by Jon Steele
Funny how the times don’t change, Karoliina thought. She pulled an infrared illuminator from her jacket, set it to eye-safe, and flipped in the red filter. She pointed it toward the château, signaled in Morse code: Side one; track three. Twin flashes came back at her from the twin turrets: Black Metallic.
She walked along the east balcony and checked the shadows along the esplanade where it rounded the lantern tower of the cathedral. Clear. She turned, saw Marie-Madeleine resting in her timbers.
“Hyvää itlaa, madame,” she said.
It was her custom to offer a good evening to the great bell, but the bell never answered; not yet. Ella said the bell would answer one day. She said after Marc Rochat died it took a long time for any of the bells to talk to her, too. They were very sad, Ella said. It wasn’t until she began to play classical guitar next to Marie-Madeleine, to keep her company through the night as she rested between ringing the hours, that the great bell began to speak again. Marie-Madeleine thanked Ella for the music. And it wasn’t long after that that the bell told Ella she thought she might like to hear the cello, because she imagined the sound was rounder. When Ella began to play the cello, all Marie-Madeleine’s sisters began to talk to her, too. They liked Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major very much, Ella said. The quick up-and-down notes reminded them of the way Marc Rochat mumbled to himself as he shuffled around the belfry. Sometimes, in the Prelude, the bells would hum along. That’s what Ella said. It made Karoliina smile each time she remembered the young girl saying it; her emerald eyes were bright with belief.
Coming back to the south balcony, Karoliina checked the esplanade below the belfry. The cobblestones, the ramparts overlooking Lausanne, the chestnut trees, the fountain on the esplanade, were all clear.
Beep, beep; beep, beep.
She walked to the top of the steps, looked inside the turret, and checked the bank of monitors displaying the views from the CCTV cameras at the belfry’s access points. On monitor three she saw Locomotora’s drummer/nowtimes cathedral guard crossing the ramp through the women’s choir loft. He was carrying a large shopping bag in one hand and a small white cardboard box in the other. Reaching the sealed door at the end of the ramp, he juggled things about to get the palm of his right hand onto the fifth stone up from the floor. Karoliina waited for him to look up at the CCTV camera, then engaged the retinal scan software. She got a green light, reached into the turret, and set her hand on the first stone to the left. She watched the sealed door ease open and the drummer pass through to the bottom of the corkscrew steps going up on monitor four. When the door sealed itself, she turned to Marie-Madeleine.
“Dinner has arrived, madame.”
The great bell was unimpressed.
“More for Ella and me, then.”
She heard footsteps wind up the belfry; when they reached the last turn, Karoliina smelled the food.
“Vegetarian lasagna with wild chanterelle mushrooms and béchamel sauce,” she called down.
The drummer came into view. He leaned against the central pillar, looked up at Karoliina. “How do you do that?” he said.
“I’ve got a nose for food.”
The drummer held up the small white box for her to sniff. “What’s for dessert?”
“Lemon mousse with raspberries?”
“Fuck off. There’s a trick to it, I know there is.”
He handed up the goods, and Karoliina took them. She gave the top of the Escaliers du Marché a quick check to see if the drummer had been followed. Clear.
“How’s the crowd at Café du Grütli?”
“They all miss Ella coming down for her supper. Monsieur Dufaux asked how she is. He says if there’s anything she needs, let him know.”
Karoliina glanced back through the timbers, saw the light of the lantern glowing against the window of the loge. Le guet was inside and hiding from the world. She looked at the drummer.
“She spent the night imagining how each of them died.”
“The innocents at Mon Repos?”
Karoliina nodded. “It’s the only way she can process her grief. She says it’s her duty. She has been sleeping most of the afternoon.”
“Poor girl,” the drummer said.
He took off his leather jacket and dropped it on the stone steps. He grabbed his kill kit from a hook on the central pillar. Karoliina’s was hanging next to it. Except for the band’s lead guitarist on the roof with a Barrett Light Fifty, the belfry was a no-weapons zone. He slipped his kit over his shoulders, tightening the straps. Another hook held his UZI submachine gun, fitted with laser targeting and sound suppression. He grabbed it and checked the firing chamber and ammo magazine. It was good to go.
“Caught any dreams yet?” he said.
Karoliina shook her head. “Grief suppresses rapid eye movement. There’s nothing to catch. You’re in the nave tonight?”
“And the crypt.”
“Lucky you. How are the rest of the boys?”
“Looking forward to the gig on the weekend. We’re doing the new tunes. Fliers hit the streets this morning, all across Europe. Fans should be coming to town soon.”
“Cool.”
The drummer reached inside his jacket, found the visual data monocle. He slipped the holding strap over his neck and fitted the monocle over his right eye. “Any word from Krinkle?”
“On the air, on his way back with Harper. They should be crossing Pont Bessières soon.”
“Back in the protected zone.”
“Yeah.”
The drummer tapped a polyrhythmic riff on the central pillar. “Dufaux says the word is the mission took them to hell and back.”
“What did you say?”
“I said there’s no such place as hell.”
“Good,” Karoliina said. “No need to panic anyone.”
“You must be happy he’s back.”
“I’m happy they’re all back, and in one piece.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Joo,” Karoliina said, “I know what you mean.
The drummer lifted his leather jacket from the floor and put it on. “How do you love someone you can’t touch, Karoliina? How does that one work?”
“Ask Krinkle.”
The drummer laughed, turned around, and headed down the belfry steps. “Nähdään.”
“Later to you, too. Say hello to the skeletons.”
“I will. You should come down sometime. Some of those old bones have some great stories.”
The sound of the drummer’s steps down the belfry segued into the half-hour double-tap rising from the bells at the Hôtel de Ville on Place de la Palud. All’s well, Karoliina thought. She walked to the small wooden door set between the timbers, pressed the iron latch, and quietly opened the door of the loge. She entered carefully so not to knock the cello tucked in the alcove behind the door. She saw Ella at the far end of the oddly shaped room, sitting on the edge of the bed. She held a Mason Pearson brush in her hands. Lantern light lit her face and her eyes glistened.
“Ella?”
The girl didn’t speak.
Karoliina set the food on the small wooden table. She walked toward Ella and saw tears in the girl’s eyes. With the next step, she realized the girl was half asleep, hanging between two states of consciousness. Karoliina moved closer, opening her arms to catch the girl if she fell forward when told to awake.
“Vakna, litla.”
The girl didn’t move.
“Can you hear me, litla?”
The girl spoke slowly, carefully. “There was a baby cow. The cow was red and it had a pretty red face. Men laid it on a black rock in the City of the Three Gods. They cut open its throat and the cow’s blood flowed over the black rock. But the cow did not want to die, and it struggled to live. It tried to cry out, but it had no voice. It kicked its hind legs, its hooves scraped the black rock now covered in blood. The blood became fire and the fire spread and consumed the men, then it consumed the whole world.”
Karoliina pulled
her japa mala beads from her coat and rubbed them together in the palms of her hands. She held the beads before Ella’s face. The girl breathed in the scent of sandalwood, exhaled over the beads. If she was dreaming, the beads would become warm to the touch. The beads remained cool.
“Ella, is this an imagination?”
“No, it’s what he said.”
“Who?”
The girl blinked slowly. The dream catcher saw she was still half asleep.
“Who was it, Ella? Who told you these things?”
“Marc Rochat. He was here.”
Karoliina looked around the loge. The light of the lantern moved in waves and brightened the oddly shaped room. There were only teasing shadows in the high corners.
“Where did you see him, Ella?”
Le guet de Lausanne pointed to the wall at the foot of her small bed. Mounted on a timber was the small console table and matching mirror.
“There.”
The japa mala beads warmed in Karoliina’s hands; then they began to burn.
ii
Reentry across Pont Bessières had been smooth. Lausanne was quiet and all was well within the protected zone. Krinkle made a quick stop along Rue Pierre-Viret below the cathedral. He opened the bus door and told Harper to get off, go home, and get cleaned up.
“Then what?” Harper said.
“How should I know?”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to Vevey to have a chat with Brother Astruc.”
Harper nodded. “You sure we shouldn’t have gone on to Vladivostok?”
“And do what?”
“Find Max, for one.”
“We know where Max is.”
“Where?”
“To a wrinkle in time where the demons dwell, brother.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning exactly that. Look, we know Komarovsky has the child. We also know he’s going to use him as bait, so we’ll wait him out.”
“What sort of bait? For what?”
“We’re working on it.”
Harper got off and watched the magic bus disappear around the bend in the road at Palais de Rumine. Harper looked this way and that down the road; nobody. He wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing. The headlamps of the number 16 trolley rounded the bend from the same direction where Krinkle had just disappeared. A blazing light blasted Harper in the eyes and blinded him a second. He reached in his mackintosh and grabbed his SIG Sauer from his kill kit. He was set to raise it and fire when he saw an ordinary-looking driver behind the wheel and a load of everyday locals onboard. Given he’d spent time in hell and looked like it, not to mention he had a gun in his hand, Harper thought about disappearing into a shadow. He didn’t. He hid the gun behind his back and watched the onboard faces watch him as they rode by. He met their glances, each time releasing a glint of eternal light from his emerald-colored eyes. The locals would see him and not see him at the same time. And in the dark hours to come, they would feel a touch of comfort and would dream of angels. The number 16 was well gone before Harper allowed himself to process the fact he’d just violated rules and regs by revealing himself unto them.
“Sod it.”
He turned around, counted his way up the last steps of the Escaliers du Marché till he reached the esplanade where the great façade of Lausanne Cathedral filled his eyes. It had rained earlier and the still-dripping limestone arch above the wooden doors sparkled in the floodlights. Harper walked closer, saw the gargoyles and statues of saints and prophets carved in stone. Closer still, he gave the wooden doors and iron latches a recon. Inspector Gobet was right; repairs had left not a trace of the events four nights ago—or was it three nights ago? Hard to tell. Harper was still having difficulty with the back and forth through time. But what happened on whatever night it was remained clear: The great wooden doors to the cathedral had been locked, so Harper had shot his way in. Then he’d helped Krinkle drag Astruc to the altar square. The renegade priest was to be awakened by Monsieur Gabriel, but le guet de Lausanne had been waiting for them instead. And she had a message from a lad with a lantern whom Harper watched die years before: You cannot carry the weight alone anymore, monsieur. You have fallen two times. The third time will be the last. You must wait. Harper felt himself go weak at the knees. He fell against a limestone column, grabbed it, and balanced himself.
“Bloody hell.”
A chilly breeze came up from the lake and hit Harper in the back. He got a whiff of the foul stench on his clothes and skin. He looked at the gloves on his hands. They were covered with the detritus of mass death. Words on paper flashed through his eyes.
Blessed are the—
The words were gone before he could finish reading them. But he knew the words from somewhere.
Forget it, boyo, keep moving, whispered the dead soldier in his head.
“Right.”
Harper stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat, headed into the old city. He got to Number 27, Rue Charles-Vuillermet. He dug through his pockets, found the keys to the door, and let himself in. He climbed the creaky stairs four floors up, passing two flats each floor, until he reached the top landing with one door. Oddly, the same key that opened the door to the street opened the door to his studio flat. He always meant to ask Inspector Gobet about it. Seemed to be pretty lax security, but he never got around to the asking. There was always something to do. Too much back and forth through time. He unlocked the door.
It was the same scene as the last time he’d been ordered back to his flat after a mission. Laid out on the kitchen table was a takeaway job from LP’s Bar at the Palace: club sandwich, side of chips, a bottle of Swiss pinot noir. On the floor was an envelope that had been slipped under the door. It bore the seal of the Lausanne Palace and was addressed to Notre Cher Client.
“And I bet I know what’s inside.”
He picked it up, opened it.
“Bingo.”
It was another letter written in perfect cursive script. This time le concierge du Lausanne Palace welcomed notre cher client back and suggested that before dining he might first wish to bathe.
“Well spotted, mate,” Harper said.
Accordingly, please remove all personal belongings from your clothing and dump the filthy, stinking rags in the laundry bag provided in the lavatory. And yes, there were a fresh bathrobe and slippers provided for his convenience. Please be aware, the concierge continued, that the reported condition of your current wardrobe meant there would be a delay in returning the clothes. Therefore, please find in your closet a new sports coat, shirts and trousers, shoes and overcoat, purchased from the Caritas Thrift Boutique on Avenue de Morges in Lausanne and delivered to your residence. There were also assorted items, including one necktie, suitable for a gentleman.
“A gentleman?”
Harper walked to the small closet and opened it. Hanging from the rail, wrapped in plastic, were the items as described. Weirdly, the clothes weren’t that different from the stinking rags he had on, just cleaner. Tweed sports coat, white oxford shirt, wool trousers. The one shelf above the rail held an assortment of boxer shorts, white T-shirts, and argyle socks. He pushed aside the hanging clothes, got a look at the overcoat. Right; the black double-breasted trench coat was a definite step up. The inside label read Burberry and there was an image of an equestrian knight in full battle array charging ahead with his lance at the ready. A banner flew above the brave knight: Prorsum. Forward.
He pushed the overcoat aside, found the tie suitable for a gentleman on its own hanger. Silk it was, with alternating broad silver stripes intercut with narrow black and white stripes. The pattern was woven into the fabric at a descending angle of 140 degrees. It looked like an old school tie, or a tie from one of the gentlemen’s clubs on Pall Mall in London. Maybe one of the lesser clubs, the kind that used secret handshakes.
“Swell.”
Harper looked at the letter for further instructions.
There was a final paragraph advi
sing Harper that, one, the bioskin gloves used to cover the seeping wounds on the palms of your hands needed to be replaced, and two, your esteemed presence is requested to attend to certain administrative matters on the morrow. Therefore, his esteemed whatsit would be picked up at 09:45 hours in order to be transported to the Vevey Clinic to attend to the aforementioned administrative matters. That would mean being hauled to Vevey by Inspector Gobet’s muscle, Mutt and Jeff, whether he liked it or not. The letter ended with the concierge inviting Harper to enjoy your evening.
“Cheers.”
He headed to the bathroom. The neatly folded bathrobe and comfy slippers from the Lausanne Palace Hotel were waiting on the sink. He pulled off his mackintosh and sports coat, stuffed them in the laundry bag. He pulled off his kill kit and hung it from the hook at the back of the door. He stripped down and dumped the rest of his stinking rags into the laundry bag, too. He turned on the shower and cranked it two stops short of scalding.
He got in the shower and spent a long time scrubbing his form with soap before rinsing off; then he washed and scrubbed two more times. As the shower and bathroom filled with steam, he raised the palms of his gloved hands and stood motionless in the falling water. It rushed from the nozzle at needlelike pressure; it stabbed at his palms. He gritted his teeth against the pain but did not lower his hands until the smell of death was eluted from his form. He rinsed his mouth and flushed his nose and ears three times to get rid of any lingering molecules of human corruption. He watched tiny streams of black mucus and spit spiral down the drain. He considered his two and a half million years of walking the battlefields of paradise. He arrived at a common truth: Mass death could be washed from his form, but it could not be cleansed from his eternal being. Like all the faces of the suffering ones, like the sounds of their cries, the scent of spilled blood and rotting flesh was a forever thing. The spiraling black streams disappeared and the water ran clear. The words on paper flashed through his eyes again, and he pronounced them: