Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  thirty-nine

  Morning, Friday, 5 September.

  Cathedral Basilica of Saint John the Baptist.

  Perpignan, France

  Paulo.

  I believe in the Holy Spirit

  the holy Catholic Church

  the communion of saints

  the forgiveness of sins

  the resurrection of the body

  and life everlasting.

  I am alive! I am alive I tell you! Please God, tell them I am alive!

  ". . . your father was a good man, and he loved you ..." Priest.

  Oh Annie, oh Lillie, my sweet girls. Your father lives! Do not let them bury your father! Tell them my sweet ones. Your father lives!

  "Remember the special times with your father . . ." Priest.

  Oh God, please. Let me have those times again. I beg you God. Do not allow them to do this to me. Please God, I beg you.

  ". . . now your father is closer to God than he ever was..." Priest.

  It is not right! I am not dead! Tell them God. Tell them I am not dead.

  "Your father had dreams and hopes for you . . ." Priest.

  I still have dreams and hopes. They are not dead, and neither am I! Just look at me. I will wiggle a finger, an eye. Touch my nostrils, I am breathing. Feel my heart. It beats! Oh please look at me!

  "Today we are saying goodbye . . ." Priest.

  No! Do not say goodbye! I am here!

  "We are haunted by the feeling there must be something more." Priest.

  There must be more! I am not dead! Do something God! Now!

  "At the Last Supper, Jesus knew the night of death was coming . . ." Priest.

  Am I to die twice, God? Here in this house of yours listening to this and again buried in a box! Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to deserve this . . . this death worse than hell! Why are you punishing me like this!

  "He also said to his apostles, ‘I go to prepare a place for you.’ " Priest.

  I don't want your fucking place, God! I want to be with my family. The one’s who love me. You do not love me, God. You must hate me to let them do this to me. Why are you doing this to me?

  "Paul says, ‘we were buried with Christ.’ " Priest.

  Fuck Paul! Fuck Christ! Bury Paul with Christ. Don't bury me! I have done nothing to deserve this. My wife does not deserve this. My children do not deserve this. Why are you punishing them, God? Fuck you, God! There is no God. You are the devil, God! To do this, you are the devil!

  "The story is not birth, life, and death, but rather, life, death, and resurrection." Priest.

  Resurrection? I am already resurrected! I am not dead. God, you are dead. You should be lying in this fucking box, not me! I am alive!

  "The death Paulo experienced now is only a passage..." Priest.

  Oh, please no. Please, let it not be. I will do anything. Tell me what to do. Mama? Where are you, Mama? Oh please, Mama, save me, please save me from this. MAMA!

  Through his eyelids Paulo can see the darkness fall as the lid of the casket closes. And with the darkness comes the final dread, the closing of his life.

  Six men, Paulo's three brothers and his three closest childhood friends - lift the casket and march it out of the church and into the adjoining cemetery where they carefully place it on a lowering device already in position over the prepared grave. Family and friends, all crying, follow the procession. Paulo's mother and his wife Michelle, both draped in black, cry uncontrollably, held steady and helped along by Paulo's father and Michelle's brother. The poor girls, Annabelle and Lillie cry too but are having difficulty understanding it all. They'd rather be playing.

  Paulo can feel the casket settle and still, the blackness surrounding him, closing on him, wrapping him in its arms. He desperately wants to throw it off. With all of his might he wills himself to move something, anything. Just move!

  My eyes! My eyes open. I know it. I can feel the air washing over my eyeballs. Goddamnit, my eyes are open! I can blink. It's too dark to see, but I can blink! Why couldn't his have happened before they closed the Goddamn lid! What else can I move?

  (OUR Father, who art in heaven,

  hallowed be Thy name.

  Thy kingdom come.

  Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

  Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses

  as we forgive those who trespass against us.

  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

  Amen.)

  Stop! Stop Goddamnit! I am alive! Open the lid and you'll see I am alive! Please someone, hear me, hear my thoughts!

  The crowd is breaking up, dispersing toward the church and the parking lot of cars where, one-by-one, they begin departing. Everyone stops and says kind words to Michelle, words of condolence and comfort. At least, they try. The three-man burial crew sits just out of sight watching the ceremony as it breaks up and people disperse. They will not approach the gravesite until everyone is gone. It is simply not allowed to do so. Even they know that should they commit such a transgression; they too will suffer consequences at their own funerals. And they are not going to chance anything like that, so they wait, patiently smoking their cigarettes.

  When everyone has finally departed, two of the men pick up their tools and begin walking toward the gravesite. The third man walks to the Bobcat, starts it, and drives the machine over to the gravesite.

  I can hear the machine approaching, Paulo thinks to himself.

  He tries to say it aloud, but his voice is not yet there. But, he can wiggle his toes and his fingers. He can almost move his hands and feet. He's working like a madman to bring himself back to life. He knows his time is limited because once he's in the ground with a ton of earth covering him; he's lost. He'll never get out. He must make his hands, and arms work so he can at least bang on the lid and get the attention of the burial crew.

  He can feel his throat, his voice coming to him. He screams, but it's only a squeak. He keeps trying and little by little the squeaks are a little louder until he can hear himself clearly.

  "Help," he screams. "Help me! I am alive!" But the noise of the Bobcat drowns his shouting. He can barely hear himself.

  The man on the Bobcat signals the others, pointing to the watch on his wrist and yells, "Hora de dinar!, Hora de dinar!" (Lunchtime!)

  The others nod their agreement, lay their tools on the ground, and begin walking toward the church. The man on the Bobcat switches off the machine then jumps down and jogs to catch up with his buddies. He never hears Paulo's screams.

  Over the next twenty minutes Paulo wiggles and wiggles his body until he can feel the blood circulating throughout. He's beginning to feel strong now. The one fear that is bothering him the most is he'll try forcing the casket open too soon and spend all his strength and not have enough remaining for another try. He has no idea how tightly sealed the casket is and there's very little room inside to leverage his strength. He also considers the idea of rolling himself over and scooting onto all fours and push against the lid with his back, but the casket is too tight with all the foam padding. No, the only way, he decides, is to use his feet to kick it open and his hands to beat it open.

  He counts to three then kicks and pushes, and the split-lid pops right open bathing him in sunshine and nearly blinding him at the same time. He can't believe his good luck! He comes out of the coffin in a rush and nearly falls into the open grave.

  Now he doesn't know whether he should thank God for helping him - though he's unsure how he did help him - or to curse him for doing nothing or just ignore him because he didn't exist in the first place.

  When it comes to God, the answers are never easy. It's always a catch-22; he thought. So, Paulo decided it best to simply thank God and let it go at that. Never burn bridges was his policy.

  The next thing Paulo considers is whether or not Drusilla Libica might be nearby, or her men. This nearly puts him into a panic. He has no weapons to defend himself, so he does
the next-best thing. He runs like hell.

  For five blocks, he runs through the backyards and alleyways of the old city until he comes across one of the oldest Catholic rituals taking place in the streets of Perpignan - the Procession de la Sanch.

  ***

  As I'm leaving Claude's, I'm wondering if coming up here might not've been a mistake. I think these guys are probably who they say they are but I have doubts about Rakim. There's something not right about him.

  I check my watch. Two o'clock. Not bad. I can be in Barcelona by four, four-thirty. Coming to the car, I veer and walk over and take a quick peek around the church at the cemetery and Paulo's grave.

  Odd thing is, the lowering device is still in place. I see a partial of the coffin. Wait. It looks like the lid's open. I start to walk that way. Backhoe next to it is dead still. No operator in sight. No anybody in sight. Looks like they all up and left before finishing the job. Strange. Must be union. No. It's siesta time. That's it, siesta time. I'm in Catalonia not France.

  Turning on my heel to the car, I walk back and climb in to head back to Barcelona satisfied all's right with the world. But, when I start to pull out of the church's parking lot, I look to my right and there's a bunch of guys in hoods marching my way. It looks like the Ku Klux Klan.

  Holy shit!

  There's a whole contingent of 'em filling the street like some sort of parade and people lining the sidewalks on both sides cheering them on. They're carrying crosses too. Not burning though; at least, not yet. They don't look at all friendly. In fact, they look damn scary. Who would have thought the Ku Klux Klan was over here? Jesus H. Christ! Heck, you can hardly find 'em in the States anymore. Not that I've ever looked for 'em.

  Well, there was that one time when I was eighteen and working at the Green Valley school. Three of us - Billy Burroughs (yeah, that one), a black kid named Gregory, and I - sneaked up on the town dump one night to watch a local Klan rally. We knew the guy who owned the Phillips 66 gas station in town was the Purple Dragon of the Klan - his name was George, so we called him George 66, not to his face of course.

  Anyhow, we watched these rednecks get drunk, shoot guns, and burn a cross that night. There was only about six of 'em and before the night was over, all of 'em had passed out, even George 66. It was all pretty pathetic. Even Gregory thought so. We ended up going back to our rooms, and that was it. Not much of a story to tell the truth.

  And here in Perpignan, I can hardly believe it? But wait. These guys are all wearing robes and pointy hoods just like the Klan, but these robes are either all black or all red, and the Klan's are mostly white unless you're a muckety-muck, and you can rate some extra color like ole George 66 who was a big Kahuna, Purple Dragon.

  Plus, this bunch is carrying not just crosses, but other stuff - statues, big statues of Jesus and Mary. I'm now thinking: This isn't the Klan after all. Looks more like a religious procession, and a Catholic one at that. And if these are Catholics then they’re not Klan. If I remember, the Klan wasn't real big on Catholics or Jews or anybody else who's not like them.

  ***

  Paulo.

  Standing inside a narrow alleyway, Paulo caught the attention of one of the robed participants and coaxed him over. When the man came up, he grabbed him by the throat and dragged him deeper into the alleyway where he beat the man unconscious and disrobed him. Paulo put the robe on over his funeral suit and fitted the long pointed hood over his head. Making his way back to the main street and the procession Paulo joined in and walked alongside the other hooded figures until they came within a half block of the Cathedral Basilica of Saint John the Baptist. That's where he spotted Tucker Blue, the American from the train, stepping into a car.

  Paulo broke ranks and ran up to Blue's car and began beating against the driver's side window scaring the hell out of Tucker Blue. Blue yelled something about a George 66, something Paulo didn't understand, and then threw the car into gear and peeled rubber getting out of there.

  Should have taken the hood off, Paulo thought.

  ***

  (Later, I learn this procession is called the Procession de la Sanch, and it's been going on for hundreds of years.)

  All I can say is if these guys were in the States doing this, they'd better have police protection because the black folks would be having a fit. Come to think of it, I didn't see any black people on the sidewalks in Perpignan. Then again, I haven't seen a black person since I left the States.

  Holy shit, what a day!

  A little ways down the A-7 and it dawns on me I left Claude's without paying my lunch tab or for the wine. Jesus, those guys have got to be thinking the world of me.

  An hour later and Monica's been on my mind practically the whole time. Suppose I can forget suspecting she had an ulterior motive for me to come up here. Why am I suddenly becoming so suspicious of everyone? I've never been like this before.

  Maybe it's because someone's after you; I'm thinking? 'Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's, not after you,' rolls through my mind.

  I’ve got to laugh at myself.

  How in the hell did I get into this situation? People don't follow me around. People don't die in front of me. What am I doing? Why is this happening to me? Of all people; me? I don't even get traffic tickets. Well, hardly. Why am I suddenly a target for intrigue? I don't get it.

  Harrumph. Could it be you're sitting on a 120 million euro lottery ticket, and it doesn't belong to you? That could motivate some people. Could that be it?

  Duh.

  This thing just might turn out to be the end of me.

  I reach for the cell to call Monica, and it hits me. She's with the Lloyd guy. Shit! I look at recent calls and see she hasn't even tried to call. Dammit. Why hasn't she called? She should have called by now. She's had plenty of time to decide if she's in love with the guy or not. Surely she's had him enough by now to know. Slut.

  She hasn't called because she's too chicken to give me the ole, Dear John. That's it! Otherwise, she'd have called. Right? If she's decided Lloyd's not the one, surely she would've called and told me by now. So, no call must mean Lloyd IS THE ONE.

  That stupid ransom note from Ebba; what a joke? Can you imagine? She disappears then up pops a ransom note from her she's been kidnapped? How stupid does she think I am? She kidnaps herself, sends a ransom note, and I pay her off? Right. She's gotta be certifiable.

  Then there's Monica who's been coming on to me for four days now, acting all lovey-dovey and the, next thing you know, out of the blue, she puts me on hold, so she can run off and screw another guy to decide whether or not she's in love with him.

  Just wait there, Tucker. I'll be right back, maybe.

  Right.

  What is it with these women? How is it I attract these fruitcakes? Is there somewhere embedded in me a weirdo magnet?

  Goddammit, Monica, are you ever going to call?

  Screw it, I pick up the cell and dial her myself. No ring. Goes straight to voicemail. Figures. I leave the message I'm on my way back, call me. I ring the hotel room. No answer there either. I don't leave a message. Bitch.

  Besides, if Rakim and his guys were in cahoots with Libica, I seriously doubt I'd be driving back to Barcelona right now. They'd have never let me leave Claude's on my own. I'd probably be sitting in front of the good doctor right about now, and she'd be jamming pins under my fingernails to give up the ticket.

  No, I'd be resting with Paulo though it didn't look like he was resting yet. Looked like he left for lunch with the rest of 'em. What's with that anyway?

  No, the good doctor would be killing me about now for what happened to her sons. Scratch that. She'd tear off my fingernails, get the ticket, and then kill me for what THAT PSYCHO DICK DID TO HER SONS. Crazy bastard. Went rogue on me. And who do you think's going to end up paying for it? Who always ends up paying?

  Christ almighty what am I doing here? Going to some guy's funeral I don't even know, some guy who fell dead on top of the woman I've never met before an
d I'm now having a tryst with, falling in love with and who's somewhere making out with another guy! HOW CRAZY CAN EVERYTHING GET?

  All I wanted to do was to see Barcelona and get laid, for crying out loud. Get laid by my girlfriend. Is that too much to ask? Now, here I am, involved with kidnappers, guys stalking me, guerrilla armies, secret agents, a dead guy's lottery ticket that'll make me wealthy beyond my wildest dreams. Guess that's not so bad. UNLESS I END UP DEAD BECAUSE OF IT!

  And this is a vacation? I've gotta mind to write the airline a complaint letter.

  And what about this lottery ticket? Is it real or what? Better be after all this. Bet it is. Bet Rakim was bluffing saying it wasn't. Why do otherwise? Doesn't make sense he would. Guess I've come this far with it; I can go the rest. If this thing turns out to be real, everything changes. Not that anything's wrong now. No, everything's great. I'm having a blast, living the life, and hell, as long as the company keeps on going as it is, I'll never have to worry about money anyway.

  Knock, knock, bro, this is a hundred twenty mil we're talking here. That's a whole 'nother stratosphere. I might get used to that.

  How 'bout the ransom note though? What's that all about? Think it's real?

  Damned if I know.

  My cell rings. I answer hoping its Monica.

  Nope. It's Nanette.

  “Monica's with you? Your place? Yeah, okay. Dinner? Sounds good. I'll be there. Hey, what's the address? Text it to me. Okay, just need to shower and shave, and I'll catch a cab. Yeah, looking forward to it too. Hey wait. Is there going to be a guy name Lloyd there by chance? I don't know who he is. Ask Monica. Okay. See you in a little while.” I hang up.

  Man, now there's a woman I'd like to get into. God knows what you'd have to go through to get there, a caning maybe? Nanette's my first domme. Wow. Wonder if they do anniversaries for first whippings?

  What am I thinking? I shouldn't even be entertaining the idea of doing Nanette. Not with Monica being there. Still, it's hard not to.