It was a disturbing cacophony; a concert of insane human noise. In the crowd, some cheered, some wailed, and some went about their business selling refreshments, cutting purses, disciplining children, shouting, jeering, or passing their own judgments in whispered conferences.
On the dais, Raiis continued his insane laughter, his knights cursed the crowd, and Molay recited the Lord's Prayer aloud. The fagots beneath the stakes were set ablaze. Cries went up from the condemned Templars.
“I will hope in the resurrection,” Molay screamed.
Raiis laughed. Then, he too, was overcome by flames and smoke. Like the others, he died screaming.
Twenty One
Blanc wanted to scream.
Interrogation was normally the Colonel's cup of tea. The duty he excelled at but got to do so infrequently. Finally the opportunity had come. He'd jumped in with both feet, pressing, pouncing, friendly one minute, fierce the next. So far, it had come to nothing. He'd been at it all morning and Marcel Fournier, day-time tour company executive, suspected night-time drug dealer and subject of the inquiry, sat unruffled and uninterested. Blanc wanted to scream.
The Colonel could no longer sit opposite that smarmy grin. He paced the room and, rather than ask questions, threw them like darts. Blanc had lost control of his temper and the conversation.
Fournier blew a smoke ring into the air. “Let me understand,” he said, with amusement. “Your theory is I committed murder to keep people away from the castle; the castle to which my business takes people on tours. Is that right?”
“What is right, monsieur, is that your real business has nothing to do with giving tours. Everybody in the district knows it. You're a drug dealer, a thief and a liar.”
“And yet my mother loves me.”
“She's a whore,” Petit chimed in.
Fournier lunged. Blanc caught him and forced him back. “Sit down.”
Until then the Lieutenant Colonel, as was his custom, had been silently guarding the door. But he was growing tired of this criminal insulting his commander and friend.
“Can you or your pet,” Fournier crooked his thumb at Petit, “prove anything, Colonel?” He lit another cigarette. “Or are you merely tossing grenades in the water to see what floats to the surface?”
“When did you last see Luis Socrates?”
“Never heard of him.”
“That is, frankly, not believable. His father was your caretaker at the castle.”
“It's good to have a father.”
“He doesn't anymore. His father's dead!”
Fournier blew another smoke ring. “Nothing lasts forever.”
Brandy couldn't wait another second.
Ray was on her all through breakfast, for which she had no stomach, to put everything out of her mind. But she didn't want it out of her mind. She wanted answers. Ray hadn't any and, in the end, hadn't any patience either.
By mid-morning he complained he wasn't going to spend the day with a pacing lion. And he left; just left. To do whatever… in a strange country. He had no bike, no beer and no Brandy. The thought gave her a moment's satisfaction, followed by a realization he could easily buy a close approximation to all three. Just then, she didn't care whether he did or not. Vicki was back on her mind.
Brandy had the hotel room to herself. But morning begrudgingly turned into afternoon and impatience evolved into frustration. Eventually, she couldn't wait anymore. Not another second. As she had heard nothing from the police, Brandy decided it was time the police heard from her.
She entered Paradis' Gendarmerie station with questions, determination and, thanks to her dear old, beer-sated dad, attitude. She plunked down her massive handbag, and was about to address the weary but wary-looking soldier behind the counter, when the Interview Room door came open.
Three expressions paraded out; Lieutenant Colonel Petit's frown, Colonel Blanc's scowl and, in-between, looking like the winner, Fournier's gap-toothed grin.
Blanc spotted the American girl immediately and, as quickly, noted the recognition in her eyes when she saw the drug dealer (and suspected murderer).
Fournier stretched as if at the end of a long drive. He rounded the counter and tipped his hand to Blanc. “Merci, Colonel. I've had a wonderful time.” He wasn't convincing but didn't seem to care. He passed Brandy as if she weren't there.
No sooner had he gone then Blanc, without disguising his accusatory tone, demanded of Brandy, “You do know Marcel Fournier?”
“We've met. Did he have something to do with Vicki's death?”
“How did you meet?”
“What does it matter?”
“We're investigating four murders, mademoiselle. Your relationship with a known drug dealer, who owns the site of the murders, is part of that investigation.”
“I don't have a relationship with him. When Vicki went missing, we asked him and his partner what they knew.”
“His partner?” Blanc sputtered a laugh. Her association with Fournier was innocent, obviously. Ignorant, but innocent. “If you mean Loup Wimund… He isn't smart enough to be anybody's partner. That, how would you say, degenerate… We are looking at him. Leave him to us.”
“What do you mean 'degenerate'? And what do you mean 'you're looking at him'? What do you think happened?”
“We have the situation under control. Now, please, stay out of it.” He waved her to the door and vanished into his office.
Brandy Petracus was not a crier. She could cry, and sometimes did, but she wasn't a crier. That said, when she stepped from the Gendarmerie station it took all she had not to burst into tears.
Ray had a full plate, but was being an ass. The Colonel had his duty which, apparently, included keeping secrets. Everyone had their point of view, but what about Vicki? And what about her? She stood, grinding her teeth, her right hand clenched on her ever-present bag, her left balled in a white-knuckled fist. She wanted to hit something, someone. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. And, at that moment, all of the elements necessary for cataclysm came together.
In the distance, Brandy saw Ray, heading her direction.
At the curb, Fournier sat behind the wheel of a deep blue, idling BMW talking with someone hunched in his driver's window. Then Fournier pulled away - leaving Loup Wimund behind in the street.
Brandy stared. What had Colonel Blanc said? Loup was a degenerate. They were looking at him. And there he was. “Hey,” Brandy said. “You're Loup Wimund. I want to talk to you.” Loup backed away. “Hey,” Brandy shouted. “Wait!”
Still coming, Ray saw Brandy – and heard her yell. Then he saw Loup backing away from her in the street. He didn't know what the hell was happening but picked up his pace.
The little American woman was still coming, still yelling, and Loup continued to back away. Then, down the street, he saw the big one, her boyfriend, coming fast.
“You!” Ray shouted. “Wimund!”
Loup turned and bolted.
On the far side of the block, Ray took chase. Brandy threw down her purse and did the same. Loup was in the lead with Brandy on his heels screaming. They crossed the square, in front of Ray, headed for Jacques Chambon.
After a life of angering people, collecting taxes for the Trésor Public, Chambon retired. He built a park, then bought a horse and cart. Now he spent his days cheering people; giving children rides around his park. Chambon, and his faithful horse, Auguste, were at their usual corner when Loup, Brandy and Ray raced past in a screaming parade and entered Le Parc Chambon du Paradis.
Built at Chambon's personal expense, on a nearby meadow, the park and gardens grew to nearly twenty acres before the village annexed it. Now it was Paradis' biggest tourist attraction. Picnic tables and vending machines dotted the play area between swings, slides, manual carousels and, new that summer, an air-filled trampoline shaped like a castle. In the gardens, musicians played (for the adults) up and down the sculptured paths and over the tiny bridges and streams, while painted clowns frolicked (for the children).
At the little menagerie farm peacocks strutted, cocks crowed, chickens pecked, and lambs and horses roamed while visitors saw they were never hungry. These were all cared for by Eloise, Chambon's wife, whose Veterinary Clinique bordered the park on the main street side.
For older children, and the more adventurous adults, there was the Histoire Labyrinthe; a maze of ten foot high hedges created by Chambon, his wife, and the village school. The maze featured twelve locked doors within its twists and turns. Each door bore a question whose solution unlocked it and allowed the answerer deeper access to the maze and the doors beyond. To reach the end, the player needed a working knowledge of French and of the day's selected subject. (Changed daily). Those deficient in history or French could 'piggy back' through with others. Or they could cheat with an answer card available at the admission booth.
It was that same booth that Loup ran by now with a screaming Brandy, and further behind an angry Ray, in hot pursuit.
A bench sat, against the hedge making up the outer wall, at the entrance to the maze. Loup saw it and, without slowing, leapt. He stepped on the back of the bench and jumped for the top of the hedge. He cleared it, ugly, and busted twigs and leaves flew in his wake. The woman in the ticket booth shouted.
Brandy, on Loup's heels like a doberman, vaulted the bench as well and cleared the hedge cleanly. Now the ticket lady was screaming.
Twenty Two
Ray, running behind Brandy (and way behind Loup), saw the ticket lady screaming. He cringed, imagining the trouble they were looking at, and pulled up panting at the maze booth. The ticket woman started shouting at him. Ray grabbed his wallet, pulling out money to calm her and pay for their tickets. The woman continued to scream; a cocktail of French, English and something that was neither. She pointed at the top of the hedge, claiming damages. Ray saw none.
He balked when she demanded payment for Loup's ticket. Then, afraid he'd never get away, relented and threw down enough for all three, promising he'd take it out of Loup's ass with interest. Ray grabbed a 'cheat' card from the booth and turned to the labyrinth that had swallowed his fiancé.
Several young people who'd just breached the first door were ahead of him. He slipped past them and into the maze shouting for Brandy. Behind him, the youngsters shouted derision. Behind them, the booth lady, still mad about her hedge, shouted for the authorities.
Trapped in the maze and sweating like hell Loup feverishly read the door's question. He'd been a rotten history student - until the day he was thrown out of school. But, today, luck was with him. The subject was Napoleon; and what idiot didn't know the name of the little general's woman? He tapped in the answer, heard the click of success and bolted through. Over his shoulder, Loup saw the crazy American whore round the corner. She was fast and he just shut the door in her face.
Brandy pounded the door and fought the tears welling in her eyes. She didn't have time to cry but, God, when she got back to the hotel… Now, as she stared at the puzzle, she needed to think.
Nom de l'amour de Napoléon.
“L'amour,” Brandy whispered. “L'amour.” Her French was awful; almost non-existent. But this she'd heard. She knew. Then it dawned. Love! Napoleon's love was… Josephine!
From somewhere near, she heard Ray shout, as she entered Josephine into the pad. “Here!” she screamed. “I'm over here!” The lock clicked, the door opened and she hurried through. The chase was on again.
For Ray, it had ground to a halt. “Fuck!” Staring at another dead end, he clamped his teeth and reversed direction. Left. Forward. Right. “Brandy?” he shouted, coming upon another door. He scanned the cheater card, matched the door number with the answer (printed, thank Christ, in French and English) and opened the lock. Ray stepped through and followed the hedge further into the maze.
Loup's progress had slowed. He'd been two doors ahead of the American bitch and thought himself home free. The thought was premature. He had the advantage of speaking and reading French (two different talents), but his ignorance of history was screwing him. Who'd have thought his teachers would ever be right? He read the next question and yelped. How in hell was he supposed to know to what island Napoleon had been exiled?
Ray was getting mad. He heard Brandy, barely, and yelled again. “Where are you?”
“For heaven's sake, Ray… what's the point of telling you forty times? I'm right behind him, but I can't read French.”
“What door…” He tried to catch his breath. “What door are you at?”
“Something about Egypt! What? Nine. I'm at door nine! What's the difference?”
Ray checked the card and shouted, “The Rosetta Stone.” Behind him, other paying guests were getting angry. Apparently they didn't want the answers and were letting him know. Fuck 'em. “The answer to door nine is the Rosetta Stone!”
Shouting was the name of the game in Chambon Park; particularly in and around the Histoire Labyrinthe. The children were shouting. The admissions woman was shouting. The maze occupants were shouting. Lieutenant Colonel Petit joined in; shouting to his gendarmes as they arrived at the maze. He received a brief account, and a master key to the doors, then led four soldiers into the labyrinth to pursue the law breakers.
Brandy dialed in the answer, door nine clicked, and she was through. She ran the alleys, back-tracked for dead ends, and arrived at door ten. The next question, in French, was Greek to her. “Ten, Ray,” Brandy shouted. “Can you hear me? I'm at door ten.”
“What did you say?”
“What the heck do you think I said?”
Brandy breathed deeply. It wasn't Ray's fault. She couldn't have gotten this far if it hadn't been for him. He was on her side and she loved him. He'd been through a lot. It wasn't Ray she was angry with; it was Loup. “Listen, for God's sake! Door ten!” Ray would understand.
Somewhere to the right, behind, or was it in front, angry voices shouted. All through the maze, tourists were getting mad. That was their problem. Somewhere ahead, Brandy heard Loup scratching at a door like a dog. He was her problem.
Ray ran his finger down the card. “Elba!” he shouted. The people behind him were screaming like hell. They hadn't, it seemed, wanted the answer to door ten either. Oh, well. “He was exiled to the island of Elba!”
Somewhere Loup heard the big American screaming, but he wasn't listening and didn't care. He had problems of his own, “Damn it,” as he beat on door eleven. He'd pulled 'Elba' out of his ass at door ten. But here he was at eleven and how the hell was he supposed to know where Napoleon died? He entered a guess. Nothing. What the hell? Didn't all Frenchmen die in bed?
He heard the door behind open. And, though he couldn't see her, Loup knew he soon would. “Leave me alone!” he screamed, beating on door eleven again.
Brandy rounded the corner, shouting, “Don't go any further!”
Out of places to run, Loup screamed, “I'll kill you, you little…
The hedge beside him exploded in and Ray, screaming like a maniac, flew through. Leaves and branches shot across the maze, into the air, and rained down as he rolled ass over tea kettle.
Chaos ensued. Ray, prone on the ground, yelled. Brandy, still running, shouted. Loup, trapped, screamed like a little girl. Brandy leapt over her prostrate boyfriend. Ray saw her hurdle over. Loup, with nowhere to go, ducked. Brandy came down on top of Loup and tackled him to the ground. Arms and legs flew as they tumbled.
“I want to talk to you!”
“Get off… bitch!”
Brandy gouged her nails into his fleshy cheeks. “You know what happened to Ray's sister. You're going to tell me… or I'm going to scratch your eyes out.”
“I…,” Loup said, fighting for breath, through clenched teeth, “am telling you nothing.”
Ray, scratched from stem to stern, his hair and clothing peppered in leaves and sticks, made it to his feet. He saw Brandy atop the Frenchman and, in a misguided show of compassion, grabbed ahold of her. She wasn't having any of it and added a six inch forearm scratch to Ray's already im
pressive collection. Ray let go.
Brandy turned back to Loup and punched him in the face. The soft tissue around his left eye blushed and began to swell. “You think I'm kidding you,” she yelled. “You saw Vicki?” Loup didn't answer and Brandy punched him again… and again.
Ray, painfully sorry he'd gotten between a dog and her meat, hovered, dabbed at the blood on his aching arm, and left Brandy to him.
“All right!” Loup screamed. His left eye was temporarily closed for business. His nose had an admirable crimson flow. “Oui. Oui, I saw her.”
“What happened to her?” Brandy demanded, claws poised over Loup's eyes.
“I do not know,” he cried. Blood and terror muted his voice. He spit out the blood; the terror remained. “I did not kill her.”
Now Ray was angry. He clenched a fist and stepped toward them, yelling, “You son of a bitch!” ready to join Brandy in the assault.
“Arrêtez-vous!” The insistent command came from behind. Ray's French wasn't worth a damn either, but the tone made it obvious the speaker meant business.
“Arrêtez-vous! Monsieur… Mademoiselle.” Then, calming, the speaker switched to a slow, over-enunciated English. “Let him go!”
Ray looked over his shoulder and down the length of the hedge aisle. He saw Petit with grim seriousness on his face and his pistol, for the second time, pointed at him. Most people, finding themselves the target of a Gendarmerie handgun, would have been mortified. Ray was merely disappointed at the interruption. Lifting his eyes from Petit, and his gun, Ray took in the panting soldiers filling the maze behind him. They, in turn, took in Ray and his foliage adornments, Loup howling on the ground, and the American girl straddling him.
Ray tapped Brandy on the shoulder. She looked back in annoyance then, past Ray, to the new arrivals. Brandy saw the situation for what it was and let Loup's shirt slip from her fingers. Ray helped her off of him.
The Devil's Bed Page 11