by Alex Archer
MINUTES LATER, Annja sat on the floor in the back of the cargo van. Her hands were cuffed behind her. Roux sat near the double doors at the back. His hands were also cuffed. He sat impassively, watching the exchange between Annja and Lesauvage.
You have no business being here, Annja told herself again. The statement was now a litany that spawned over and over again in her head like a video-game monster.
But every time she looked at Avery Moreau, sitting shaking and frightened across from her, she knew she couldn’t have stayed away.
“You did not bring the charm, Miss Creed.” Corvin Lesauvage paced the carpeted rear deck of the van.
Annja made no reply.
“What did you hope to accomplish?” Lesauvage demanded.
“You would have killed Avery Moreau if I hadn’t come,” she said.
“Yes.”
Avery looked up at Lesauvage. The young man held his injured hand cradled in his lap. Red streaks along his forearm showed the onset of infection. Even though Lesauvage had wounded him, Avery still looked surprised by the man’s quick admission.
“So here I am,” Annja said.
“What good are you?”
“I memorized the charm,” Annja said. “I know what it looks like. Do you?”
Lesauvage drew back his hand to strike her. Annja didn’t flinch, fully expecting to feel the weight of the blow.
“Don’t,” Roux said. There was something in the old man’s voice that stayed Lesauvage’s hand.
The criminal stepped away, fastening his gaze onto Roux. “You should have stayed out of this, old man.”
“Perhaps,” Roux replied. “But, then, you don’t know who you’re trifling with, do you?”
Annja watched Lesauvage. This wasn’t like the final tense moments in a movie where the villain laid out his plans for conquest. In the movies, the script kept the villain from killing the captured heroes. Annja was desperately aware that there was no such script here.
Joan of Arc died at the hands of her enemies, Annja thought. For a moment she believed Lesauvage was going to kill Roux.
“What do you want?” Annja asked.
Visibly restraining himself, Lesauvage took a deep breath and turned to face her. The constant roar of the tires against the pavement filled the van. They were obviously headed for a destination, but Annja had no clue what that might be.
“How familiar are you with the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, Miss Creed?” Lesauvage asked.
“I know they represented the church and were known for keeping to themselves,” Annja said. “They worked on scholarly pieces for the church libraries and were self-sufficient. I know they also took a stand against the French noblemen who wanted to continue the Wild Hunt. I know their monastery was destroyed in 1767. I assume that was done by the same French noblemen they displeased.”
“It was,” Lesauvage said. “But that monastery was destroyed and the monks slain for more than mere interference.”
Annja waited. She’d baited him. She could see that. He loved knowing more than she did and he couldn’t hold that knowledge back.
“The Brotherhood of Silent Rain wasn’t just against the Wild Hunt,” Lesauvage said. “They also protested the search for the Beast of Gévaudan, saying that the creature was imagined and the poor people were killed by the noblemen only to justify the Wild Hunt.”
“Why would they do that?” Annja asked.
“Because,” Lesauvage said, “they were providing safe harbor for La Bête. The beast was living among them.”
27
“How do you know La Bête was living at the monastery?” Annja asked.
Lesauvage showed her a grin, then lit a Gaulois cigarette and breathed out a plume of smoke. “You’re not the only one who does research, Miss Creed.”
“Not to be offensive,” Annja stated evenly, not truly caring if the man took offense, “but you hardly seem the sort to crack a book.”
“I didn’t.” Lesauvage stared at her coldly. “All my life I’ve been told that a knight named Benoit of Mende, nicknamed ‘the Relentless’ because he never gave up on anything he set his mind to, found out that the monks of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain were providing shelter to La Bête. He blackmailed the monks into giving him a huge ransom.”
“Instead of telling others who might help kill the beast?” Roux asked.
Lesauvage grinned. “Benoit was truly a man after my own heart. Always looking after himself.”
“How did he find out the monastery was sheltering La Bête?”
“He was a master of the Wild Hunt. No beast—no man—was safe once Benoit took up the trail.” Lesauvage’s eyes gleamed with excitement at the telling. “He followed the creature back there in 1767. The following morning, he went to Father Roger, who was master of the monastery, and told him they would have to pay for his silence. Reluctantly, the monks agreed. And they began to gather up the gold and silver Benoit exacted for his price. But he knew they would try to betray him. After all, everyone knows you can’t trust the English.”
“The English?” Annja repeated.
“Father Roger was English. He was banished to the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain years before for some transgression against the church.”
“What transgression?”
Lesauvage shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Annja knew it did. Lesauvage was missing a large part of the story, but she thought she had it. “Go on.”
“Thank you,” the man said sarcastically. “At any rate, knowing he couldn’t trust the English, Benoit arranged to accept delivery of the ransom. He and his men fled from the monastery that day. A sudden storm rose up and chased them down the mountain.”
“What mountain?” Annja asked.
“Up in the Cévennes,” Lesauvage said. “That’s where we’re going now. We’ll see how well you remember the charm.”
Annja didn’t respond. “You’re looking for the treasure.”
“But of course. On his way down the mountainside, Benoit fully expected to be attacked by the monks. What he had not counted on was being pursued by La Bête. He thought to outmaneuver the monks, though. There are some old Roman ruins up in the Cévennes.”
“Several of them are at Nîmes,” Annja said.
“You know of them? Excellent. But there are several others. The Roman legions marched everywhere through France on their way to conquer the rest of the known world. They left garrisons, temples and buildings everywhere they went. Quite the builders, the Romans. Benoit chose to hide his treasure in those ruins.”
“And you believe it’s still there?” Annja shook her head.
“I do.”
“That was 240 years ago.”
Lesauvage glared at her. “The treasure was never found. Benoit and ten of his finest knights, accompanied by twenty peasants, raced down the mountain with La Bête on their heels. Benoit had counted on having the day to help him. Instead, the sky had turned dark and rain lashed the forest. The horses skidded and tumbled, hardly worth attempting to ride.”
“On the ground, in full armor, the knights were sitting ducks for La Bête,” Annja said.
“They had no chance,” Lesauvage said. “La Bête was among them in minutes. Benoit said that he heard the screams of his men as they were slain.”
“I guess he didn’t stay to help them,” Roux said dryly.
“Benoit was no hero,” Lesauvage said. “He was a fighter. He stayed and fought only when he knew he was going to win. Against the rain, unhorsed and on the treacherous slopes of a forested mountain, he knew he could not win. His only victory lay in survival, being able to live to reclaim his fortune. So he ran.”
As Annja listened to the man’s words, she imagined what the battle must have been like. She’d seen La Bête’s huge body in the cave. Trapped in their armor in the mud as they had been, instead of secure on horses, the knights had little chance.
“In the end, the knights were all slain,” Lesauvage said.
“What
happened to the peasants?” Annja figured she already knew, but she had to ask.
Lesauvage grinned. “After they’d helped hide the treasure in the ruins, Benoit and his men killed them. Well away from the hiding area, of course.”
Roux growled a curse.
“Secrets, you see, are hard to keep when they’re shared so broadly,” Lesauvage said.
“I take it Benoit didn’t die,” Annja said.
“No,” Lesauvage agreed. “Benoit didn’t die. The storm that poured out its fury and took away his fighting terrain also offered him a means of escape. A stream runs at the foothills of the Cévennes near the ruins. With the arrival of the storm, the stream swelled and overflowed its banks, becoming a raging torrent.”
Annja had been in mountains caving when flash floods had struck. She’d always been amazed at how much water was dumped during a sudden storm.
“Benoit shed his armor as he ran, knowing his only chance was the stream.” Lesauvage flicked ash from his cigarette. “He reached a cliff overlooking the water. Before he could jump La Bête overtook him.” Lesauvage smiled. “They fought. Benoit was armed with only a knife. He didn’t fare well. But he wounded the beast enough that he was able to escape and leap into the stream. La Bête tried to follow, but couldn’t swim.”
“Why didn’t Benoit recover his ransom later?” Annja asked.
“Unfortunately, Benoit was not only injured by La Bête, but also by the plunge into the river. He was in a coma for nine days. Everyone thought he was dead. Then, on the morning of the tenth day, he woke to find that he had suffered a spinal injury that robbed him of his legs and most of the use of his arms.”
Annja waited, knowing Lesauvage was doling the story out as he wanted to.
“Condemned to his bed, Benoit still intended to have both his ransom and his vengeance against the monks,” Lesauvage said. “He rallied the other knights who shared his interest in the Wild Hunt and told them that the monastery of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain was giving shelter to La Bête.”
“They believed him?” Annja asked.
Lesauvage shrugged. “Either way, they were going to be rid of the monks and their insistence that the Wild Hunt be stopped. They took up arms and destroyed the monastery, pulling it down stone by stone and burning what was left. For his revenge against the monster, Benoit struck a secret deal with the most renowned knight in all of Gévaudan at the time, Scarlet Didier, whose blood was made of ice water and whose thirst for action was unquenchable.”
“He agreed to hunt La Bête?”
“When it wasn’t found at the monastery, yes.”
“Why?”
“For money, of course. Benoit had claimed a coin from the monastery. A piece of metal stamped with the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain’s symbol. On the other side, Benoit crafted an image of a wolf and a mountain.”
Annja waited.
“That image,” Lesauvage said, “is a map to the treasure. Benoit gave the charm to Scarlet Didier and told him he would give him the secret of the map after he had killed La Bête and brought back the creature’s head.”
“Scarlet Didier didn’t come back from that hunt,” Annja said. She remembered the dead man holding on to the spear in the cave.
“No. After Didier went up into the mountains, he was never heard from again,” Lesauvage said. “Three days after Didier left, Benoit had a relapse caused by an infection. He died a week later, never regaining consciousness.”
“You expect that treasure to still be there after two hundred years?” Roux asked in a manner suggesting that Lesauvage was insane or a fool.
“It was never found,” Lesauvage replied.
Roux snorted in open derision. “More than likely the monks took it back.”
“The treasure was never found at the monastery,” Lesauvage argued.
“Then it never existed.” Roux’s conviction was damning.
Lesauvage wheeled on the old man and struck him with his fist. Roux’s head turned to the side. When the old man turned to face his tormentor, he glowered at him.
“No man,” Roux said in a quiet, deadly voice that barely rose above the steady whir of the tires, “has ever laid a hand upon me without paying the price in blood. I will kill you.”
Bending down, Lesauvage shoved his face close to Roux’s. He raised his voice. “Marcel,” he called.
One of the guards stepped forward.
“Tie that length of chain around the old man’s leg,” Lesauvage directed.
The big man knelt and carried out the order. The oily black chain left smudges on Roux’s pants.
“Now open the cargo doors.”
Marcel opened the cargo doors. The highway passed in a dizzying rush. Trees stood black and dark against the moon. One of the Renaults, flanked by motorcycles, followed closely.
“When I tell you to,” Lesauvage said, “heave the old man out the cargo doors. If he somehow is missed by the car or survives the impact, we’ll keep dragging him until there’s nothing left of him.”
The big guard nodded and seized Roux’s bound feet. He dragged and pushed the old man to hang poised over the edge. Roux never said a word.
Horrified at the prospect of what was happening, Annja tried to break free of her bonds. The metal cuffs felt loose, but she could not break them.
She pictured the sword in her mind’s eye and reached for it. But somehow she couldn’t manage to take the hilt up into her bound arm. It was as if the sword were suddenly behind a glass wall.
Frustrated, Annja said, “If you hurt him, you might as well kill me.”
Lesauvage threw up a hand, freezing his minion in place. “Are you that brave?” he asked.
“If you’re going to kill him,” Annja said, “I know you’ll kill me. If I know you’re going to kill me, why should I help you?”
“What do you propose?”
“Leave him alone,” Annja suggested. “Once we get up into the mountains, I’ll help you find the ransom Benoit hid.”
“You’ll help me anyway.” Lesauvage leered. “I’ve got a taste for torture. Breaking you could be a delight.”
Swallowing the fear that threatened to engulf her, Annja made herself stare back at Lesauvage. Don’t let him see that you’re afraid. He’s like any other predator. Keep him off balance, she thought.
“Breaking me will take time,” she promised. “And what do you do if you go too far? Do you want to lose time and take the chance on losing the information I have?”
Lesauvage stood. “Pull the old man back inside and close the door.”
The guard did that. Immediately the road noise inside the van diminished.
“Now,” Lesauvage said to Annja, “here’s the deal you reaped. The first time I get the impression that you’re lying to me, I’m going to kill all of you. And I’ll take my time while I’m doing it.” He paused. “Is that understood?”
Annja nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Good,” Lesauvage said.
LITTLE MORE than an hour later, they were up in the Cévennes mountains. They left the BMW, Renaults and van at the base of the mountains.
Lesauvage checked the GPS locater he carried, then gave directions to his team. All of them were heavily armed. From his conversation over the cell phone, Annja knew that he had a helicopter standing by. Evidently Lesauvage planned to use the helicopter to transport the treasure and for a quick exit.
“Are you going to continue to be his captive?” Roux whispered. He stood beside her against the van.
“I don’t have much choice,” Annja said.
“You have the sword,” Roux hissed.
“The sword isn’t exactly available at the moment.”
Roux glanced at her in consternation. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t get to it.” Annja flexed her hands behind her back. The cuffs held her arms in place. “I reach for it, the way I always have, only it won’t come.”
“But it’s there?” Roux asked.
“It fe
els like it is.”
Lesauvage returned, closing and pocketing his cell phone. At his command, one of the men placed Roux on the back of his motorcycle.
Annja was seated on another. Avery Moreau, looking feverish and exhausted, was placed on the back of a third.
Only a moment later, they were tearing across the night-darkened terrain, heading steadily up into the Cévennes Mountains.
THE MOTORCYCLE CARAVAN reached the ruins over an hour later. The long ride left Annja’s legs in agony. She hadn’t been on a motorcycle in a while and being handcuffed while riding kept her in an uncomfortable position.
Near the top of the mountain, they found the remains of an old Roman garrison. Judging from its position, the stronghold had once existed as a checkpoint along a trail that led over the mountain.
In its time, the garrison had probably looked formidable. Now it looked like the scattered blocks of a giant child. Forest growth had shot roots into the mortar, gained hold and was inexorably pulling the structure into its destructive grip. One day, if no move was made to preserve the garrison, it would crumble, devoured by vegetation.
Lesauvage and his men carried powerful flashlights. The driver in front of Annja helped her off the motorcycle but wasn’t gentle about it. She stood on wobbly legs, but her strength quickly returned.
Roux and Avery appeared to have the same problem for a while longer.
“There is a cave inside the mountain,” Lesauvage said.
Annja had already known there would be. The Romans had used every advantage the land they built upon would give them, then manufactured others. Having a cave meant having a place to store provisions, as well as retreat to.
“Hasn’t the cave been explored?” Roux asked.
“Hundreds of times,” Lesauvage answered, gazing at Annja in open speculation.
“Then you’re on a fool’s errand,” Roux snapped.
“For your sake,” Lesauvage said, “I hope not.”
Like you’re going to set us free, Annja thought derisively. But the idea of the cave captivated her thoughts. Even places that had been investigated for hundreds of years sometimes turned up surprises. Often secrets weren’t revealed until the searcher knew what to look for.