The First Face of Janus

by Valentine, Phil

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Crow dropped his bicycle in the cold gravel drive and pulled the collar of his coat up close around his neck. His dad’s black pickup was in the drive. He hadn’t seen him in weeks. He vaguely remembered the times when ‘Daddy’s home’ meant an excited child jumping into his father’s arms and a surprise gift picked up along his travels in exchange for the long bouts of absence. Those times were long gone. The familiar knot gripped his stomach. Everything depended on his father’s mood. Crow hiked the backpack higher on his shoulder, hesitated, then pulled open the screen door.

  He rubbed his hands together to warm them then stopped at the sight of the half-empty bottle of whisky on the kitchen counter. He braced himself for the storm.

  The words that passed between Crow and his mother had been little more than awkward small talk since “the incident.” Nothing was ever verbalized about the subject. She acted as though it never happened, but she was always a lousy actor. The unmentionable episode was like a barge that passed between their two ships, large and looming, but it was never the topic of conversation. He couldn’t even be sure she knew he knew. Her silence gave him every indication she did.

  “Hi, Dad,” Crow said from the doorway of the den.

  The warm fireplace crackled in the corner. The large man with the unshaven face sat in his easy chair. He jingled the ice in his glass then took a sip and looked straight ahead. His wife sat on the sofa, her legs close together, her hands fidgeting atop her knees.

  Crow gave his father ample time for a response to his greeting. Hearing none, he started in the direction of his bedroom.

  “Come here, boy,” the low voice growled.

  Crow stopped then walked slowly in front of his father’s chair.

  “Your mother tells me you’ve been skipping school.”

  Crow cut his mother an injured expression. She looked away. “Not lately,” Crow said.

  “Not lately,” he repeated with a chuckle. He took another gulp. “You’re right,” he said to his wife, “he is a bad liar.” He set his drink down and rose from the easy chair. “You listen to me.” He took a drunken step backwards but steadied himself with a hand on the back of the chair. “I work my ass off clear across the state. The last thing I need is you screwing off while I’m gone.”

  “But I—”

  “I don’t want to hear the excuses. I want to know why the hell you’ve been cutting classes.”

  Crow looked down and wondered if the truth was even worth it. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.”

  His mother said, “He goes down to the river to write.”

  His old man’s head swiveled in the direction of his wife then back again to Crow. He laughed, “To write? Write what?”

  Now Crow understood. This was a preemptive strike. A way to discredit him in case he had any notion of sharing her indiscretion with his father. “Just stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”

  “No, I’m interested,” the man said. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Dad, please.”

  “What kind of stuff!” His bloodshot eyes were on fire.

  Crow’s mother winced.

  “Short stories, mainly.”

  “Well, let me see,” he said, pointing to the backpack.

  “Dad, I’d rather not let anyone—”

  “I said let me see,” he said through clinched teeth.

  Crow reluctantly unzipped his backpack. He reached inside and pulled out the notebook and handed it to his father.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” he said, staggering a few steps around the room thumbing through the notebook. “Is this how you spend your time rather than going to school?”

  Crow didn’t answer. He was afraid any response might enrage him even more. His father turned a few more pages, unable to focus on the writing.

  “Could I have that back, please?” Crow took a step toward him and extended a hand.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” his father teased, pulling the notebook just out of his reach. “Let me explain something to you,” he slurred. “You don’t go to class, you don’t finish high school. You don’t finish high school, you can’t get a job. You can’t get a job and your ass is stuck under my roof. Well, guess what. Your ass ain’t gonna be stuck under my roof.”

  “I plan on going to college,” Crow said.

  “To college? To do what?”

  “I want to be a writer.”

  The man laughed a cruel laugh. “A writer? Nobody in this town’s ever been a writer. You know what the people in this town are? They’re hard workers. They work in the mill or the factory or the loading dock or on the farm. They’re the backbone of this country. They’re what makes this country great. You know what writers are? They’re pussies. They’re candy-ass elitists who look down their noses at people. People like me. People like your mother.”

  Crow took another step and reached for the notebook.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” his father taunted again, pulling the notebook higher in the air. “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna do you a big favor. I’m gonna give you some advice. Because that’s what great fathers do. The last thing you need to be doing is wasting your time with all this pie-in-the-sky shit. Crows are proud people. Crows are working people. This notebook’s been nothing but trouble, so I have the solution.”

  “Don’t take my notebook.” Crow saw the rage in his father’s eyes. He tried to reason with him. “Please don’t take my notebook.” His eyes filled with tears.

  “Ah, you gonna cry now?”

  “I promise I won’t cut classes anymore,” Crow said desperately. “Just let me have my notebook back.”

  “Oh, I know you won’t cut class no more,” his father said. “You won’t have a reason to.” With a flick of his wrist, the notebook spun a couple of revolutions in the air before landing in the middle of the fire. He smiled a delighted smile.

  “No!” Crow snapped and lunged at the man with the fury of a wild animal, screaming with all the vitriol and hurt in his soul. His father backhanded him across the face so hard it knocked him off his feet. Before his head even hit the floor, he was out cold. The flames from the notebook rose higher in the fireplace until they consumed it all. There was nothing left of months of work except for smoldering ashes. His mother dropped to her knees beside her unconscious son and shook him.

  “Benson,” the voice said. “Benson,” this time louder.

  Crow awoke with a start. His breathing was labored. “What? What day is it?”

  “It’s Saturday,” Sidney said, leaning over him in the bed on one elbow. “I think I may have something.”

  “What?”

  “It just hit me. I know why that First Facers’ conversation sounded so familiar.”

  “Why?”

  “One of the men in that cafe Alejandro’s friend taped said, ‘The apparition of monsters presages the outbreak of war.’”

  “Yeah?”

  “The full quote is, ‘According to Nostradamus the apparition of monsters presages the outbreak of war.’ You know who said that?”

  “Who?” Crow asked.

  “Salvador Dalí.”

  “Dalí?”

  “Yes. Read me the transcript of that conversation between the two First Facers.” She opened up Crow’s tablet.

  Crow grabbed his phone from the bedside table and read from the text, “‘Did you finish Don Quixote?’”

  Rosenfeld searched for Don Quixote. “Yep. Several, in fact.”

  “Several what?”

  “Several paintings. Dalí painted ‘Don Quixote’ in 1935 and ‘Don Quixote and the Windmills’ in 1945. Then he did a series of Don Quixote paintings in 1956 and ’57. Go ahead with the next line.”

  A big smile lit up Crow’s face. “‘I did finish it. Excellent read,’” Crow continued. “‘He was the fallen angel.’”

  “Hold a second. Fallen angel.” She typed in the search box. “Yep, there it is. ‘The Fallen Angel’ painted in 1951. Go ahead
.”

  “‘Yes, he was. Honey is sweeter than blood.’”

  “Hold up. ‘Honey is Sweeter than Blood,’” she said as she searched. “Three. In 1926, ’27, and ’41.”

  “‘Is that so?’” Crow continued reading. “‘Yes, my cousin Montserrat told me that.’”

  “See, this is the one I really should’ve caught,” she said. “It’s what sounded so familiar to me.” She typed again. “‘My Cousin Montserrat’ he started in 1919, finished in 1920.”

  “‘He heard it from a couple near the fortress,’” Crow continued.

  “‘Couple Near the Fortress.’ 1918.”

  “‘Near the fortress? Yes, there is a knight at the tower.’”

  “‘Knight at the tower,’” Rosenfeld repeated. “1932.”

  “‘A real knight? No, do not be silly. Not a real knight. I think he was called the Knight of Death. Sort of the enigma of Hitler.’”

  “Let’s see. Several knights of death. 1933, ’34, two that year, and 1937. ‘The Enigma of Hitler’ was 1939.”

  “And the rest is about that quote from Dalí. OK, let’s think.” He walked around the room like a caged animal. “If Salvador Dalí is the code this guy was passing along…” He rubbed his chin as he thought. “Look up where Dalí was from?”

  “I already know. Figueres, Spain.”

  “Where did he die?”

  “Figueres.”

  Crow digested the information.

  “Oh,” she added, “the Dalí Theater and Museum is in Figueres, too.”

  “How far is that from here?”

  Sidney typed. “Just under five hours.”

  “How many churches in Figueres?”

  “Let’s see.” She typed again. “At least three.” She turned the tablet for Crow to see.

  “Get your stuff,” he said. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom, then we need to head out.” He turned as he entered the doorway, “Oh, see if there’s any mention of a wedding on the news.”

  She reached for the remote and turned the television on. The news anchor was reporting the day’s news while she crammed her few belongings into her shoulder bag.

  “The prime minister insisted he has the situation well in hand,” the anchor reported in Spanish. “He has asked for a full report from his minister of the treasury by the end of the month. Here locally, a gruesome murder to report this morning at one of Valencia’s most famous landmarks.” Sidney stopped. She could hear the running water in the bathroom and Crow brushing his teeth. “A caretaker at the historic Valencia Cathedral was found bludgeoned to death in a living area underneath the sanctuary where he resided.” A picture of a small man dressed in a monk’s robe appeared on the screen. “Alejandro de la Aiza had worked at Valencia Cathedral for almost 20 years. Police believe Aiza was murdered sometime yesterday afternoon. They have no suspects or motive at this time. Azia was 43 years old.”

  Sidney clicked the TV off and cut her eyes toward the bathroom. Keeping her eyes glued on the door, she tip-toed over to the chair where Crow had laid his clothes.

  Crow splashed some water on his face and wiped it with a hand towel. He emerged from the bath dabbing his face then stopped. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m packing my phone,” she said, unplugging the charger from the bedside table lamp and stuffing it in her purse. “What are you? A cop?” She slid past him into the bath and stuffed her toiletries into her bag.

  “Anything on the news?” he asked.

  “No. Nothing. Let’s go.

  CROW AND SIDNEY hurried through the lobby of the Hotel Las Arenas. Crow had ordered their car be brought around as quickly as was humanly possible.

  “Señor!”

  Crow heard the voice calling from behind him. He turned to see the desk clerk beckoning him over. He and Sidney backtracked and approached the counter.

  “Señor,” the clerk said. “You dined with Señor Babineaux yesterday, did you not?”

  Crow wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants and swallowed. “That’s right.”

  “I need to ask you something, señor.”

  Crow tried not to look at Sidney. “Fine. What is it?”

  “Señor Babineaux is not in his room.”

  He let that statement of fact hang in the air.

  “We’re kind of in a hurry. What does that have to do with me?” Crow asked.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Señor Crow. A gentleman is desperately trying to get in touch with him. Do you know where Señor Babineaux is?”

  “No,” Crow said defensively and turned to leave.

  “But we may see him again,” Sidney said.

  Crow looked at her with disbelief.

  “At least, I hope we will. We’ll be glad to pass the message along to him if we do,” she added.

  “I am afraid he did not leave a name or number.”

  Sidney approached the counter and pulled a sheet of note paper from the registry. “Here.” She handed the clerk the paper. “If he calls back, have him call me.”

  He looked at the paper. “Very good, Señorita Rosenfeld. Gracias.”

  “What the hell was that?” Crow said through clenched teeth as they walked toward the door. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Not at all,” Sidney whispered. “That’s obviously Otto trying to track him down, or someone working for Otto. We need every angle we can get. Maybe he’ll get curious enough to give us a ring.”

  “Crow,” someone called from behind them.

  Crow assumed the desk clerk was calling him again. He turned around. A chill ran down his spine. Marcus Foster had just passed through the revolving door beyond the front desk from outside on the sea side of the hotel and was moving deliberately in their direction.

  “Shit,” Crow muttered.

  He grabbed Sidney by the arm.

  “Wait!” Foster shouted.

  They pushed through the revolving door of the hotel entrance just as their car was pulling up. Crow shoved the valet aside and jumped into the driver’s seat. Even before Sidney had slammed the door on the passenger side, Crow was burning rubber on the black brick pavers. Marcus Foster sprinted to a stop where the car had just been and watched helplessly as its image faded in the distance.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sidney looked at the map on the tablet. “Turn right at this next intersection.”

  “Foster’s a hit man,” Crow stated matter-of-factly.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Simple deduction. We know Foster was at Delacroix’s place, so we can assume he killed him. We saw him in Avignon and Father Simonin turns up dead. Foster’s been on our ass since Washington. You think it was just a coincidence that we ran into him at the National Archives? That he was there to meet Kyle right after we did? That he was sitting on that train next to you? And that every damn body I meet with ends up dead?”

  Sidney pulled her phone to her ear.

  “Who you calling?” Crow said.

  “Churches in Figueres.”

  No answer. She dialed another. The same.

  “Nothing,” she said after calling the third church on the list. “All closed on Saturday.”

  “Dammit,” Crow said. He looked at his watch. “I wonder how late he stays up.” He looked down at his phone. “Crap. My phone’s running on fumes. You got power?”

  “Plenty,” Sidney said. “How late does who stay up?”

  “Tom. I may be good for one more favor. Here.” He handed his phone to her. “Put this number in your phone in case I run out of juice during the call. And dial it on my phone, would you? Run it through the bluetooth on the car.”

  She called Tom’s number, hit the button on the car’s display, and a groggy Thomas Browning answered on the other end.

  “What is it, Benson?”

  “Thomas. I really need you right now.”

  “Some Bond villain got you tied to a nuclear device?”

  “Come on, Tom.”

  “I’m going back to sleep.
”

  “Don’t hang up! I need one more favor and, I promise you, if you can deliver on this one, you’ll get that book you’ve been asking for.”

  Tom Browning was silent for a moment. “OK, but not too big of a favor. It’s the middle of the night over here.”

  “I need for you to call in some markers with your connections at the papers. See if there’s any chatter about a royal wedding in Figueres, Spain, today. We’re heading there on a hunch and I want to be sure.”

  Tom was sitting on the edge of his bed with a pen in his hand. “How do you spell it?”

  “F-I-G-U-E-R-E-S.”

  Tom wrote it down.

  “I need to know which church. Look, Tom, this is probably some wedding they’ve been trying to keep off the radar.”

  “OK, give me a few minutes, all right? I’ll call some newsrooms. Some of these connections are a tad rusty. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Tom. Sidney’s going to text you. Call me back at her number. My phone’s dying. Oh, and we’re looking for a wedding that starts at or around noon.”

  “Around noon,” Browning wrote. “Gotcha. And I’m getting a book out of this. You promise?”

  “I promise.” Crow hung up the phone and checked the mirrors like he had been doing about every 30 seconds since they left the hotel. “You really think Otto will call?”

  “If the desk clerk gives him my number, he’ll call,” she said.

  “You’re serious?”

  She finished texting Tom Browning and looked up. “Yeah, I’m serious. Why wouldn’t he? He can’t find his boy. He wants some answers.”

  They merged onto the Autopista del Mediterraneo, the Mediterranean Expressway, Spain’s equivalent to the Pacific Coast Highway.

  “If he calls, I wouldn’t know what to say to the son-of-a-bitch,” Crow said. “He just tried to kill us.”