by Alex Archer
She took it, surprised at the strength she felt in his grip. Then it felt as if she’d grabbed hold of a branding iron.
The old man took his hand back and the strange sensation ended.
“Are you all right?” Concern touched his blue eyes beneath the thick white eyebrows.
“Yes,” Annja replied, annoyed that he would think she wasn’t.
“Good.” He paused and looked back at the road. “My name is Roux,” he said, as if it would explain everything.
TWO HOURS LATER, Annja sat waiting quietly in the Lozère police station. She was pointedly ignored.
“I think you’ve disrupted their day,” Roux said. “Now there will be paperwork generated, reports to file.”
“This is ridiculous,” Annja said.
“You’re an American.” Roux sat in a chair against the wall. He held a deck of cards and shuffled them one-handed. “They aren’t particularly fond of Americans. Especially ones that claim to have been shot at.”
“There are bullet holes in your vehicle.”
Roux frowned and paused midshuffle. “Yes. That is regrettable. I don’t get overly attached to vehicles, but I did like that one.”
Annja shifted in the hard chair she’d been shown to. “Don’t you want to know who was shooting at us?”
The old man grinned. “In my life, I’ve found that if someone truly wishes to harm you and you survive the attempt, you usually get a chance to get to know them again.” He paused and looked at her. “You truly don’t know who tried to kill you?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
“Back at the cave, one of the men mentioned someone named Lesauvage,” Annja said.
Roux took a moment to reflect. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know anyone named Lesauvage.”
Working quickly, he shuffled, cut the deck and dealt out four hands on the chair between them. When he turned the cards over, she saw that he’d dealt out four royal flushes.
“Are you certain you won’t play?” he asked.
“After seeing that?” Annja nodded. “I’m certain.”
Smiling a little, like a small boy who has performed a good trick, Roux said, “Not even if I promise not to cheat?”
“No.”
“You can trust me.”
Annja looked at him.
“I believe in the game,” Roux said. “Cheating…cheapens the sport.”
“Sure.”
Roux shrugged. “Let’s play a couple hands. I’ll put up a thousand dollars against the trinket you found in that cave.”
“No.”
“We could be here for hours.” Roux shuffled the cards hopefully.
“Mademoiselle Creed.”
Glancing up, Annja saw a handsome man in a black three-piece suit standing in front of her. His dark hair was combed carefully back and he had a boyish smile.
“I’m Annja Creed,” she said.
The man looked around. No one else sat in the waiting room.
“I’d rather gathered that you were.” He held out his hand. “I am Inspector Richelieu.”
“Like the cardinal,” Annja said, taking his hand and standing.
“In name only,” the inspector said.
Since Cardinal Richelieu had been responsible for thousands of people being beheaded on the guillotine, Annja realized her faux pas.
“Sorry,” she said. “I haven’t met anyone with that name before. I meant no insult.”
“I assure you, mademoiselle, no insult was taken.” Richelieu pointed to the rear of the room. “If you would care to join me, I will take your statement in my office.”
6
Brother Gaspar of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain sat at his desk and contemplated his future. It was not a pleasant task. Thankfully, there was not much of it left. Surely no more than three or four more thousand mornings and as many evenings.
He wore a black robe against the chill that filled the room. The years had drawn him lean and spare. Beneath his cowl, his head was shaved and his skin was sallow from seldom seeing the light of day. He got out at night. All of his order did, but they couldn’t be seen during the day because it raised too many questions among the townsfolk.
As leader of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, he did not truly have a future. His mission was to protect and unlock the past. If he succeeded in the first, no one would ever know the monstrous predations his order had allowed to take place three hundred years ago.
But if he succeeded in the second and unlocked the past, made everything right again, his whole life would change. He looked forward to that possibility.
Even at sixty-eight years old, he believed he had a few good years left. It wasn’t that he looked forward to getting out into the world. He had renounced all of that when he took his vows. But he had read all the books and manuscripts in his small post.
He longed for the true manuscripts, the ones he had seen as a child in Rome, where he’d been trained in the secrets he had to keep. The documents that told of secret histories and covered holders of power who weren’t known to the general masses.
He sighed and his gentle breath nearly extinguished the guttering candles that illuminated the stone cave. The monastery, hidden from sight, was located deep inside the Cévennes Mountains. It wasn’t a true edifice built by the hand of men in service to the church. Rather, it was an aberration within the earth that earlier monks had discovered and elaborated on.
On good days, Brother Gaspar thought of the monastery as a gift from God, made expressly for his order. On bad days, he thought of it as a prison.
He sat at his desk and wrote his weekly letter to Bishop Taglio, who guided his moves and provided counsel when needed. Although written with handmade ink, in elegant calligraphy, on paper made by the order, the letter was merely perfunctory. It was merely a chore that occupied his head and his hands for a short time.
After thirty-seven years, since he had taken on the mantle of the leader of the order, Brother Gaspar had begun to have difficulty finding ways to express the situation. Everything is fine and going according to plan. We are still searching for that which was lost.
He kept the references deliberately vague. Enemies didn’t quite abound these days as they had three hundred years ago, but they were still out there.
In fact, even a few treasure hunters had joined the pack. Corvin Lesauvage had snooped around for years. Over the past few the man had become extremely aggressive in his search. He had killed two monks who had fallen into his hands, torturing them needlessly because they didn’t know anything to assuage his curiosity.
Only Brother Gaspar knew that, and he shuddered to think about falling into Lesauvage’s hands. Of course, he would not. He would die before that happened.
His fellow monks had orders to kill him the instant he fell into someone else’s custody. Since he never went anywhere alone, and seldom ventured outside the monastery walls, he didn’t think he would ever be at risk.
Only the imminent disclosure of the secrets he protected would bring him forth. God willing, he would find the truth of those secrets himself. But, as they had remained hidden for three hundred years, there was little chance of that.
“Master.”
Startled, Brother Gaspar looked up from his broad table and the letter he had been writing. “Yes. Come forward that I may see you.”
Brother Napier stepped from the shadows. He wore hiking clothes, tattoos and piercings, and looked like any young man who prowled the Parisian streets.
“Yes, Brother Napier,” Brother Gaspar inquired.
“I did not mean to bother you while you were at your letter,” the younger monk stated.
Brother Gaspar put his pen in the inkwell with slow deliberation. “But you have.”
“For good reason, master.”
“What is it?”
“The woman has found something.”
“The American?”
“Yes, master. She found La Bête’s cave.”
A
ngry and frightened, Brother Gaspar surged to his feet. He leaned on the desk and his arms trembled. “It can’t be.”
Kneeling in supplication, Brother Napier held up his hands. Sheets of papers containing images rested on them. “It is true, master. I saw the cave myself. But only for a short time. The earth closed back over it.” He looked at Brother Gaspar. “I saw it, master. I saw the Beast of Gévaudan. The stories were true.”
Of course they were, the older monk thought. Otherwise we would not all be trapped here.
Rounding the desk, Brother Gaspar took the papers from the young monk’s hands. He stared at the pictures. They showed the young American woman on the mountaintop and apparently running for her life. Other pictures showed motorcycles chasing an SUV.
“You saw La Bête?” Brother Gaspar asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it—” he hesitated “—alive?”
“No. It was dead. Very dead. A warrior killed it.”
“A warrior?” Excitement flared through Brother Gaspar. The old stories were true. The knowledge offered validation for all the years he had spent at the monastery. “How do you know a warrior killed it?”
“Because he was still there.”
“The warrior?”
“Yes, master.”
“He was dead, as well?” Brother Gaspar doubted the man could have been in any other shape, but just knowing the story was true and knowing all the arcane things connected with it, he felt compelled to ask.
“Yes, master. It looked as though he and La Bête had fought and killed each other.”
Brother Gaspar felt the air in the cave grow thicker than normal. “Did you examine La Bête’s body or that of the warrior?” he asked.
“I did. But only for a short time. The cavern was shaking. The earthquake was still going on. Luckily, I got out before the cavern closed.”
“It closed?”
“Yes, master.”
“You could find this place again?”
The young monk nodded. “But it would do no good, master. The earth has sealed the cave tightly.” He paused. “Perhaps a quake another day will reveal it again.”
“We will watch for this, then,” Brother Gaspar said. His hand caressed his throat. “When you looked at the warrior, did you see anything?”
“You mean the necklace?”
Brother Gaspar’s heart beat sped up. “Yes,” he replied in a hoarse whisper.
The necklace was the greatest secret of them all.
“The American woman carried a necklace from the cave,” the young monk said.
“You followed her?” Brother Gaspar asked.
“As far as I could,” the young monk agreed. “She was pursued.”
“By who?”
“Lesauvage’s men.”
That announcement poured ice water into the old monk’s veins. “How did they get there?”
“They followed the woman. I only happened to be in the mountains when I saw her with the old man.”
“What old man?” Brother Gaspar was alarmed.
“I do not know, master.”
Brother Gaspar went through the sheets of pictures. “Is he in these?”
“Sadly, no. I thought I took his picture, but when I developed the images, I found I had not.”
Brother Gaspar, whose life had been so carefully ordered for so very long, felt very unsettled. He didn’t like the fact that Lesauvage’s men had been so close to the discovery of La Bête or that his monks had merely been lucky.
When he had found out about the American television person, he had dismissed her at once. Chasing History’s Monsters was pure entertainment and a complete waste of time. No one doing research for such a show presented any threat to uncovering his secrets. Or so he had believed.
“Who has the necklace now?” Brother Gaspar asked.
“The woman, I think.” Brother Napier looked flustered. “Lesauvage’s men gave pursuit, but the American woman and the old man shot back at them and escaped.”
“Where is the American woman?”
“She was staying in Lozère. I don’t know where.”
Lamenting that he hadn’t given more thought to the threat the woman might have posed, Brother Gaspar sighed. “Find her. Find out if she still has the necklace.”
“And if she does, master?”
“Take it from her and bring it to me.”
“Of course.” Brother Napier bowed and backed out of the room.
Resentfully, Brother Gaspar glared at the table. His nearly completed letter sat there.
It would have to be rewritten, of course. And he would have to call the bishop. Perhaps, Brother Gaspar thought, he would soon be free of his prison.
7
Inspector Richelieu’s office was neat and compact. Not the kind of office Annja expected of a working policeman. She’d seen cop’s offices before. None of them were this pristine.
She wondered if maybe Richelieu was gay or lived with his mother. Or perhaps he was a control freak. A personality trait like that was a real relationship killer.
Not that Annja was looking for a relationship. But the inspector did have nice eyes and nice hands. Her mind wandered for a moment.
“Have a seat,” Richelieu invited, waving to the chair across from his tiny metal desk.
Annja sat. In the too neat office, she felt dirty and grimy. Outside in the main office with the other policemen, she’d felt that she belonged. Now she wanted a hot bath and a change of clothing. And food. She suddenly realized she was starving.
“I gave a statement to one of the officers,” Annja said.
“I know.” Richelieu sat on the other side of the desk. “I read it. Both versions.”
While waiting for something—anything—to happen, Annja had written up her statement herself in addition to the one the policeman had taken. She hadn’t trusted his eye for detail. Or his ear.
“Your penmanship and your French are exquisite,” Richelieu commented.
“Thanks,” Annja said, “but I wasn’t here for a grade.”
Richelieu smiled. “I’ve also been investigating the supposed site of the chase down the mountain.”
“Supposed?” Annja echoed.
“Yes.” The inspector looked concerned for a moment. “Would you prefer to speak in English? I’m quite good at it and perhaps it would be easier.”
“French is fine,” Annja said.
“I thought perhaps you hadn’t understood.”
“I understood perfectly.” Annja put an edge to her words. Getting dismissed out of hand in the field of archaeology because she was a woman was something she’d had to deal with often. She didn’t take it lightly. “There was no ‘supposed’ chase site. It was there. Along with two or three dead men.”
Richelieu waited a moment, then shook his head. “No dead men.”
Annja thought about that. “Perhaps Lesauvage had the bodies picked up.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” Annja replied. “I came here to you to find out why he would send men looking for me in the first place.”
“Do you know that he sent the men?”
“I overheard one of the men say that they were working for Lesauvage.”
“But you don’t know that they, in fact, did.”
“Why would they say they were if they weren’t?”
The inspector looked amused and perplexed. “I’m quite sure I wouldn’t know.”
“I could ask Lesauvage,” Annja said.
“I thought you didn’t know him.”
“Maybe you could introduce us,” Annja suggested with a smile. The inspector wasn’t the only one who could play games. He was just the only one at the moment with some reason to.
A sour smile pulled at Richelieu’s lips. He pulled at his left ear. “You’re intimating that I have some kind of personal relationship with Lesauvage?”
Returning his gaze full measure, Annja asked, “Are you sure speaking French works for you? Mayb
e English translates more plainly.”
Richelieu scowled. “I didn’t come here to listen to disparaging remarks directed at me, Miss Creed.”
“I didn’t come here to cool my heels for three hours, then get patted on the head and sent away.”
Opening the slim notebook computer on his desk, Richelieu opened a file that displayed several pictures. “We investigated the site. I took these pictures. I found expended cartridges, bullets in the trees and scorch marks.” He paused. “No bodies. No motorcycles.”
“Then Lesauvage picked them up.”
“Why?”
“So he wouldn’t be implicated.”
Closing the computer, Richelieu looked at her. “I was hoping to establish the veracity of your claim, Miss Creed. I did find damage done out in the forest—which is federally protected, I might add, and something you might be called upon to answer for—but nothing that you and your friend couldn’t have done yourselves.”
“We didn’t intentionally damage the forest,” Annja said. She was annoyed. Truthfully, she hadn’t expected much in the way of help from the police. This man, Lesauvage, appeared to have a large organization at his beck and call. Assuming he had inroads with the local police was no great leap of imagination.
“So you say,” the inspector said.
“I do say.”
“I will note your disavowal in my reports.”
“Why would we do something like that?” Annja asked, exasperated.
Richelieu spread his hands. “You’re a television personality, Miss Creed. Here in Lozère chasing a monster that’s three hundred years old. Perhaps you thought tales of a running gun battle through the forest would, perhaps, spice up your tale. For your viewers. I am told that you people in television will do anything to improve your ratings.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Annja said angrily.
“Perhaps not. But there were no bodies out there. Nor was there a giant crevasse leading to an underground cave containing the remains of La Bête.”
“The earthquake must have closed it back up.”
Richelieu nodded. “Amazing, isn’t it, that nature herself would align against you?”