THE NOSTRADAMUS PROPHECIES

by Mario Reading

  He spe­ared the man’s gun-hand with his knee. Le­ve­red the man’s mo­uth open with the bar­rel of the Red­hawk. Then shot.

  Po­li­ce. It had to be the po­li­ce. Who el­se wo­uld ha­ve a pis­tol?

  Ba­le ran for the back win­dow, his left arm han­ging lo­ose. Ci­vi­li­an clot­hes. The man had be­en in ci­vi­li­an clot­hes - not pa­ra­mi­li­tary kit. So it wasn’t a si­ege.

  He le­ve­red him­self back­wards thro­ugh the win­dow and fell to the gro­und, cur­sing. Blo­od was cas­ca­ding down his shirt. If the bul­let had nic­ked his ca­ro­tid ar­tery, he was do­ne for.

  Once out of the Ma­set, he cut to the right, to­wards the stand of tre­es in which he’d tet­he­red the hor­se.

  No ot­her way out. No ot­her way to go.

  60

  Ale­xi was hol­ding Yo­la up in his arms, ta­king all her we­ight. Pro­tec­ting her from the cer­ta­in de­ath that her own body mass wo­uld ine­vi­tably ha­ve af­for­ded her.

  Sa­bir felt blindly abo­ve her he­ad un­til he en­co­un­te­red the ro­pe. Then he fol­lo­wed it down with his fin­gers un­til he was ab­le to un­do the no­ose that had tigh­te­ned aro­und her thro­at. She drew in a gre­at, rag­ged bre­ath - the very in­ver­se of a de­ath rat­tle. This was the so­und of li­fe re­tur­ning. Of the body suc­co­uring it­self af­ter a gre­at tra­uma.

  Whe­re was Ba­le? And Mac­ron? Su­rely they hadn’t kil­led each ot­her? Part of Sa­bir was still ex­pec­ting the fo­urth bul­let.

  He hel­ped Ale­xi lay Yo­la out on the flo­or. He co­uld fe­el the warmth of her bre­ath aga­inst his hand. He­ar Ale­xi’s sobs of pa­in.

  Ale­xi lay down be­si­de her, with Yo­la’s he­ad crad­led aga­inst his chest.

  Sa­bir na­vi­ga­ted his way by fe­el ac­ross to the fi­rep­la­ce. He re­cal­led se­e­ing a box of matc­hes on the left, ne­ar the fi­re tongs. He felt aro­und with his fin­gers un­til he en­co­un­te­red them. Whi­le he did this, he lis­te­ned with all his con­cent­ra­ti­on for any ali­en so­unds in­si­de the ho­use. But the pla­ce was si­lent. Only the mur­mur of Ale­xi’s vo­ice bro­ke the hush.

  Sa­bir put a match to the fi­re. It fla­red in­to li­fe. He was ab­le, by its light, to fo­cus on the rest of the ro­om. It was empty.

  He mo­ved ac­ross to the fal­len fo­ots­to­ol, dri­ed off one or two of the cand­les and lit them. The sha­dows pla­yed off the walls abo­ve him. He was cons­ci­o­usly ha­ving to cont­rol the pa­nic that was thre­ate­ning to send him at a fl at run back out of the ro­om and to­wards the wel­co­ming dark­ness out­si­de. ‘Let’s ta­ke her over to the fi­re. She’s drenc­hed. I’ll get a blan­ket and so­me to­wels from one of the bed­ro­oms.’

  Sa­bir had a fa­ir idea by now of what he wo­uld find out in the cor­ri­dor. The­re had be­en blo­od all over the flo­or ne­ar the sto­ol. Thick go­uts of it. As tho­ugh the eye-man had blown an ar­tery. He fol­lo­wed its tra­il un­til he ca­me to the tang­le of cha­irs en­circ­ling Mac­ron’s body.

  The top of the man’s he­ad had be­en blown off. A flap of skin co­ve­red his one re­ma­ining eye. Dry-gag­ging, Sa­bir le­ve­red the gun out of Mac­ron’s hand. Aver­ting his eyes from the rest of the mess, he felt blindly aro­und for the cel­lpho­ne he knew Mac­ron kept in the front poc­ket of his blo­uson. He stra­igh­te­ned up and con­ti­nu­ed on down the cor­ri­dor. He sto­od for a whi­le con­temp­la­ting the fresh blo­od tra­il whe­re it cros­sed the led­ge of the re­ar win­dow.

  Then, glan­cing down at the il­lu­mi­na­ted VDU of the cel­lpho­ne, he wal­ked in­to the first ava­ilab­le bed­ro­om in se­arch of blan­kets.

  61

  ‘I’ll ta­ke that.’ Cal­que held his hand out for Mac­ron’s gun.

  Sa­bir ten­de­red him the pis­tol. ‘Whe­ne­ver we me­et, I al­ways se­em to be pas­sing you fi­re­arms.’

  ‘The mo­bi­le pho­ne, too.’

  Cal­que poc­ke­ted the gun and the cel­lpho­ne and mo­ved to­wards the cor­ri­dor. He sho­uted back over his sho­ul­der. ‘Can we get the elect­ri­city re­con­nec­ted he­re? So­me­one call the com­pany. Eit­her that, or hitch up a ge­ne­ra­tor. I can’t see to think.’ He sto­od for a mo­ment over Mac­ron’s body, pla­ying his torch over what re­ma­ined of his as­sis­tant’s fa­ce.

  Sa­bir mo­ved up be­hind him.

  ‘No. Stand back. This is a cri­me sce­ne now. I want yo­ur fri­ends to re­ma­in by the fi­rep­la­ce un­til the am­bu­lan­ce co­mes. Not wash the­ir hands. Not tre­ad in anyt­hing. Not to­uch anyt­hing. You, Sa­bir, will co­me out­si­de with me. You’ve got so­me exp­la­ining to do.’

  Sa­bir fol­lo­wed Cal­que out of the front do­or. Tem­po­rary spot­lights we­re be­ing le­ve­red in­to pla­ce out­si­de, gi­ving the area the lo­ok of a flo­od­lit, all-we­at­her fo­ot­ball pitch.

  ‘I’m sorry. Sorry abo­ut yo­ur as­sis­tant.’

  Cal­que glan­ced at the sur­ro­un­ding tre­es and bre­at­hed in de­eply. He felt in his poc­kets for a ci­ga­ret­te. When he didn’t find one he lo­oked tem­po­ra­rily be­reft - as if it was the lack of a ci­ga­ret­te he was mo­ur­ning and not his part­ner. ‘It’s a funny thing. I didn’t even li­ke the man. But now he’s de­ad I miss him. Wha­te­ver he might ha­ve be­en - wha­te­ver he might ha­ve do­ne - he was mi­ne. Do you un­ders­tand that? My prob­lem.’ Cal­que’s fa­ce was a fro­zen mask. Im­pos­sib­le to re­ad. Im­pos­sib­le to to­uch.

  A pas­sing CRS of­fi­cer, no­ting Cal­que’s se­arch for a ci­ga­ret­te, of­fe­red him one of his own. Cal­que’s eyes fla­red ang­rily in the rush of the ligh­ter fla­me - an an­ger that was just as sud­denly ex­tin­gu­is­hed. Catc­hing sight of Cal­que’s exp­res­si­on, the man ga­ve an em­bar­ras­sed sa­lu­te and pas­sed on.

  Sa­bir shrug­ged his sho­ul­ders in a va­in ef­fort to mi­ti­ga­te the ef­fect of what he was abo­ut to say. ‘Mac­ron cal­led it off his own bat, didn’t he? Yo­ur pe­op­le we­re he­re ten mi­nu­tes af­ter he mo­ved in. He sho­uld ha­ve wa­ited, sho­uldn’t he? He told us the sho­oters wo­uld ta­ke two ho­urs. That they had to co­me from Mont­pel­li­er and not Mar­se­il­le. He was lying, wasn’t he?’

  Cal­que tur­ned away, grin­ding out his freshly-lit ci­ga­ret­te in the sa­me flu­id mo­ti­on. ‘The girl is ali­ve. My as­sis­tant se­cu­red her li­fe at the cost of his own.’ He gla­red at Sa­bir. ‘He inj­ured the eye-man. The man is now on hor­se­back, spe­wing blo­od, in an area bo­un­ded by two ra­rely used ro­ads and a ri­ver. On­ce day­light co­mes, he will stick out li­ke an ant on a blank she­et of pa­per. He will be ca­ught - eit­her from the air or in the land net. The area is al­re­ady ni­nety per cent se­aled off. In un­der an ho­ur, we will ha­ve ma­de it a hund­red.’

  ‘I know that, but…’

  ‘My as­sis­tant is de­ad, Mon­si­e­ur Sa­bir. He sac­ri­fi­ced him­self for you and the girl. First thing to­mor­row mor­ning I will ha­ve to go and exp­la­in his de­ath to his fa­mily. How it co­uld pos­sibly ha­ve hap­pe­ned on my watch. How I let it hap­pen. Are you su­re you he­ard him right? Abo­ut Mont­pel­li­er, I me­an? And the two ho­urs?’

  Sa­bir held Cal­que’s eyes with his own. Then he al­lo­wed his ga­ze to sli­de back to­wards the ho­use. The dis­tant so­und of an am­bu­lan­ce cut thro­ugh the night air li­ke a la­ment.

  ‘You’re right, Cap­ta­in Cal­que. I’m just a stu­pid Yank. My French is a lit­tle rusty. Mont­pel­li­er. Mar­se­il­le. They all so­und the sa­me to me.’

  62

  ‘I’m not go­ing to the hos­pi­tal. And ne­it­her is Ale­xi.’ Yo­la watc­hed Sa­bir wa­rily. She was not su­re how far she co­uld go with him - how de­ep his ga­dje ho­od re­al­ly re­ac­hed. She had ta­ken him asi­de for this one pur­po­se. But now she was con­cer�
�ned that his frac­tu­red ma­le pri­de wo­uld ma­ke him that much har­der to con­vin­ce.

  ‘What do you me­an? You ca­me this clo­se to be­ing strang­led.’ Sa­bir slid one of his hands in­si­de the ot­her and then twis­ted. ‘And Ale­xi fell from his hor­se on to a ste­el bar­ri­er and so­me conc­re­te. He co­uld ha­ve in­ter­nal inj­uri­es. You ne­ed a comp­le­te me­di­cal check-up and he ne­eds in­ten­si­ve ca­re. In a hos­pi­tal. Not in a ca­ra­van.’

  Yo­la mo­du­la­ted the to­ne of her vo­ice, cons­ci­o­usly pla­ying up her fe­mi­ni­nity - pla­ying on the af­fec­ti­on she knew Sa­bir felt for her. His sus­cep­ti­bi­lity to the dis­taff si­de. ‘The­re is a man at Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es. A cu­ran­de­ro. One of our own pe­op­le. He will lo­ok af­ter us bet­ter than any ga­dje doc­tor.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. He’s yo­ur co­usin. And he uses plants.’

  ‘He is the co­usin of my fat­her. And he uses mo­re than plants. He uses the ca­ci­pen. He uses the know­led­ge of cu­res that ha­ve be­en pas­sed down to him in dre­ams.’

  ‘Oh. Well. That’s all right then.’ Sa­bir watc­hed as a wo­man in a plas­tic su­it be­gan pho­tog­rap­hing the in­te­ri­or of the Ma­set. ‘Let me get this stra­ight. You want me to con­vin­ce Cal­que to let you in­to this man’s ca­re? To sa­ve Ale­xi from the saw­bo­nes? Is that it?’

  Yo­la ma­de her de­ci­si­on. ‘You ha­ve not told the po­li­ce­man abo­ut Gav­ril yet, ha­ve you?’

  Sa­bir fl us­hed. ‘I tho­ught Ale­xi was sick. I didn’t re­ali­se he had bro­ught you so swiftly up to da­te.’

  ‘Ale­xi tells me everyt­hing.’

  Sa­bir al­lo­wed his ga­ze to wan­der so­mew­he­re over Yo­la’s right sho­ul­der. ‘Well, Cal­que’s got eno­ugh on his pla­te. Gav­ril can wa­it. He’s go­ing now­he­re fast.’

  ‘Cal­que will bla­me you for hol­ding out on him. You know that. He will bla­me Ale­xi, too, when he dis­co­vers who re­al­ly fo­und the body.’

  Sa­bir shrug­ged. ‘May­be so. But why sho­uld he ever find out? We’re the only three who know what Ale­xi stumb­led on. And I’m dam­ned su­re Ale­xi won’t tell him. You know how he fe­els abo­ut cops.’

  Yo­la step­ped aro­und and pla­ced her­self firmly in Sa­bir’s sight-li­ne. ‘You ha­ve not told him be­ca­use you want to ret­ri­eve the prop­he­ci­es first.’

  A rush of out­ra­ged vir­tue tri­ump­hed over Sa­bir’s ins­tinc­ti­ve sen­se of mo­ral disc­re­ti­on. ‘What’s wrong with that? It wo­uld be mad­ness to lo­se them at this sta­ge.’

  ‘Even so, Da­mo, you must tell the po­li­ce­man. Tell him now. Gav­ril has a mot­her who is still li­ving. A go­od wo­man. It is not her fa­ult that her son was a bad per­son. Wha­te­ver he was, wha­te­ver he did, he must not lie any lon­ger un­mo­ur­ned - li­ke an ani­mal. The Ma­no­uc­he be­li­eve that a per­son’s wrong ac­ti­ons are can­cel­led out by the­ir de­ath. For us the­re is no Hell. No evil pla­ce that pe­op­le go to when they are de­ad. Gav­ril was one of us. It wo­uld not be right. Do this thing and I will ret­ri­eve the prop­he­ci­es for you. Sec­retly. Whi­le the po­li­ce­man watc­hes over you and Ale­xi.’

  Sa­bir threw back his he­ad. ‘You’re crazy, Yo­la. The eye-man is still out the­re so­mew­he­re. How can you even think of such a thing?’

  Yo­la to­ok anot­her step to­wards him. She was cons­ci­o­usly for­cing her­self in­to his spa­ce. Ma­king it im­pos­sib­le for Sa­bir to ig­no­re her - to wri­te her off as a me­re wo­man, bra­ving wa­ters bet­ter su­ited to men. ‘I know him now, Da­mo. The eye-man has spo­ken pri­va­tely to me. Re­ve­aled so­met­hing of him­self. I can com­bat him. I shall ta­ke with me a sec­ret. Pas­sed down to the cu­ran­de­ro from the sna­ke wo­man, Li­lith, many mot­hers ago, when she ga­ve the cho­sen ones of our fa­mily the se­cond sight.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sa­ke, Yo­la. De­ath is the only thing that will de­fe­at the eye-man. Not se­cond sight.’

  ‘And it is de­ath that I shall carry with me.’

  63

  The gel­ding had qu­a­iled at the scent of Ba­le’s blo­od. Its legs had spla­yed as if it did not know in which di­rec­ti­on it in­ten­ded go­ing. When Ba­le had tri­ed to ap­pro­ach it, the gel­ding had thrown back its he­ad in pa­nic and drag­ged aga­inst its re­ins, which we­re ti­ed in a bunch to a branch of the tree. The re­ins had snap­ped and the gel­ding had bac­ked wildly away, then twis­ted on its ha­unc­hes and gal­lo­ped fran­ti­cal­ly up the track to­wards the ma­in ro­ad.

  Ba­le glan­ced back to­wards the ho­use. The agony in his neck and arm can­cel­led out the so­unds of the night. He was lo­sing blo­od fast. Wit­ho­ut the hor­se, they wo­uld catch him wit­hin the ho­ur. Any mi­nu­te now they wo­uld be he­re, with the­ir he­li­cop­ters and the­ir se­arch­lights and the­ir inf­ra­red night glas­ses. They wo­uld dirty him. Tar­nish him with the­ir fin­gers and with the­ir hands.

  Clutc­hing his left arm to his si­de to pre­vent it swin­ging, Ba­le did the only thing he co­uld pos­sibly do.

  He be­gan to ret­ra­ce his steps to­wards the Ma­set.

  64

  Sa­bir watc­hed the po­li­ce car ta­ke Yo­la and Ale­xi away. He sup­po­sed that it was a de­al that he had re­luc­tantly cut with Cal­que but words li­ke ‘rat’ and ‘trap’ kept in­ter­po­sing them­sel­ves bet­we­en him and any sa­tis­fac­ti­on that he might ha­ve ta­ken in its in­cep­ti­on.

  The only ed­ge that he had pos­ses­sed with which to co­un­ter Cal­que’s an­ger at his hol­ding out abo­ut Gav­ril, lay in his by now ta­cit ag­re­ement to ke­ep qu­i­et abo­ut Mac­ron’s cri­mi­nal im­pe­tu­osity. Iro­ni­cal­ly, tho­ugh, he hadn’t da­red men­ti­on Mac­ron aga­in in ca­se he inf­la­med Cal­que way be­yond ra­ti­ona­lity and en­ded up co­un­ting bricks in a ja­il cell - so that par­ti­cu­lar bar­ga­ining co­un­ter had pro­ved less than worth­less.

  This way, at any ra­te, he re­ma­ined use­ful to the man and ca­pab­le of ma­in­ta­ining at le­ast so­me deg­ree of free mo­ve­ment. If Yo­la did what she’d sa­id she’d do, they wo­uld still be ahe­ad of the ga­me. If the go­uts of blo­od left in the Ma­set sa­lon we­re anyt­hing to go by, it co­uldn’t be long, su­rely, be­fo­re the French po­li­ce ran the eye-man down and eit­her kil­led him or to­ok him in­to cus­tody?

  Cal­que cro­oked a fin­ger at Sa­bir. ‘Get in­to the car.’

  Sa­bir se­ated him­self next to a CRS of­fi­cer in a bul­let-pro­of vest. He smi­led but the of­fi cer re­fu­sed to res­pond. The man was go­ing to a po­ten­ti­al cri­me sce­ne. He was in of­fi­ci­al mo­de.

  Hardly surp­ri­sing, tho­ught Sa­bir to him­self - he was still a sus­pect in ne­arly every­body’s eyes. The ca­use, if not exactly the per­pet­ra­tor, of a col­le­ague’s vi­olent de­ath.

  Cal­que spre­ad him­self out ac­ross the front se­at. ‘I’m right, am I not? La Ro­upie’s body is lying out­si­de a gar­di­en’s ca­ba­ne, twenty mi­nu­tes north of the Bac, just be­fo­re you get to the Pan­per­du? That’s what you told me, isn’t it? That’s whe­re you ca­me ac­ross it whi­le you we­re out se­arc­hing for the gypsy Du­fon­ta­ine?’

  ‘Ale­xi Du­fon­ta­ine. Yes.’

  ‘Do you ha­ve a prob­lem with the word gypsy?’

  ‘When used in that way, yes.’

  Cal­que ack­now­led­ged the va­li­dity of Sa­bir’s po­int wit­ho­ut ac­tu­al­ly bot­he­ring to turn his he­ad. ‘You’re lo­yal to yo­ur fri­ends, aren’t you, Mon­si­e­ur Sa­bir?’

  ‘They sa­ved my li­fe. They be­li­eved in me when no one el­se did. Am I lo­yal to them? Yes. Do­es that surp­ri­se you? It sho­uldn’t.’

  Cal­que twis­ted in his se­at. ‘I ask you this only be­ca­use I am ha­ving dif­fi­culty in tal­lyin
g up what you ha­ve just told me abo­ut yo­ur dis­co­very of La Ro­upie’s body and the fact that you dec­la­red qu­ite cle­arly, when I qu­es­ti­oned you ear­li­er, that you went off in se­arch of Du­fon­ta­ine by fo­ot. The dis­tan­ces in­vol­ved se­em qu­ite un­re­alis­tic.’ Cal­que nod­ded to the dri­ver, who swung the car away from the Ma­set and down the dri­ve. ‘Do me a fa­vo­ur and lo­ok at this map, will you? I’m su­re you will be ab­le to put me right.’

  Sa­bir to­ok the map, his exp­res­si­on ne­ut­ral.

  ‘You will see, mar­ked on the map, the only ca­ba­ne you co­uld pos­sibly me­an. I ha­ve high­ligh­ted it with a lar­ge red circ­le. The­re. You see it? Are we in ag­re­ement that this is the pla­ce?’

  The uns­mi­ling CRS of­fi­cer re­ac­hed ac­ross and switc­hed on the in­te­ri­or light for Sa­bir’s con­ve­ni­en­ce.

  Sa­bir glan­ced du­ti­ful­ly down at the map. ‘Yes. That wo­uld se­em to be the pla­ce.’

  ‘Are you an Olym­pic sprin­ter, Mon­si­e­ur Sa­bir?’

  Sa­bir switc­hed the in­te­ri­or light back off. ‘Cap­ta­in.

  Do me a fa­vo­ur. Just get wha­te­ver it is you want to tell me off you’re chest. This at­mosp­he­re is mur­der.’

  Cal­que ret­ri­eved the map. He nod­ded to the dri­ver, who set the si­ren in mo­ti­on. ‘I ha­ve only one thing to tell you, Mis­ter Sa­bir. If Du­fon­ta­ine do­es a va­nis­hing act be­fo­re I ha­ve a chan­ce to qu­es­ti­on him and ta­ke his sta­te­ment, I will hold you and the girl in his pla­ce - as ac­ces­so­ri­es be­fo­re the fact - for as long as I de­em it ne­ces­sary. Do you un­ders­tand me? Or shall I get on to the ra­dio this mi­nu­te and tell the car that is de­li­ve­ring yo­ur two gypsy fri­ends to the cu­ran­de­ro at Les Sa­in­tes-Ma­ri­es to turn aro­und and co­me stra­ight back?’