by Alex Archer
The old man retrieved the box from the backseat.
The guards watched him closely.
From this distance, with the wind whipping across the mountaintops, it was impossible to hear what words passed between them no matter how hard he strained to hear. The mountains carried words away on the wind and wrapped them up in snow. He watched Roux and the others enter the house before he made his move.
He had no way of knowing if any of them would continue to monitor the feeds from the security cameras, but had to hope not.
There was a track that ran around the outbuildings, which offered some cover from the windows of the farmhouse. Garin scrambled forward, bolting for cover. He fell before he made it thirty feet, and slid twice as far down the slope, and then was up on his feet again and running hard for the stone wall, dreading one single sound: the crack of bullets from an Uzi echoing around the mountains.
He couldn’t hear anything over the crunch of snow and his own ragged breathing.
Garin kept on running, knowing that he’d feel the killer bullet before he heard it, anyway.
That was no comfort.
He forced himself to go on, driving his legs through the deep snow, staggering and stumbling but not stopping.
He hit the wall, hands out to brace him against the impact, then waited, listening.
Nothing.
Not a sound.
He crept to the edge of the stone barn.
There was no sign of the guard, but that didn’t mean they weren’t scouting the area.
He watched, waiting, but nothing changed.
Silence.
Not even birdsong to break it.
The quiet rang in his ears.
Lights were on in a couple of the rooms. The curtains were open in the largest of the downstairs windows, but in others they were closed. He saw dark shapes move across his eye line inside. No lookout was posted at the window. Garin scanned the farmhouse and parking area, picking out a route to the door that would get him as close as possible with minimum risk of anyone seeing his approach. It was harder than it looked, because he noted that half a dozen cameras had been fixed on the corners of the various outbuildings, seemingly covering most angles of approach. Cauchon really valued his privacy.
Crouching, he rushed from cover to the trunk of the 4x4, keeping low as he hid at the back of the vehicle, making sure to keep it between him and the house. The distance to the other vehicle was about a dozen yards—twelve long strides, a few more if taken in a crouch, but it was all it would take. The problem was that he was going straight through the middle of an area monitored by a security camera, but there was no other means of getting to the front door—assuming the front door was the only entrance.
He took a breath and closed the distance before he released it.
Cauchon might not be expecting reinforcements, but surely he wasn’t so arrogant as to leave the front door unguarded.
Garin edged a little farther around the vehicle, keeping low, inching forward, coiled, ready to sprint for his life, twelve steps to the corner of the house. It wasn’t a lot. Twelve steps.
Now or never, Garin thought, pushing himself to his feet in the exact same second that one of the guards stepped out of the house. Garin froze—half up, half down—and didn’t dare move so much as an inch. The guard didn’t look particularly interested in securing the area. He scanned from left to right and back again, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He adjusted the gun that was slung on his shoulder and leaned against the wall, but even so, that made lighting up his smoke awkward, so he slipped the gun off his shoulder and balanced it against the wall.
Garin had just gotten lucky.
Someone should have told this bozo that smoking would kill him eventually.
He wasn’t about to let the man enjoy the cigarette.
Garin ran the numbers in his head, calculating the time it would take him to cover the distance between them. He knew it was impossible for him to sneak up on the guy, and he needed to be close enough to overpower the guard before he realized what was going on and grabbed for the Uzi. The answer was: too long.
The man took two satisfying puffs on his cigarette.
Garin watched the smoke corkscrew with the vapor of his breath. He pushed himself all the way up, ready to burst into movement, but stopped suddenly as a hand clamped over his mouth.
52
“It’s been a long time, Roux,” the man in the wheelchair said.
“You’ve changed your name.”
“I’m a different person now.” Cauchon waved one hand as if to highlight the state of his legs and the wheelchair that he relied on to get around. “I’m the man you made me.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“Patrice Moerlen is dead. If you searched the internet, you would find plenty of reports of his tragic death.”
“And yet you’re still here, living and breathing.”
“You shouldn’t have left me the way that you did.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen, not like that. I only wanted to scare you off,” Roux said. It was as though it had happened only days ago, not decades. The image of it was so vivid in his memory. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Cauchon sputtered. “No. Don’t be sorry. I want to thank you.” Roux looked at him, not understanding. “My sister—” he reached up a hand to rest on the woman’s hand, which in turn rested on his shoulder “—managed to get me to the nearest hospital, get me the best treatment. She even identified another body as mine, allowing her to claim the not insubstantial insurance policy on my life, which paid for everything I could possibly need. So, no, don’t be sorry, Roux. I’m not sorry. I’m not even bitter. I was angry for a few years, but even that passed. The truth is, without you, without what happened at the Eiffel Tower that day, I would never have made the discovery that will soon make me so much more than I am now, so much more than I was before.”
It would be easy to dismiss him as deranged, a dangerous lunatic, damaged forever by that accident, but Roux knew that would be a mistake. The woman stood behind her brother, not breaking contact with him. It was the woman who had waved so flirtatiously at him, the same woman who had drugged Garin and tried to frame him for murder. The old man had absolutely no doubt that she was capable of identifying another man’s body as her own brother, or that she would have put on a good act doing it: handkerchief at the ready, leaning on the supportive policeman’s shoulder for comfort when they peeled back the sheet to reveal the wrong dead man to her, the choking sob, the nod. He had met people like that before. He recognized the type, knew the body double had been living and breathing when she found him.
“I hate to admit it, but you have me at a disadvantage here,” Roux said. “I’ve brought what you want, but I still don’t know what I’m doing here, why you are so interested in getting me here.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “Where is Annja?”
The man nodded and the two guards who had been standing behind Roux took the box from him. They pulled his hands behind his back. His instinct was to fight against the restraints, but there was no point. Until Annja was free he had no choice but to go along with whatever they had in mind, no matter how much damage it did to him physically.
When she was safe, then things would be different. Then he could rain holy hell down on these people.
The two men pulled the plastic cuffs tight and pushed him into a chair, putting him on a level with Cauchon. Face-to-face. Eye-to-eye. The woman took the box from the guard and placed it in her brother’s lap. Her smile was vile. His eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning.
“Not to put a damper on things, but this is meant to be an exchange, but right now I feel more like Santa Claus. Where’s Annja?”
Cauchon didn’t look up from the ancient box until he had pulled the sacking away, revealing the lid. The expression on his face was cruel and twisted.
“Gone,” the man said.
“What do you mean g
one?” Roux felt rage surge up inside, from the depths of his being. They were lying. They had to be. He said as much.
“Now why would I lie to you? Your little friend is very resourceful. You should be proud. She managed to escape from my little prison, and bested Monique.”
Roux tried to keep the smile from his lips.
He hadn’t noticed the dark bruise beneath the blonde’s eye. The makeup concealed the worst of it, but the swelling was hard to disguise. This changed things. If Annja was safe, then he’d handed over the breastplate for nothing. They could have come in here guns blazing.
“If she’s truly gone and you have what you want, then we are done here,” Roux said.
“Done? Oh no. No, no, no. We’re not done. We haven’t even started.”
Cauchon opened the box.
He carefully pulled back the silk wrapping that protected the metal from contact with the wood, and breathed in deeply as he gazed upon the object of his obsession.
“Joan of Arc’s breastplate. Part of the armor she wore on the days of her final stand against the enemy.”
“That’s what I was told,” Roux said.
“You lie!” Cauchon yelled suddenly, all trace of restraint blown. “Stop lying to me! I still don’t know quite what you are, but I know that you are not a mortal man. I am not stupid. I do not believe in fairy stories.”
“People say that I have a very familiar face.”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
“There are a lot of people who look like me. It’s always been like that.”
“Stop lying, old man. I know you were there when she wore this armor. I know. I have seen enough pictures and paintings dating back centuries to know you were there at some of the most important incidents in history.”
“You don’t know what you are talking about. I told you before. You are mistaken.”
“And then you tried to silence me, if I recall. That is not the act of an innocent man, Roux. You know it and I know it. The fact you were able to lay your hands on her armor without difficulty is damning in itself.” He patted a palm against the dented metal.
“You’re making logical leaps that have no grounding in reality. This is what I do. I’ve dealt in all kinds of things over the years. Not all of them with any kind of provenance.”
“Really? Then how do you explain Miss Creed?”
“Annja? What about her?”
Cauchon sighed heavily. “I’ve seen the trick she does, drawing that sword of hers out of nowhere.”
Roux waved the notion away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. But let’s pretend you don’t. Let me explain it to you.”
“Please do,” Roux said, purposely stalling. He needed to give Garin time to infiltrate the farmhouse and even the odds. Cauchon didn’t seem to mind. He was enjoying himself. He’d imagined this meeting for a long time and had no intention of rushing it, even if his ultimate endgame was Roux’s death, which was a possibility that grew all the more probable the longer they spent together. For Cauchon this was about revenge; for Roux, suddenly, it was about atonement. This didn’t have to end in death. Not this time.
“You see, I am a scholar. I have devoted my life to research.”
“An honorable pursuit,” Roux said.
“And an enlightening one. The more you look, the more you see.”
“I would imagine so,” Roux agreed.
“I have seen a lot. Almost as much as you, I suspect.”
“More, probably,” Roux offered. “I’m not particularly observant.”
“No need for self-deprecation, Roux. You are with some of the only people in the world who truly understand all of the marvelous things you must have seen during your life.”
“No so many marvels.”
“You are too modest. Perhaps we should share. Let me begin with one of the incredible things I’ve witnessed, shall we?”
“Please do.”
“I’ve seen her sword before.”
“Sometimes a sword is just a sword,” Roux said.
“I’ve seen it in several paintings. You see, it’s the Maid’s sword, isn’t it? Jeanne d’Arc. Saint Joan. La Pucelle d’Orléans. Joan of Arc. That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Roux shrugged, the ties tugging at his wrists as he did so.
He was starting to think that there was no point in trying to deny anything.
The man had clearly made his mind up and nothing he could say was likely to change it, especially as it would be a lie.
Cauchon lifted the breastplate from the box and turned it over, examining every inch of the metal on both sides.
“Do you know what this is capable of? No, silly of me. Obviously you do. The clues were all in the notes that your friend retrieved from your own home. A better question would be, did you follow the clues that were in there? Did you find the proof that I found?” Cauchon waited for a moment, clearly wanting Roux to respond.
The old man knew that silence would be the way to beat him.
“Guillaume Manchon only scratched the surface when he suggested that there was a secret magic being practiced, but you know that, don’t you? Even Bernard Gui had suspected it was more than the mere hedge magic of charms and curses, of love potions and medicines. But neither of them could have known quite how demonic this magic was, could they? Because at heart they were good men who didn’t understand how corrupt their world really was. Unlike you.”
Roux refused to speak.
He wasn’t about to risk a word until he knew what Cauchon knew, what he believed and just how far from the truth his obsession had taken him. He already understood that Cauchon had picked at the thread of something that had more than an element of truth, but how far did that thread go? A link between Annja and the young woman who had once wielded the sword? A further link to his own incredible longevity? Both seemed likely. Both were too close to home. And, in truth, both contained answers he didn’t want to hear in case Cauchon had stumbled across something that could end it, something that could give him the power to draw a line under this life if ever decided that he had had enough of it. And there were days when all he longed to do was die.
“Nothing to say? Come on, Roux, I’m sure that you must have given the matter some thought. After all, you had plenty of time, even just over the past twenty years since I went to visit you. Since then, I have dedicated my life to studying this. I had one intention—to find your Achilles’ heel and make you suffer. But things changed. I changed. I realized that more than just pain, I wanted to give you the opportunity to show true penitence.”
“I’ve already told you that I’m sorry,” Roux said, breaking his silence. “I thought that you had died.”
“No. That’s what you wanted to believe, you mean,” the man snapped, revealing again the anger he barely kept in check beneath his veneer of calm. “Because it was convenient. Because it was better for you. Safer.”
He took a deep breath and looked Roux in the eye, holding his gaze unblinking for longer than Roux found comfortable. “Even though you seem awfully reluctant to confirm what I already know to be true, we’ll just take it as a given that you comprehend what I’m talking about. We both are aware that Annja Creed is connected in some fashion to Joan of Arc. She has her sword, and somehow reaches across time to draw it. How could this be possible? I wondered. How indeed, unless she is possessed by the martyr’s spirit? That set me to thinking. And eventually I found what I was looking for, ancient documents that show the rites and incantations that could have been used to keep her spirit in this world. Papers that detail rites that bind a spirit to this world by offering it a safe haven, a vessel that it can remain in until the mortal flesh is no longer able to sustain it. Imagine that. And while it survives in this vessel, the possessing spirit gives the body a strength that it would not otherwise have, cures it of wounds and sickness that should end its life and sustains it.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s rubbis
h. Superstitious nonsense. You do understand that, don’t you? There’s no such thing as magic. There is no ‘supernatural.’ What you are holding in your hands is a rusted piece of armor. A treasure? Yes. Undoubtedly. It was worn into battle by one of the greatest women this world has ever known. But that doesn’t make it magical, just precious,” Roux said.
“Far from it. Something sufficiently advanced may indeed seem to be magical, but that does not necessarily make it so. It only underlines the fact that we do not see all there is to see about this space we live in or how it works.”
“Now you’re mixing science and superstition to suit your need.”
“And you are willfully trying to goad me. That makes a lot of sense. You must be frightened. All these years living in the shadows, your secret safe, only to have the spotlight turned on you.”
“I’m not what you think I am,” Roux said.
“There are a number of rites and incantations that need to be completed to recall the spirit from the body.”
The woman laughed. He’d almost forgotten she was there, standing at her brother’s shoulder.
Had she been allowed inside the insanity that existed inside his head? Was she party to his madness?
The two thugs remained silent, seemingly unfazed by this talk of immortals and spirit possession. It was above their pay grade.
“It sounds like your sister agrees with me,” Roux said, weighing his words carefully. “Maybe she knows that this is all some madman’s obsession with no basis in reality.”
The woman crossed the room in less than half a dozen strides, then swung one hand, slapping him hard across the face without warning.
The noise rang out loudly. His lower lip split under the impact of the blow and his mouth was suddenly filled with the coppery tang of blood. There was no anger behind the slap, more a satisfaction that he had given her the opportunity and excuse to do it. She enjoyed inflicting even this little pain.
She returned to her place behind her brother.