process was already exceedingly difficult. No need to add to her distress. Since we were both saturated and shivering, our feet often slipped, but, taking plenty of time and care, we eventually reached the bottom safely.
Still shaking violently, we walked into the schoolroom and sat against a wall. Although it was warmer here, with no fire and our clothing soaked, we would soon become chilled to the bone.
“Take off your shirt,” Justice said, her voice rasping as if still choking on water. “I want to feel your bullet holes.”
With her help, I did so. Every move sent new peals of pain across my body. Her fingers ran along my shoulder until they touched the bullet’s entry point. “You’re still bleeding badly. I should sew the wounds closed.”
“Do you know how to do that?”
“The inspector ...” She coughed and wheezed. “The inspector told me you sewed his wound. If you teach me, I can do it.”
“In the dark? With both of us shivering?”
“Darkness means nothing to me. And one skill I have learned while living with Madame Dupont is how to keep my hands steady in spite of bad circumstances.” She coughed several times, as if still struggling to eject water trapped in her lungs. “Let’s start ...” Her voice was little more than a grating whisper. “Now.”
As I talked her through the procedure, her fingers grew colder and colder on my skin. Shivers and coughs interrupted, and the stitching slowed.
“Justice, you should take off your wet clothing and put on a coat I left here. It’s completely dark, so I am as blind as you are.”
“All right. Thank you.”
While Justice disrobed, I found the coat and spread it open. When she was ready, I helped her slide her arms through the sleeves and wrap it around her body.
“Does that feel better?” I asked.
“Much better, thank you. But what about you? You’ll freeze.”
“I’ll be all right.” My teeth chattered as I spoke. I probably didn’t sound convincing. “Let’s finish the stitches.”
&nbs
p; Now that Justice was warmer, the procedure went faster, and she settled into the effort without further guidance. While she stitched the back wound, I grew faint and dizzy, and stronger shivers shook my body.
“Justin, I have one more stitch to do. Try to stay still.”
“I can’t.” My body quaked, and the dizziness worsened. “I think I’m going to faint.”
“You lost too much blood, and you’re freezing to death. We should wrap up together in the coat.”
“My trousers will get you wet.”
“Take them off.”
The thought of such close, intimate contact with Justice incited nausea. “I can’t. I mean, we can’t. We shouldn’t.”
“Justin, the alternative is death. I didn’t risk my life only to let you die simply because of propriety. Besides, I’m your sister. We trust each other. Take off your trousers and join me. We’ll both get warm that way.”
Her voice was smooth and gentle. She wanted to save my life. Of course we would maintain innocence. I would rather die than violate her trust.
After taking off my trousers, I sat at her side and slid my arm through one sleeve while she kept her arm in the other. Fortunately Marc’s coat, since he was a bear of a man, was big enough to enclose us both.
As we sat against the wall, our skin warmed, and our shivers ebbed. I imagined myself as a little boy in a washtub with Justice, leaning close, splashing each other, naked and unashamed. She had always been my friend, my closest confidante, the only person I could trust with every word, every thought. To think that I had left her with Francine, a woman who turned out to be a cruel murderer, brought new pangs of guilt to pound at my already fractured conscience.
“Justice,” I whispered into her ear, “I’m sorry for leaving you with Madame Dupont. I was wrong.”
“No need for apologies, Justin.” She yawned. “We were up all night. We should sleep.”
“You’re right.” I also yawned, as if in echo. “Thank you for never losing faith in me.”
“You’ll never have to worry about my faith in you.” She leaned her head against mine. “What we’re doing now should make that clear.”
“That’s true.” I relaxed and closed my eyes. Now the darkness felt good, like a blanket of warmth and joy. “I love you, Justice.”
“I love you, too, Justin.” She clasped my hands in hers. “And I always will.”
Soon, she settled into sleep, her respiration wheezing again. I followed her into slumber moments later. Whether or not I dreamed, I don’t know. I remember only that I was warm and with my dearest friend in the world.
A light shone in my face. I blinked my eyes open and squinted. Inspector Fortier stood in the schoolroom holding a lantern in a tight fist. He stared at us, his mouth open.
I gasped. What must he be thinking? “Inspector ... I ... we ... we were cold ... freezing. We did this to survive.”
Saying nothing, he shifted his arm, casting the light across our clothes.
I whispered to Justice, “Wake up. The inspector’s here.”
She stayed silent, motionless. The yellow light flickered across her pale cheeks and gray lips.
“Justice?” My voice spiked unbidden. “Justice, wake up!”
The inspector walked close, crouched, and set a hand over her mouth, then pressed his fingers against her neck. “She’s dead.”
“Dead?”
He rose and glared at me. His jaw quivered as he spoke in a calm tone. “Get up. Cover her and get dressed.” He set the lantern down and walked out of the room.
My mind numb, I pulled my arm from the sleeve and closed the front of the coat over Justice. Her body, still limber and lukewarm, slumped. I caught her wrist and let her down gently to the floor.
The sight jolted me out of a senseless trance. I shook uncontrollably and wailed, “Justice! My dear sister! You’re dead!” I paced from wall to wall and pulled my hair. “Oh, God, help me! Justice is dead! She’s dead!”
“Get dressed,” the inspector barked from the corridor.
I bit my lip and halted my lament, though my body continued shaking. I dressed quickly, especially considering my trembling hands and wounded shoulder. All the while, I couldn’t take my eyes off my poor sister. Somehow the cold water had infected her lungs and killed her as she slept. And I, like an ignorant fool, slumbered during the attack.
After I clumsily tied my shoes and straightened, I called out a shaky, “I’m dressed.”
Inspector Fortier stalked in, strode straight at me, and punched me across the jaw. I backpedaled until I slammed into a wall.
“I believed you!” he roared, his fists tight at his side. “I let you roam freely while you plotted to poison Francine.” He pointed at Justice’s body. “Then you killed the only person who knew about your crime. You drowned her. Then you ...” He waved his finger from side to side. “Then you had your way with her. Incest with a blind girl. Rape of a corpse. You are worse than a dog. You are a monster.”
He drew a revolver and aimed it at me, his hand shaking. “Justin Trotter, you are under arrest for poisoning Francine Noël and drowning Justice Trotter. I hope to God that your head will fall into a basket to the cheers of a crowd.”
I raised my hands as far as my aching shoulder would allow. “Inspector, I assure you—”
“Save your lies for the trial.” He waved the gun. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
I shuffled to the ladder and began climbing. My wounds ached, and my arms and legs trembled. Grief ravaged my soul. But I couldn’t let his false accusations go unchallenged. As I spoke, my words spilled out in a tide of agony. “Inspector, examine her body. You’ll see. I didn’t do what you think. She fell into the brook. I rescued her. The bridge was out, so to keep from freezing we had to go below. We were wet and cold, so we warmed ourselves in the only way we knew how. It was innocent. Brother and sister trying to survive. She just died in her sleep. I don’t know why.”
“Keep moving,” was his only response.
When we reached the top, morning sun illuminated the horizon, and cold wind assaulted me once more. My clothes, still damp, did nothing to combat the frigid blast.
The inspector waved the gun at a horse and carriage—not his own carriage this time but a Paris police vehicle. “Get in.”
I climbed into the rear seat. The inspector put his gun away, clasped one of my wrists in an iron cuff, and fastened a second cuff to a metal bar attached to the carriage. A short, thick chain linked the cuffs. With the twist of a small key, he locked them in place.
He shook the chain and let it drop. “This will keep you from running, but if you even try to escape, I will kill you.”
“Inspector, you have to believe—”
“Quiet.” He seated himself on the driver’s bench, picked up a hat, and put it on. With a shrill whistle, he signaled the horse. It broke into a slow trot along a path that ran parallel to the brook.
“Will you send someone to get Justice?” I asked as I bounced with the carriage. “We can’t leave her down there.”
“Don’t pretend you care. Your acting skills will not avail you.”
I looked back toward the school’s ruins. My dear sister lay below, cold and lifeless. I couldn’t focus my efforts on proving my innocence in the wake of this tragedy. Yet, if I continued speaking about her welfare, the inspector would again dismiss my concerns as self-serving, perhaps hardening him further.
“Very well,” I said, “perhaps at least someone could examine her to prove that I’m telling the truth.”
The inspector let out a sad sigh. “She will be examined.”
As we rode on toward the alternate bridge, I put myself in the inspector’s place. He walked in on the most damning scene imaginable. No wonder he hit me. But now he seemed to be softening. Maybe he was reverting to his analytical self. I could attempt appealing to his intellect.
Trying to ignore the cold, I leaned forward. “Inspector, right before the poisoning, you found Justice in the alle
y. What did she say to you?”
For a long moment, he stayed silent. Then he loosened his grip on the reins. “Justin is in trouble. Francine is trying to kill him.”
“And what was she wearing?”
“A black dress.”
“Where did she go?”
“I put her in my carriage where she could be out of the rain.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran to the Noëls’ house. You know the rest.”
A strong gust sent icy fingers through my clothes, but I shook off the chill. “When you arrived at the house, Justice was dressed in a nightgown. It was impossible for her to outrun you to the house, change clothes, and appear dry before you arrived.”
He twisted toward me and barked, “Stop interrogating me.”
“You mentioned the puzzle yourself. I thought now would be a good time to—”
“You thought wrong.” He turned forward and stared ahead. “I don’t know how she managed it, but obviously she did. Facts are facts.”
“Unless there’s another explanation.”
“What? That you have another sister? A blind girl who looks exactly like Justice? If so, where did she go? She wasn’t in the carriage when I returned to it.”
I lowered my head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“No, I wouldn’t. This time you can’t escape your guilt. You and Justice were the only ones who could have poisoned Mademoiselle Noël. Then you shot her and fled to your hideout, and your accomplice found a way to join you. Later, I discovered you with Justice’s dead body. Naked.” A growl spiced his voice. “If I have anything to say about it, you will die for your crimes as soon as possible.”
A long pause ensued. The bitter wind continued its unabated assault. The bullet wounds stabbed relentlessly. The loss of my dearest loved one shredded my soul. How could I continue this fruitless debate? The inspector’s righteous wrath had closed his ears. And why not? My denials sounded like the ravings of a madman, and explaining further would seal his certainty that I was insane. A verbal defense was out of the question.