She sat there for a while, looking out the window at the sun setting over Cairo. The tears and confessions to her father had left a strange soothing trail in their wake. An improbable serenity convinced Florence that everything was as it should be. Despite the injustice and suffering and death around her, she detected an invisible balance, and her place in that balance. She felt in a fleeting moment the conviction that she would find the truth one day, sooner or later – that was her destiny. It was no longer an intellectual construction, but a peaceful, clear, dazzling and unchanging certainty. She reached for one of the newspapers at random. A name immediately came to her attention. Nathaniel Emmitt-Foster. The same name as on the granite plate of the underground tunnel. She flipped through the newspaper and on a page in the middle, she saw it.
Later, she would think that she had simply been guided by this name, but for a moment, when she saw the cross in the old paper, the same as on the belly of the dead man, she knew that all the lines of all Vivant Mornay’s newspapers existed only for her to read.
She began to read, allowing the words to suck her in. After an hour, she had found out why Seth and Jessica Pryce were in Cheops that day. She knew who had killed them and why they were buried in the world’s largest grave. She scolded herself that she hadn’t thought of it before. She who had wanted to understand so much, she knew now. And she should live with that truth for the rest of her life.
Without haste, she placed all Vivant’s books back into the trunk that had brought them here, with the playing cards that had been used as bookmarks. She removed all her papers, USB sticks and photos relating to the pyramids, from her room and went down to the garden. She found a large metal bucket and stuffed everything into it.
Then she lit a match.
She sat before the bucket, watching the orange flame that threw black smoke into the red sky of Cairo, as offerings to the gods who had guided her steps in recent months. In the fire, the dry leather of the archives whistled, the plastic of the USB sticks melted, the photos curled up. She listened to the cracking of the fire and it soothed her soul. Clacks mixed with the birds singing in this beautiful French-style garden Florence finally discovered for the first time. The sounds from inside the house consisted only of suitcases and travel arrangements.
Florence, on the other hand, was turning over a new page. The decision had been made in the face of the flames. There would be no more BBC, she would send her resignation without delay. No more Max, no more London. She would move to Falmouth Manor to decide what she is going to do with the rest of her life, which now carries an unspeakable legacy.
She could have left the ashes in the bucket and left with her new resolutions, without turning back, but there was still something to be done. On the garden floor, she pulled her computer out of her bag and started writing.
Dear Jessica,
What are you running after?
She wrote until the night was black and the embers at the bottom of the fire stopped illuminating her face with their fiery orange. In the house, the noises of suitcases had ceased long ago. The moths had started their rounds, and Florence had said it all.
She typed in Jessica Pryce/Sixtine’s address, which she found that very morning on Max’s laptop. She typed in Max’s too – he must have known. She smelled the evening air, straightened her painful back and, after a tiny pause held her hand, she clicked “send”.
She remained motionless, listening to the city, contemplating without seeing the pretty garden bathed in darkness. She then noticed the silence of the house, interspersed with noises she did not recognize.
“Dad?”
The smell of smoke and embers entered his nostrils with a strange intensity. She instinctively turned around, but before she could get up, strong arms were already strangling her. A scarf or something was placed over her eyes, a greasy and bitter hand choked her mouth. An icy, dark panic consumed her as she felt her body being carried out of the garden. She felt the sticky seat of a car against her face as the engine roared to life. The night of Cairo, upside down.
Far, far, far away, Florence heard her father’s voice.
32
The last thing Sixtine saw before Nefertiti’s eyes was a huge sheaf of sparks as De Bok had cut the electrical wires. The darkness was frightening, and instant, and over the cries of the hysterical monkey, Sixtine heard the voice of the antique dealer.
“Don’t worry, they’ll find you. In two or three days – four, max. Time for me to do what I have to do. Goodbye, Sixtine.”
She wanted to take a step towards the voice, towards what she remembered to be the exit, but her feet only found the void. She fell into a shallow hole, landing face down in the dirt. She felt a piece of wood, a thick dowel, and swung it around her, but there was no one in the vicinity.
Nothing.
She was alone in the dark.
Nefertiti’s empty eyes filled everything, and when she wanted to strike again with her dowel, she aimed at the smoke on the Queen of Egypt’s forehead. As she swung, the wood hit something softer and a scream escaped. Had she hit De Bok?
She fell backwards, her nails scraped the dust, her mouth filled with dirt. Her breathing was almost cut off, but she managed to get up on her knees. Her arms felt around her and she realized that she was in a much deeper hole. Deep down, with sharp bones protruding through the surface. Bones.
She managed to get up just enough to see a weak line of clarity a few meters away. De Bok’s silhouette came into view. He was injured, and climbing the ladder to the surface.
As Sixtine scrambled up to attempt climbing out of the hole, she was once again immersed in darkness as the entrance was closed. The monkey screamed even louder when she heard the heavy rattling of a rusty padlock.
Sixtine first huddled at the bottom of the hole, to recover her breath, which was lost in panic. Sweat ran down her forehead as the Green River flowed through her head. The dirt in her mouth still prevented her from swallowing.
“No, this can’t be happening. I have to find a way out,” she whispered to herself in the dark.
But she knew deep inside her that she would rot in this hole while De Bok went on to murder Gigi and everyone else he came across in his path.
Another certainty lacerated her soul.
Thaddeus.
It only took a moment to remember so many things, gleaned over the months. He had written the note that brought her here, and she had fallen into the trap. He had a reason to kill Seth, and the death of his brother who had become an enemy did not frighten him. Thaddeus knew De Bok from childhood, and they were accomplices.
His words, “I will never let you go”.
If she had finally chosen to return to Seth’s side, if Thaddeus could not have had her, would he have killed her too? He and De Bok were hiding in the garden when she was talking to Seth’s ghost. They knew she knew. It was time to eliminate her, a second time.
Thaddeus was guilty.
The nausea shook her to her core and she vomited bile at the bottom of the hole. She spat onto the ground, trembling, her hair in her eyes, when a deafening gunshot reverberated into the underground.
His eyes were wide open and her head turned in all directions. The blow had been accompanied by clarity somewhere.
Then a second shot, an imperceptible glow on her spiky skin. Shouts of joy were heard from outside and Sixtine glanced up.
Fireworks for the Day of the Dead!
She rose to her feet, feeling an uncomfortable ache in her legs. Other lightning flashes appeared at short intervals and she saw light passing through what was supposed to be the trapdoor from which De Bok exited from.
With much determination, Sixtine managed to climb out of the hole, but the fireworks had stopped and she was in absolute darkness again.
She prayed that the celebration would continue, and thankfully the dead who were being celebrated heard her prayers. The fireworks continued, lighting the way – in a manner of speaking. Sixtine managed to cli
mb the ladder, her nose very close to the space from which the night air passed. She was close enough to see the hatch was closed from the outside with a large padlock. She managed to push the metal plate a few inches, creating a space big enough to slide her hand through, but the padlock was tightly locked.
She started screaming at the top of her lungs, standing on the ladder. She screamed for a long time, howling like a wolf in a cage, but no one heard her. Even the museum guard was too far away. Her screams were lost in the loud eruptions of the fireworks.
Finally, she gave up.
The faint moonlight shining through the small opening seemed sufficient to frighten Nefertiti and the monkey away. Or maybe they were afraid of fireworks.
Sixtine thought of Gigi, prayed for Han to be strong enough.
Gigi.
Before she could say her name, her hand reached down into the pocket of her jeans. Her fingers found the brooch of bird-shaped brilliants that sparkled with a tiny light.
“Pick the lock,” she mouthed to herself. Pick the lock with the needle that had pierced her finger.
Sixtine concentrated, her breathing barely audible. She squeezed her hand through the hatch, leaving painful scratches on her skin.
For several minutes, she tried, and tried again, raging against failure, praying between profanities.
Finally, she heard the clicking sound of liberation.
The lock was open!
In an instant, Sixtine opened the latch door, collapsed onto the ground and gasped for air until her head spun. She stood at the top of the Aztec temple, and saw De Bok, holding his bloodied and injured arm, leaving the enclosure of the site. He entered the crowd of people celebrating, and Sixtine smiled.
She was no longer afraid as she rushed down the steps of the temple.
This time, tonight, she was the one hunting.
33
Dear Jessica,
What are you running after?
My name is Florence Mornay. I was the one who discovered you in Room X during a BBC Television shoot. Don't thank me, you owe your life only to Max Hausmann. All I did was use your name to gain a few minutes of fame in prime time.
Since our paths crossed, I haven't stopped running. After your murderer, after the mystery of Room X, after the first images of the secret passage.
After you, too.
But when you have it at hand, you realize that what you wanted was worthless. Ironic, isn't it?
Glory, justice, fortune. It shines in our eyes and in the eyes of others, so we think it's gold.
But when you get close enough, you discover a piece of broken mirror that sparkles under the sun. The gold is elsewhere, we didn't know how to see it. Sometimes even sacrificed for the thrill of the chase.
Believe me, everything becomes insignificant when you lose your greatest love like I did.
I write to you because from the ashes of my dreams appeared a truth that binds us both forever. Maybe fate wanted to take me for a ride, for fear that I might not learn my lesson. To me, who wanted so much to make a name for myself in this world... It revealed to me that my name was also that of one of the most infamous killers in history.
34
Sixtine ran across the ruins of the Templo Mayor.
Her muscles ached, her throat raw, and in her mind she kept traces of Nefertiti’s emptiness, but there was only one thing left to worry about. Catching De Bok, and getting it over with.
Arriving on the cobblestones of Zocalò, she slipped between the skeletons dressed in feathers and lace, and momentarily lost De Bok behind the bonfires. She found him again after a moment, the only human face among the skulls, his shoulder stained red from the blood that seeped through his clothes. The undead crossed their path, as did the feathered Aztecs, those winged dancers full of human sacrifices who appeared tonight between the evenings. Tourists shot pictures of these outrageous and macabre disguises with their state-of-the-art cameras. She saw one of them fascinated by the bloody shirt and the disheveled gray cardigan of De Bok, which made him look like a vampire on the run.
Sixtine was out of breath but still kept her eyes fixed on De Bok, who ran along the Cathedral Metropolitana. Gradually, the distance between them decreased. He must have suffered a major blow and was not losing steam. She hadn’t thought about what she was going to do when she finally caught up to him, but all she knew was that she had to stop him at all costs.
De Bok suddenly ripped a skeleton mask off a young girl’s face and placed it over his face, blending in with the crowd. Skeleton mariachis stood between them, and Sixtine lost sight of him.
Against the façade of the cathedral, a tzompantli, a Wall of Skulls, hundreds of wax skulls were impaled on a grid. Sixtine climbed, hoisted herself over the heads and scanned the crowd.
She spotted De Bok running towards one end of the square. It was the naco store, the tattoo parlor. It seemed closed, but she saw him open the door and disappear into the darkness of the store.
She climbed off her perch and headed for the store, as the noises around her was deafening. The door was not locked and when she entered, the bell rang in the relative silence of the shop and froze her with horror. She lurked in a corner, on the side of the counter, and waited until the bell quieted down, but its ring remained in the air like a high-pitched, infinite, barely perceptible sound.
Her heart started to race when someone came out of the back room and entered the shop.
It was Cybelle.
The sight of the gun she held made Sixtine’s blood run cold in her veins.
At that moment, the door opened violently and the bell rang again. Children laughed, and Cybelle told them to get out of there. She went straight back to the back room, called out, “Just a bunch of kids,” and then closed the door behind her.
Sixtine stayed in her dark corner for a while. In one of the display cases under the counter, among the stationery, account books and broken icons, lay a small dagger with a mother-of-pearl guard.
She moved quietly across the room and grabbed the dagger, retreating to her dark corner.
Then she waited.
De Bok’s voice sounded in the back room, muffled by the sound of the television. She crawled to the edge of the counter to see the back room through the ajar door. De Bok had taken off his shirt and his wound was dirty, covered with dirt and blood. Cybelle tried to clean with a wet cloth while De Bok inspected documents in an envelope. A passport, a driver’s license. Sixtine nodded to herself. He had gotten himself fake papers. He was leaving.
In a few minutes, he would leave and no one would ever see him again.
Cybelle left the room, and De Bok was left alone in front of the television. At one point, he stopped studying his papers and turned to the screen. He grabbed the remote control and turned the sound up. Sixtine took advantage of him turning his back on her to open the door a little more with her foot.
She quickly glanced at the screen: the crowd and clashes were shown on the Giza site. Then the images of a tunnel discovered under the Great Pyramid of Cheops played on the screen, and Sixtine recognized the video Max had shown her.
That was why De Bok had not kept his promise to give her three days. Because no one else had kept theirs.
Sixtine had asked questions.
Max bragged about the discovery of the tunnel.
Gigi was going to die.
Sixtine squeezed the dagger in her sweaty fingers. She no longer had a choice.
She squinted, concentrating on the back shop. De Bok had stood up, paced back and forth inside the room. After watching him for several moments, Sixtine no longer had any doubt. He was wrapped in a translucent gray veil.
The gray veil.
Like the man at the airport.
Like Seth.
De Bok was going to die.
Sixtine’s heart began to beat violently in her chest and the dagger’s guard became frozen against her palm. She was going to kill this man tonight. It was her destiny. Yet she didn’t feel ready.
/> But are we ever?
“Cybelle! Cybelle,” De Bok barked.
A muffled scream came out of the room where Cybelle had disappeared into. He hurriedly grabbed his papers, and his gun and rushed into the shop. Sixtine, without thinking, kicked against his legs. He fell onto the counter, hitting his bruised shoulder. When he straightened himself up, everything became a confused, sharp, and hot mess of violence.
Sixtine had the strange feeling she and De Bok had become one person, a fierce beast with two heads, a beast whose fangs were dripping with revenge. She found the wound on his shoulder, jammed her fist into it, causing him to fall down onto the glass-clad floor.
In an instant, the blade was against De Bok’s throat. All it took was the weight of a feather on the handle of this mother-of-pearl dagger to send him to his death.
What she didn’t see was that De Bok had grabbed a large piece of sharp glass, aiming straight at Sixtine’s neck.
A loud, ground-shaking noise sounded in the room and Sixtine closed her eyes. When she reopened them, the tip of the blade was covered in blood, but it was not from the blade itself. Sixtine frowned as the blood pooled in De Bok’s chest, and she turned her head.
Behind her stood Thaddeus, a gun in his hand.
His skin gleamed with sweat, the veins on his neck heavy with the violence of his gestures. His hand wasn’t shaking, though, and he seemed perfectly in control. His gray gaze stared at the blood pool, then shifted to Sixtine, who slowly rose to her feet.
Not even their first encounter carried as much emotion as at the moment their gazes locked. An almost flammable intensity. The immediate disappearance of the entire universe around them. Plus the resigned, unavoidable certainty that things would happen in this way.
“Run,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set Page 44