Shadow Game

by Adam Hiatt

  Reddic noticed the man’s suspicion subside ever so slightly. He took one more step and closed to within five feet. The man was about to speak when Reddic hurled his backpack into his face. Caught off guard, he raised his hands to protect against the incoming object, leaving himself vulnerable. Reddic sprang forward and stuck the stun gun against the man’s chest and released its charge.

  The electric current pulsing through the man’s body induced a total loss of muscle control. He collapsed to the ground and lay twitching in the fetal position. Reddic stole a quick peek around the courtyard and confirmed that they were still alone. He removed his key, punched in the code, and opened the door to the building. Clutching the man’s wrists, he dragged him inside and closed the door behind him.

  Moaning like a wounded animal, the stranger laid nearly motionless at his feet as he turned the light on. Reddic examined him as he assessed his next move. The man looked ordinary. He was slightly built and had a thick head of dark hair with a few specks of grey. There were no visible scars or bodily markings or piercings. Reddic grabbed his hands and rubbed his thumbs against his fingers and palms. His hands were soft and smooth to the touch. A sense of relief swept over him.

  This man was no killer.

  Reddic knew the power of his stun gun. The man would be unable to function properly for another minute of two. Not wanting to waste any time, he hoisted the stranger’s body over his shoulders and began carrying him up the flight of stairs. When he reached the door to the flat, he carefully walked through the doorframe. Jaxon was in the same spot he left him and did not seem to notice Reddic’s return.

  Carefully placing him in an armchair, Reddic extracted the climbing rope from his backpack and began binding his wrists and ankles. He was confident that the stranger was not a killer, but he couldn’t afford to take any chances.

  “How close are you to being finished?” Reddic asked, as he tied off the last knot.

  “I’m almost done,” Jaxon replied without looking up. “Give me five minutes.”

  “I’ll give you two.”

  Jaxon pulled his attention away from the document and looked up to challenge his brother. He quickly noticed the bound man sitting in the armchair with a dazed look on his face.

  “What have you done?” he shouted. “Who is that and why is he tied up?”

  “I don’t know,” Reddic responded evenly. “But he may be able to provide us with some additional information about that document.”

  Jaxon’s countenance took on an ashen complexion as he tried to comprehend the sudden turn of events.

  “He followed us from the cathedral,” Reddic offered.

  “What? How?”

  “I don’t know, but I think it’s time that we find out who he is. Stay here.”

  The stranger groaned and wiggled in the armchair as he helplessly tried to free himself from the restraints. He wore a confused look on his face as he made eye contact with Jaxon. Reddic returned from the kitchen with a full glass of water in hand. However, instead of offering it he threw its contents into the man’s face.

  The stranger cursed in French, but quickly composed himself and sat up straight in the chair. The sudden dose of water had its intended effect. He took on a much more alert appearance.

  “Now that we have your attention,” Reddic said, “maybe you’d like to tell us why you followed us here.”

  The stranger fixed his gaze on the parchment and said nothing. After a moment of silence, Reddic calmly placed the water glass on the table, keeping his gaze down. Suddenly, he reared up and delivered a violent blow with the back of his hand. The man’s head snapped left, and blood began streaming out of the side of his mouth. He blinked wildly as tears slid out of his eyes.

  “We don’t have time for these games,” Reddic said forcefully. “Let’s start with an easy question. What’s your name?”

  The stranger did not answer at first. He kept his head down, as if he were contemplating what to reveal. Reddic raised his right hand to strike his head again.

  “No monsieur,” he implored. “That is unnecessary.”

  Reddic lowered his arm and looked on in silence.

  “My name is Gabriel Fournier. I am the archdeacon of Notre Dame.”

  “Right, and I’m Claude Frollo,” Reddic retorted sarcastically. He reached for the stun gun and pressed it against Fournier’s neck, digging it into his skin.

  “Do you think this is a joke!” he shouted. “A Victor Hugo book convention!”

  “No joke, monsieur. I am who I say I am.”

  “Why did you follow us?” Reddic twisted the stun gun for emphasis.

  “The cathedral is my home. One of my responsibilities is that of caretaker. I heard noises and stepped out to investigate. That is when I saw you.”

  Reddic pulled the stun gun away from Fournier’s neck and brought it in front of his face. He pressed the button, allowing the electricity to surge from prong to prong. With his left hand Reddic grabbed a handful of hair and yanked back, pulling Fournier’s chin up.

  “Honesty is all that will save you from this,” Reddic said. “If you were so worried about your building you would’ve called the Paris police. Instead, you followed us here and haven’t taken your eyes off that document. This is your last chance before I slap this on your neck and put you to sleep.”

  Gabriel Fournier swallowed hard and looked Reddic in the eyes.

  “I have waited many years for you both to come.”

  Shocked by the statement, Reddic released Founier’s hair and stepped back, stealing a quick peek at his brother. Jaxon’s eyes were wide as he leaned forward from the couch.

  “What do you mean you’ve waited for us?” Jaxon asked. “Before tonight we have never met.”

  “I have not always labored in Notre Dame,” Fournier said. “For many years I was a Camerlengo for our Holy Father.”

  “I have been to the Vatican on two occasions,” Jaxon replied. “I do not remember having met you.”

  “Please forgive me, messieurs. I did not intend to imply that I was specifically waiting for you, but rather, I have been waiting for somebody to come and look for what you have discovered.”

  Reddic and Jaxon simultaneously looked at the ancient document. “Now would be a good time to explain how you think you know what this is,” Reddic said.

  “I made a countless number of trips to the Vatican’s archives during my tenure as Camerlengo. The Holy Father had a very insatiable appetite for our church’s history. He would often commission me to collect old documents of both significant and controversial periods of the church. It was on one of these trips that I was to bring the personal diary of Pope Clement the fifth to His Holiness.

  “I enjoyed these moments, as I had become accustomed to briefly perusing the requested documents in advance of delivering them. My knowledge increased beyond anything I could have imagined. On this day I began reading through the diary as I would have with any other archived piece. I read about Clement’s account of the trial of the legendary Knights Templars, in particular that of the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay.”

  Jaxon and Reddic quickly shared another knowing glance as Fournier spoke. Reddic’s instincts were telling him that they may have found the break they were looking for with the appearance of the archdeacon.

  “I recall Clement pouring out his soul in his writing,” Fournier continued. “There was so much emotion. I could feel the guilt and anguish with each word that was written. He found himself in an impossible situation. He had a great personal admiration for Molay and the Templars and did not want to believe the rumors of heresy and depravity that abounded. Yet, the king of France, Phillip the fourth, had great influence on him. Clement pardoned the Templars of the charges they faced and was prepared to release them, but Phillip intervened. He shared a secret with Clement that, according to his writings, turned his world upside down.”

  “What was the secret?” Jaxon asked excitedly.

  Fournier studied Jaxon with a discerni
ng eye.

  “It appears that you already know,” he said.

  “I have my theories,” Jaxon responded.

  “I can see that you are a man of great knowledge and passion.”

  “Hey,” Reddic interrupted, snapping his fingers in front of Fournier’s face. “I’m losing patience with you. I already know what he knows. I’m much more interested in hearing from you.”

  “I beg your pardon, monsieur,” Fournier offered.

  “Don’t distract him anymore,” Reddic said to his brother. He turned, pointing his finger at Fournier. “Talk.”

  “Thank you, monsieur. Clement wrote that Phillip attempted to convince him that the Templars worked in darkness. He told him that Molay held the secrets to a dark power that had existed since the beginning of man and that if those secretes were allowed to survive, they would destroy the church. Clement asked for proof of the accusation and Phillip offered a page that was taken from Molay’s personal records. Clement accepted the document and read it with fright. It was indeed proof, he wrote, but not absolute.

  “He decided to confront the Templar Grand Master inside Notre Dame, and away from Phillip and the council. Molay insisted that he was seeking to destroy the evil, not expand it. Clement asked for his records, but Molay refused. Clement wrote about the agonizing decision he had to make. A potentially innocent man’s life was at stake, but he could not run the risk of losing his church. He believed that if Molay truly had good intentions then he would offer up his records.

  “So Clement approved a panel of cardinals to condemn Molay to imprisonment. Molay protested and Phillip ordered death by fire to compel Molay into disclosing the location. Both Clement and Phillip watched as Molay’s flesh burned, but Molay remained silent. The location to his records seemingly died that day.”

  Fournier paused to regain control of his emotions. With eyes closed he breathed deeply.

  “Clement had that page from Molay’s records returned to the Vatican. After reading this account I searched for it until I was able to read it with my own eyes.”

  “You did not put it back where you found it, did you?” Jaxon asked.

  “I did not. I believed it wise to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. It appears that you have been able to view its contents.”

  “I did. Just last year.”

  “Why are you no longer in Rome?” Reddic asked. “Did you lose your position because of your impulse?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Fournier said. “I pleaded with His Holiness to allow me to resign my duties and serve as a deacon.”

  “And you were conveniently relocated to Paris?” Reddic asked.

  “No. It was a request,” Fournier replied. “I do not know all things, but I knew Molay loved Notre Dame and if he in fact hid his records…I knew somebody would come to find them someday, and the cathedral was the most likely place.”

  “Why did you not look for it yourself?” Reddic asked. “You claim you’ve been here for years.”

  “You underestimate me, monsieur. I have visited every centimeter of Notre Dame and found nothing.”

  “He didn’t understand the riddle,” Reddic said to his brother. “That makes sense.”

  “The riddle?” Fournier wondered. “What is this?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Reddic responded

  “So, this is why you followed us?” Jaxon asked. “You believe we have found Molay’s record.”

  “I believe you have.” Fournier’s eyes drifted toward the coffee table and the document.

  Reddic considered Gabriel Fournier’s story. It was convincing, that much he could admit. But he had learned long ago to reserve a healthy level of distrust for every person he encountered. If time permitted, he could undoubtedly attempt to punch holes in his story. He knew he had to keep him talking, but he needed for Fournier to believe they trusted him. If he was lying, they would soon find out.

  “Gabriel,” Reddic said. The use of the man’s given name captured his attention. “How would you like to help us finish what Jacques de Molay started?”

  38

  Madison Jenkins awoke with a splitting headache. A migraine might have been a more accurate description. Her skull hurt with every arterial pulse. She felt dizzy and nauseous. As the memories of the past few hours came back to her she knew what she was feeling was not a simple headache or migraine, but rather a severe concussion.

  She knew she would have to be very cautious going forward. Any further trauma to her head could potentially cause permanent brain damage. As an avid football fan, Jenkins was very familiar with the most current research regarding concussions. She, like other fans, had been following the ramifications of the lawsuits filed by former players that had been diagnosed with CTE, or chronic traumatic encephalopathy.

  Ever since the lawsuits were filed, she studied up on the consequences of concussions in order to better serve her operatives. She was not naïve to the fact that they put themselves in precarious physical situations that could often lead to CTE symptoms. She wanted to be able to train them to self-diagnose and treat the symptoms.

  In her current state she couldn’t seem to recall all the details of her training, but she did remember the basics. The brain was surrounded by a cerebrospinal fluid that protected it from minor movements, but with blunt force trauma, the brain would break through that shielding and experience a disruption of the physical, emotional, and cognitive functions. More to the point, if not allowed to heal, regular blood flow to the brain would be interrupted and cellular damage could set in. Concussions, she learned, were not something to take lightly.

  For an athlete standard procedure was to shut down physical activity for at least a week with little to no heart rate elevation. Once the athlete tested asymptomatic, he/she could then commence light aerobic activity and start to build up to moderate exercises, and finally to strenuous. The way Jenkins felt now, taking it easy would not be an issue at all. She felt like she would vomit at any second.

  Jenkins gingerly sat up to orient herself. She was immediately surprised to realize she had been laying in a bed. As she put her feet on the ground another wave of nausea passed over her. She lacked the strength to hold it in any longer. The bile in her stomach ejected out of her mouth onto the floor. Tears involuntarily sprung from her eyes as she kept her head down expecting more vomit to come.

  She wiped away the tears and examined the soiled carpet. It was a faded blue, thin and pocked with stains. The walls were covered with worn wallpaper. There was one window, a nightstand next to the bed with a dated lamp, an old tube television and a phone. Against the far wall was a single armchair with a mismatched seat cushion. Recognizing that she was sitting in a cheap motel room, she suddenly didn’t feel bad about the vomit on the floor.

  Rising to her feet, she methodically walked to the bathroom and flipped on the light. She looked at herself in the mirror and almost gasped at what she saw. Her clothes were tattered, wrinkled, and dirty. Her hair was disheveled. Her eyeliner was smeared. Her eyes were dark and sullen. She looked like a shell of herself.

  She splashed water in her face and wiped off all her makeup. She straightened her hair, rinsed out her mouth, and tidied up her outfit the best she could. She took another look in the mirror and told herself she needed to be a professional and get to work.

  As she left the bathroom, she compiled a mental list of action items. Before anything else she needed to contact Reddic, and if not him, then one of her other operatives. She made a beeline for the phone with a new level of determination. She was about to dial when a knock on the door broke her concentration.

  She put the phone back in its cradle and looked through the peephole. A young woman standing next to a cart filled with towels and cleaning supplies stood patiently. Jenkins was relieved to see the housekeeping services. She needed a toothbrush and some mouthwash. Her luck was beginning to change already.

  As she pulled the door open two men appeared from seemingly out of nowhere, rushing into the room
with guns drawn.

  “FBI,” the one on the left shouted. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Jenkins protested. Her mind was struggling to process the change of events. “My name is—”

  “Madison Jenkins, you’re under arrest,” interrupted the agent on her right. “You have the right to remain silent…”

  She didn’t hear the remainder of her Miranda rights. The disbelief was too much for her to focus.

  39

  Jaxon searched each cupboard in the kitchen for anything with nutritional value. Having been so focused on the translation he only recently realized that he had not had anything to eat in over eight hours. He felt exhausted and weak. He desperately needed something. Unfortunately, his pursuit of food was coming up empty. In fact, the cupboards were devoid of almost anything one would expect to find in a kitchen. Only a few cups, plates, and dishes rested on the shelves.

  Against the back wall of the kitchen was a small door that looked like a broom closet. Jaxon approached it optimistically. He knew there had to be some food somewhere in the apartment. If not, even Reddic couldn’t stop him from walking right out to the street to buy something. He was relieved to find three shelves inside the closet stocked with non-perishable items. Perusing through them, he selected a box of whole wheat crackers, a few granola bars, a package of dried fruit, and three bottles of water. It wasn’t anything special, but under the circumstances, it would do.

  Returning to the living room, Jaxon placed the items on the small coffee table and began opening the boxes. Reddic sat next to him folding the climbing rope and stuffing it in his backpack while Fournier remained seated in the armchair rubbing his wrists. Jaxon offered the archdeacon a bottle of water as he bit into a granola bar.

  “I have something to show you,” Jaxon said to Fournier between bites. He reached into his bag and extracted the scanned copy of Jacques de Molay’s diary entry. He turned it so Fournier could see.

  “Is this the page you read in the Vatican archives?” Jaxon asked.