Angel City

by Jon Steele

  “Nice try, Mr. Harper, but you know you are forbidden to hear the name, as she is forbidden to hear yours.”

  Harper thought about it. The medics couldn’t make her, or any local, completely disappear from a timeline, but a local could be shadowed out from the second level of consciousness. Standard procedure after a tough job. Kept a lock on any feelings or emotions that might have been generated by “extreme contact.” That’s what HQ called it. Given time, shadows became forgotten things. And plenty of time had passed for her to have become well lost, Harper thought. Still, like the lad with the lantern, the woman in the shadows lingered.

  “There’s something about . . .”

  She was there, just out of reach.

  “You were saying, Mr. Harper?”

  Harper blinked, looked at the inspector.

  “Nothing. I was saying nothing.”

  He sipped his tea, scanned the view again.

  Moon, mountains, lake.

  “Tell me, Inspector, why aren’t we in Lausanne, or at the clinic in Vevey? Why are we having this swell conversation in the middle of a vineyard by the light of a waning moon?”

  “A somewhat lyrical notion, Mr. Harper.”

  “Maybe it’s the smoke, maybe it’s the grapes, maybe it’s the tea. All I know is there’s no way in hell you should be telling me a word of this. HQ ordered my timeline trashed for a reason, but here you’re poking through my brain and looking for clues that aren’t supposed to be there anymore.”

  The inspector took a puff off his smoke, popped a grape, regarded the night sky. Harper watched him, waited.

  “You know, I often come here to have a good long gaze out there. Only natural, as the locals would say. After all, we’re creatures born of light from somewhere out there; from a time we only know as the unremembered beginning. Our eternal beings only exist in this place by maintaining a resistance to the gravitational forces of the very cosmic matter in which we hide. In that way, we’re very much like the stars themselves.”

  They sat silently for a moment.

  The inspector looked at Harper.

  “Since coming back online, your eternal being is devouring radiance at an unsustainable level. Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t be a problem; we’d pull you out of Captain Harper, get you into a new form. There’s one standing by right now. A Canadian from the Joint Task Force 2 unit.”

  “But you can’t do that.”

  “No, we cannot.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “Six weeks. Eight, if you’re lucky.”

  “Then what?”

  “Quantum mechanics.”

  Harper thought about it: very much like the stars themselves.

  Burning fuel so fast its hydrogen core fuses into inert matter, unable to maintain enough degeneracy pressure to counter the gravity of its own mass. Inert core expands to 1.4 solar masses—the Chandrasekhar limit, it was called . . . Harper flashed back to an episode on the History Channel telling him all about it, along with a rather spectacular animation of a star the size of Earth exploding, then reversing and collapsing in on itself at 135,000 meters per second. In the blink of an eye, the star is squeezed to an infinitesimal point of compressed matter from which nothing, not even light, can escape. Harper looked at the paper in his hands, the report with his regenerative stasis results; the one with all the zeros telling him he was royally screwed. He folded the paper and returned it to the manila envelope. He handed the envelope to the cop in the cashmere coat.

  “You know, Inspector, on a scale of one to ten, your idea of a social occasion is absolute shit.”

  The inspector raised an eyebrow. “In any army on this Earth, such a comment would land you in the brig, Mr. Harper.”

  “Except you, me, and the rest of this bloody salvation army aren’t of this Earth, are we?”

  The inspector took the envelope, returned it to his cashmere coat.

  “Orders from HQ are that you be dropped back in the tank and locked down until the medics find a solution to your situation.”

  “And what are the odds of the medics finding a solution to my situation in six weeks—eight, if I’m lucky?”

  The inspector shrugged. “I would’ve thought you’d have a better chance of hitting the numbers in the EuroMillions lottery two months running.”

  Harper rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I suppose this is payback for my sins.”

  “Your sins?”

  “If I’d made a break from the Manon with the bomb. When I had a chance and jumped back . . .”

  He didn’t finish the thought. The inspector finished for him.

  “To comfort a passing soul and a frightened little girl.”

  That’s right, Harper wanted to say, but he looked at his watch instead: 23:35 hours.

  “So into the tank, wait it out till lights-out,” he said.

  “Those are your orders. My orders are to make sure you follow yours this time.”

  “How about this: How about Mutt and Jeff take me back to Lausanne and lock me down in GG’s? There’s plenty of booze, and the scenery would be a hell of a lot better than the tank. Might as well get all the look-but-not-touch I can before quantum mechanics kicks in. With a little luck I can still make the last act of the midnight show.”

  “Or you could go back to Paris on tomorrow’s afternoon train and avoid the whole thing.”

  It took half a second more than it’d take a star to implode before the words registered. Harper looked at the mug of tea in his left hand, the smoldering stub of his smoke in the other. A new blend, the inspector called it. Harper had to admit, the manner of his own thinking was much improved.

  “HQ doesn’t know you’re juicing me for a mission, do they?”

  “No, they do not. Nor does anyone outside my personal detail.”

  “A bit out of character for you, isn’t it? Breaking a direct order from HQ?”

  “Mr. Harper, please. My orders are to assure you are picked up tomorrow evening and see that you are locked down in the tank. My detail will be arriving at your flat at seventeen hundred hours to do just that.”

  “And if I’m not there?”

  “Well, we’ll begin a search of your haunts in an attempt to locate you.”

  Harper looked across the dark vineyards toward the village. The fête was winding down, and the locals were drifting off to their cottages. He watched one couple walking slowly, unsteadily. They were laughing and holding hands.

  They are not us, we are not them . . .

  So much for the last act at GG’s, Harper thought.

  He took a last hit from his smoke, released it slowly. He dropped the butt into the dark earth and ground it into dust. He stared at the grapes in the bowl, watching them glisten in the moonlight. He selected the biggest, juiciest-looking grape and popped it in his mouth . . . ziiinng. He joined the inspector in scanning the night.

  “So, Inspector, what the hell is happening in Paris? And what has it to do with the price of beans?”

  “Beans?”

  “Me and my undefined metaphysical condition.”

  SEVEN

  I

  KATHERINE WAS IN THE BACK ROOM OF THE CANDLE LODGE, pouring wax into star-shaped shells, when she heard the bell above the entrance door. She checked the monitor connected to the hidden camera out front. Rule number one, as handed down from Officer Jannsen: Anything looks out of place, hit one of the panic buttons located about the shop. A couple of the Swiss Guard boys were always staked out around the corner. Rule number two: All else fails, there was a loaded Glock under the counter.

  Katherine stared at the guy in the monitor.

  Usual clients to her candle shop were customers from Molly’s Diner or familiar faces she had seen about town, or the tourists in buses on their way to Rainbow Falls. Katherine’s best clients we
re the local marijuana growers, who said her candles held magical properties that made their plants grow bigger, yummier buds.

  But the guy on the monitor, the guy standing amid the candle-laden tables, was none of the above. He was in his late sixties, he was bald, he wore a wool topcoat over a pin-striped suit. He carried a briefcase, and there were pince-nez on his nose. The topper was he was standing perfectly still, staring into the lens of the shop’s CCTV camera. Thing was, the camera was hidden behind a small mirror. Katherine removed her safety glasses and gloves, and she walked to the front of the shop. The man bowed.

  “Bonjour, Madame Taylor. J’espère que je ne vous dérange pas.”

  Katherine almost answered before she realized no one in town knew she spoke French. She jumped for the Glock.

  “I am here by the permission of Inspector Gobet, Madame Taylor. And your protection detail is aware of my presence. There is no need to call for assistance, or shoot me, for that matter.”

  Katherine pulled her hand away from the gun. She looked at the man, then over his shoulder, then through the shop window and out to the street. There was a Mercedes S600 parked in front of the shop. A white-gloved, black-suited chauffeur stood next to it. With the bowler hat on his head, the chauffeur looked seven feet tall. Katherine looked again at the man standing in her shop.

  “Who the heck are you?”

  “I am Monsieur Gübeli, Madame Taylor. I am a private banker from Lausanne representing the estate of Marc Rochat.”

  Katherine lost her breath a moment.

  “Marc?”

  “Oui. I am here to advise you that you are the sole beneficiary of Master Rochat’s estate.”

  If there weren’t a wall behind her, Katherine would have fallen over.

  “What? I mean . . . what?”

  “His estate, madame.” He looked around the cluttered shop. “If we could sit somewhere, perhaps I could explain the details.”

  “Details?”

  “It’s just that Master Rochat was rather well-off. The amount left to you is considerable.”

  Something wasn’t right, Katherine thought. She stared a minute, seeing if he’d flinch. He didn’t.

  “Marc could barely write his own name, he wouldn’t even know what a will was . . .”

  “Madame?”

  “And what is this Master Rochat stuff?”

  The man took a step forward.

  “Of course, madame, excuse me. You see, ‘Master Rochat’ was the proper form of address among those in the service to the Rochat family. The family’s financial matters were my particular concern. After his father and grandmother died, I took over all of Master Rochat’s affairs. As far as his will, a note was recently found in one of his sketchbooks. The note made it very clear that in the event of his death, all his possessions were to become yours.”

  “A sketchbook?”

  “Yes, madame. A book he titled piratz, misspelled with—”

  Katherine saw herself in the belfry that last day. Rochat handing her a book with the title written on the cover. He’d written it in his own hand.

  “With a z,” Katherine said.

  “Yes, madame. With a z.”

  Katherine shook her head as if waking from a dream.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  The man stood still as a coatrack.

  “Gübeli, madame.”

  Katherine stared at him, still not trusting him.

  “Yeah, I remember that name. Marc told me about you. You’re the one that brought him to Lausanne from Canada after his mother died, aren’t you? From Toronto, wasn’t it?”

  Monsieur Gübeli smiled.

  “Yes, I brought him to Switzerland. Though I’m sure you know as well as I, Master Rochat was from Quebec City. He was ten years old when I brought him to Switzerland. He lived with his grandmother at Vufflens in a large house he imagined was a castle. He went to a school in Lausanne with children like himself. He worked as le guet de Lausanne until he died saving your life, and the cathedral.”

  Katherine smiled.

  “Jesus, you’re telling me the truth. You did know him.”

  “Yes, madame, for fourteen wonderful years.”

  Katherine looked over Monsieur Gübeli’s shoulder for another peek at the chauffeur. The more she looked at the two of them, the more they looked like a couple characters from Marc Rochat’s imaginary world. Katherine sat on a stool behind the counter.

  “How much money?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The considerable amount of money Marc left me. How much?”

  Monsieur Gübeli answered with the efficiency of a calculator. “At the current exchange rate, it would be eighty-five million, four hundred twenty-three thousand, two hundred thirty-seven American dollars.”

  “What?”

  “Eighty-five—”

  “No, it’s okay, I heard you the first time. Jesus, that’s not considerable, that’s a shitload.”

  “Uh, well, as I said, I tended to Master Rochat’s business affairs and was somewhat successful in managing his investments. I would be happy to continue in that capacity on your behalf.”

  Katherine stared at him, imagining the shopping rage she could unleash upon the world with that kind of cash. She laughed to herself.

  “Something amuses you, madame?”

  “Yeah, me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Not sure I do, either. Once upon a time money was . . . everything. Now I’m here in a candle shop and I’ve got this great kid, and life is . . .”

  She waved her hand like pushing away the thought.

  “Wait a second,” she said. “Why me?”

  “Madame?”

  “Why would he want me to have all his money?”

  “The exact wording in his will states: ‘Because I’m very sure she will need some money when she gets home.’”

  Katherine could almost hear Marc Rochat’s voice saying the words.

  “He had no idea, did he? Marc, I mean.”

  “I am afraid I do not comprehend your thought, madame.”

  “The money. Eighty-five cents or eighty-five million bucks, it was all the same to him, wasn’t it?”

  “C’est vrai, madame. In many ways, it was a reflection of his true nature.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I mean to say, Master Rochat was sensitive to the needs of others, and that sensitivity had a remarkable effect on people.”

  Katherine turned in a small circle, thinking, remembering . . . She sighed, looked at Monsieur Gübeli.

  “No.”

  “Madame?”

  “I’m not interested in Marc’s money. You must be able to do something with it. What about that school he went to in Lausanne—Mount Somethingorother, I think. There must be lots of schools for people like him.”

  “Mon Repos, madame. But as that school is fully endowed by the Rochat family already, as are similar schools around the world, perhaps I could suggest the establishment of a new foundation to assist children with brain injuries, born into families of lesser means, in less developed countries?”

  The Marc Rochat Foundation. Katherine liked the sound of it.

  “Yeah, that’s good. And you know what, how about old people with no families, or homeless kids, and . . .” She combed her fingers through her hair. “Jesus, so many people need help, don’t they? And I know Marc would’ve wanted to help as many as he could. So tell you what: Why don’t I leave it up to you? Marc trusted you, that’s good enough for me.”

  Monsieur Gübeli smiled and bowed his head.

  “Your generosity is noble, madame. I am sure Master Rochat would have been very happy with your decision.”

  Katherine rocked on her heels.

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure I’ll regret it som
eday, but there you go. I would like his sketchbook, though.”

  “Certainly, and there are several sketchbooks.”

  Katherine could see them on the shelf of the belfry loge. She remembered looking through them that first day he’d taken her into the cathedral to hide her from the killers.

  “Yeah, I remember them. Three or four, I think. You have them, all of them?”

  Monsieur Gübeli nodded, stepping closer again.

  “Madame will also be interested to know he included other items in his will.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “The black felt hat he wore while calling the hour, his lantern, a few boxes of candles from the cathedral.”

  “Really?”

  “He asked that they be passed on to you, so you would always remember living in the tower. Certain Lausanne authorities responsible for the cathedral have decided to honor Master Rochat’s request. If madame would sign a few papers, I can release the items to you forthwith.”

  “You have them? Here?”

  Monsieur Gübeli pointed outside to the Mercedes. “I took the liberty of bringing the items with me, assuming you would wish to have them.”

  “What about the cash?”

  “Pardonnez-moi?”

  “Did you bring the money, too? Just in case I decided I wanted it?”

  “Uh, well . . . no, madame.”

  Katherine sighed and laughed again.

  “Yeah, well . . . probably better that way.”

  She looked at the clock on the wall; it was just after noon. She was suddenly famished. Surprising what tossing away eighty-five million will do for an appetite, she thought. She jumped from the stool.

  “You like tuna-noodle casserole, Mr. Gübeli?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m hungry and it’s Tuesday. In this town, that means tuna-noodle casserole for lunch.”

  Monsieur Gübeli brightened.

  “Why, it would be a great pleasure.”

  Katherine took a long black cloak from a hook on the wall and tossed it over her shoulders. She led Monsieur Gübeli out of the shop. The chauffeur in the bowler hat had the rear door of the Mercedes open and ready. Katherine looked at Monsieur Gübeli.

  “Uh, dude, we’re just walking across the street.”