by Ann Benson
The child had been hung upside down.
I felt my own previously eaten porridge rising in my gorge. When my nausea subsided, I asked her, “Of what age would you say the child who wore this shirt might be?”
“Oh, very young. A child so small cannot have been more than seven or eight years of age.”
Michel at age seven appeared in my consciousness. He climbed up into the lap of my memory and wrapped his small arms around my neck.
“Beasts,” I whispered. “Unholy beasts.”
“Aye, Mother,” Perrine said.
I thanked her as politely as I could for the information she had given me, then turned and walked through the encampment. The unjagged hem of my habit dragged in the dust of the ground. There were even more people there than when I had arrived earlier; each and every one of them seemed to be staring at me.
By the time I returned to the palace itself, Jean de Malestroit had already left his private chambers to go to the chapel, so I would not have to explain my whereabouts until later. Except to Frère Demien, who came out of the chambers as I was leaving.
“Where have you been?” he demanded. “You have had me worried! His Eminence was asking after you as well. And we shall be late to the proceedings.”
And thereby miss yet another outpouring of misery. I tried to feel some disappointment, but could not. “I went into the encampments to find Perrine Rondeau,” I told him.
As if I had been tainted, the young priest crossed himself and whispered a hurried blessing. “But why?”
“There were questions I wished to ask her, Brother. I wanted to know about the shirt she saw.”
There was no need to explain why that interested me; Frère Demien had heard the story from Guillaume Karle. Instead, he commenced a disturbing harangue against the poor woman. “She has the shaking sickness, Sister, and the demon’s influence might still be upon her—why, she shook like a Romani during her testimony yesterday.”
“I think she has managed to purge herself of whatever evil might have o’ertaken her yesterday. When I found her, she was doing something that our Savior Christ Jesus once did—feeding the gathered multitudes.”
“The demon can trick you with false goodness. He will show you light and then lead you into darkness. He will intoxicate you with false promises and persuade you to believe—”
“Enough,” I said. I crossed my arms over my chest. “One would think you were practicing for the miter, Brother.”
“One need not be a bishop to speak on the evils of the demon.”
“But it is surely not a disadvantage. Have no fear for my soul,” I said. “I have come back unscathed.”
“Well, I hope you found some satisfaction in her answers.”
“As much as can be had for the moment, I suspect.” But as often happens, the answers she gave me led only to more questions. I would have to go elsewhere to find satisfaction for them.
News of what was being told in court spread through the encampments and surrounding villages as if there were some invisible cord on which the words were transported. No one spoke of anything else, but that is how it always happens—we fail to sniff out God’s roses when there is ordure to entice us. The afternoon before, I had heard above me the whoosh of beating wings and looked upward to see a small flock of pigeons circling one of the towers. They flapped around in confusion for a few moments before flying off, each in a separate direction, but as soon as those birds were gone, another bevy was released. All over France and Brittany, royals, nobles, and churchmen would soon be reading these small bits of papier on which the crucial messages were written. By the next day, the birds would surely be in Avignon, and my son, whose written words of affection I had shamefully failed to requite, would know the progress of things.
“Duke Jean must be anxious for word,” Frère Demien said to me as the birds grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared from view.
“He is eager for Milord’s downfall,” I responded, “though it seems to be proceeding apace without regard for his enthusiasm. I am wondering when he will show his own face. He would wash his hands of the whole thing but reap the benefits nevertheless. It seems positively un-Christian of him. But, then, he has many men who are willing to be Christian on his behalf.”
The news was cried out in the great square of Nantes outside the Bishop’s palace by the same speaker at the end of each day. Always there was a great crowd present to hear his lurid words, and coins fairly flew into his upturned hat, for he was a most excellent teller of tales. The listeners would gasp and moan and then shake their fists in condemnation when shock turned to anger. As the number of reports of lost children rose, so rose the wrath of the populace against their sovereign lord.
He told of more abominations and related new stories of intimidation by Gilles de Rais’s men:
“About six months previous to now, a charwoman who labored in the palace told me of seeing a small bloody footprint. She went to summon the housekeeper, but when they returned it had already been expunged. She lost her position for speaking out. . . .”
And tales of foolhardy bravery:
“It was a dark and moonless night as I waited on the castle wall at Machecoul. It seemed only fitting that these culprits should have their vile activities laid bare. If another was taken on this night, I would not hesitate to call up the men of the surrounding villages to the cause of taking Lord de Rais to the proper authorities.
“Alas, sleep claimed me, and it could not have been too long before I was awakened by a man of slight build who surprised me with a dagger under my chin. I cried out, but he laughed and said, ‘Scream if you like! No one will save you. You are a dead man!’
“I was sure he meant to kill me. I pleaded for my life. By God’s grace this fellow took pity on me and left me to ponder the encounter, but by then I had no stomach to stay—I hurried down the stones of the outer wall and made my way to the road, and though it was deeply dark, I ran and ran until I thought I was far enough away from that evil place to stop and breathe. And the next day, as I was traveling back to my house, I encountered Lord de Rais himself, riding from the direction of Boin. He looked to be a giant up on his horse, even more so in view of my previous night’s activities against him! He glared down at me with great malevolence and put a hand on the hilt of his sword. I closed my eyes and waited for the scrape of metal, but he only snickered in disdain. He rode on, but his fellows stayed round me a moment and boxed me in. None spoke, but their expressions said, We know what you have been about, and you best be done with it!”
That was the last of the horrors I heard that day. Back in court, there was a lull in the proceedings, which I welcomed despite my illogical compulsion to hear what was being said. As we waited, I worked the cool, smooth beads of the rosary between my fingers for the sheer distraction of doing so, without saying the requisite prayers, while Jean de Malestroit consulted with Friar Blouyn and the prosecutor de Touscheronde. The three conferred with heads together in voices so low that even the scribes, though seated quite close, would not be able to hear them.
It did not matter, for Jean de Malestroit did the writing this time. With accord from his cohorts, he drafted a brief statement, which he handed to one of the scribes with a whispered instruction. The man immediately began to sort through his own parchments, then rose and recounted the basic testimonies, saying who had given them first and summarizing what that witness had said.
When he was done, the scribe looked back at his Eminence, who nodded grave approval for the recitation of a coda:
“Which complaints having been made known to the Lords Jean, Reverend Father in God, Bishop of Nantes, and Friar Jean Blouyn, Vice-Inquisitor, the same Lords Bishop and Vicar having thus been informed, insisting that these crimes should not go unpunished, hereby decree and mandate all clerics to summon the aforesaid Gilles de Rais on Saturday, October eighth, to respond as required by law to the aforesaid Lords Bishop and Vice-Inquisitor of the faith, and for whatever objection and de
fense he might have to be made, as well as to the prosecutor duly appointed in this case and in other cases of this order.”
Air too warm for October streamed in the open window of the upper chamber. We had gathered there because the threat of uprising had become too great in the chapel below. The upper chamber was commodious, unlike the lower hall and the chapel, but its most endearing feature at the moment was that the simple placement of guards at the foot of the stairs rendered the room unapproachable. Admission to this court would be at the sole pleasure of the man whose orders the guard obeyed.
Even though our safety seemed assured, there was much confused milling as we all resettled ourselves into the business at hand. New faces began to show themselves, some of them known to me. The appearance of Pierre l’Hôpital, president of Brittany under Duke Jean and an intimate adviser and confidant of my bishop, was a noteworthy arrival.
“I see that the Duke has sent his watchdog,” Frère Demien said.
“De Touscheronde will surely take umbrage,” I answered.
“Tsk, tsk,” Frère Demien said.
“It is a fair bit of fortune for all of us that he is more lawyer than politician in his service to our Lord Duke,” I added. “Elsewise we should always be in a state of diplomatic crisis.”
Footsteps echoed in the last passageway. Frère Demien looked back. “Guillaume Chapeillon,” he said.
The honey-tongued Chapeillon was a good counterweight to the petulant l’Hôpital. He would speak for and answer exclusively to Jean de Malestroit. He appeared dressed in his finest robes of advocacy with great billowing sleeves—I wondered with some envy how many treasures might be hidden within those copious folds. A troop of scribes and notaries followed Chapeillon like ducklings. Each had black-stained fingers and gripped a clutch of quills, most of which would be worn down before it all came to conclusion.
These workmen and officials eventually found their places at the front of the court, though I was not inspired to confidence in observing the confusion that occurred before they finally settled down. Removed though we were, a residue of fear lingered. I sat in one of the high-backed chairs that had been brought out in a rush of accommodation and went through a quiet routine of small personal attendances: fretting over the hem of my robe until it was straight, tucking in stray hairs and fussing with my veil, and other such distractions as I could come up with. When at last I was perfectly arranged, I closed my eyes and thought of the beautiful apples that had been stowed in the cold cellar and how delightful it would be to sink my teeth into one of them in January’s bleak darkness. My breath evened, and I began to feel calm.
But no sooner had I found my breath again than it was taken away from me by the sudden arrival, against all expectations, of Milord Gilles de Rais.
chapter 28
I was a few days early in calling Moskal.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you until Monday,” he said, his Boston accent as thick as ever.
“I nailed him,” I said, beaming through the phone.
“Wow.”
He said it quietly, as if he were actually disappointed. I could understand this completely; he wanted him as badly as I did.
“Yeah. I got a warrant for the bastard.”
“Good for you. And fast.”
Could he hear me grinning? “We’re about to head out to pick him up. The warrant is for felony abduction of a minor child, several counts. I just wanted to call you and let you know.”
“Not homicide?” He sounded even more disappointed.
“Not yet. But we might have a body. I don’t know if it makes your local papers—”
“You can’t really call the Globe local,” he said, “but I’ve been picking up the Los Angeles Times too.”
“So you saw it, then.”
“I did. But I’m confused. The victim was black, which doesn’t fit your pattern.”
“We are proceeding on the basis that he was a practice grab.”
“Sweet Jesus. Hasn’t he had enough practice?”
“And then there were three failed grabs in one day. He was teasing me.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, that makes more sense, then. Now that you have a body, I guess you can go for murder when you get all the evidence organized.”
“We can. And we will.”
“Okay, then.”
By the resigned tone in his voice, I guessed that Moskal knew he would have to ask very nicely to get Durand back to the Bay State, which would not happen until the Golden State had completed the process of ripping his lungs out, God willing.
“How’d you finally get him?”
“Sneakers,” I said. “He kept all their sneakers.”
I could almost hear his jaw hitting the floor. The line seemed to go dead.
“Pete? You there?”
“Yeah,” he said, nearly in a whisper. “Hang on a sec. I’m going to put you on hold. But don’t go away.”
He was gone and I was left chained to my desk by a spiral cord with a nagging thought swirling through my head. You’re keeping me from getting the bad guy. . . .
It seemed like a week before he came back. The two copies of the arrest warrant I clutched tightly in my hand were rumpled and sweaty, but they felt hot enough to burst into flames. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my five comrades checking their weapons, getting into their vests, making sure their radios had fresh batteries. The tribal prehunt ritual was under way, and I would have to play catch-up. I was growing impatient as hell.
“Sorry,” Moskal said when he came back on the line again. “That took longer than I thought it would. I had to check on something.”
“What, for God’s sake?”
The fax machine suddenly whirred to life on the stand next to my desk. The first few millimeters of a transmission emerged from the slot.
“Is that fax coming from you?”
“Yeah. I’ll hold on if you want to check it out.”
After a two-minute labor the page was born. I pulled it free almost desperately; it was the stark, high-intensity fax version of one of the photos I’d seen in the South Boston case jacket.
The shoeless feet were circled.
“Son of a gun,” I whispered into the phone.
“When you pick him up, if you wouldn’t mind looking for a pair of black high-tops with a Boston Celtics logo . . .”
It would be my pleasure.
Each of the two teams of three took a car. I rode with Spence and one other guy in the first car going to the studio. I was grateful for the company, because I was nervous—this was the biggest case I’d ever worked, and it goes without saying that I hoped it would go smoothly. There are so many things that can go wrong when you try to take someone down.
I didn’t take Wilbur Durand for the skittish type; when he’d stopped in for his little visit, he was about the coolest customer that ever sauntered into a police station. He must have known that we couldn’t do anything to him on the spot. He had to have talked to a lawyer before showing up. Not the corporate-type we’d dragged off the golf course in our warranted search, but probably his renowned sister, the Wicked Witch of the Right Coast. No doubt Sheila Carmichael had heard it all, but still, imagine announcing to another human being—your own flesh and blood, no less—I’m a suspect in a series of kidnappings of adolescents. Silence would follow, because the person you were confiding in would know better than to ask if you actually did what you were suspected of doing. Then imagine hearing back, Let’s brainstorm on some things we can do to keep this from landing on you too hard.
And lawyers wonder why people equate them with sharks.
Shortly we would barge into Wil Durand’s closed-circuit existence and try to blow it wide open, lawyers be damned. He would have been prepared ahead of time to say nothing if he was taken into custody, of that I was certain. The postarrest interview would be among the most challenging that any of us, Frazee included, would ever face—the subject would be prepped and counseled and rehearsed.
And cold as ice.
“You okay?” Spence asked.
It must have just been oozing out of me. “Yeah. No. Maybe. Ask me when he’s cuffed and stuffed.”
He made a little chuckle. “You did range practice recently, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I don’t want you shooting me.”
“No one’s going to shoot anyone. Durand doesn’t have a gun permit that I could dig up.”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a gun. Or that he doesn’t have five or six big goons with guns and permits who get paid to make his messes for him.”
“Not his style. This is going to go smooth as silk.”
“Yeah. Just like it always does.”
We were trained to be ready for anything, to expect the unexpected. Unless I was dead wrong, Wilbur Durand would not go for a big-bang confrontation. His bullets were made of gray matter. If he shot us with that, we might never know what hit us.
There were two cars parked at the front of the studio vestibule. One was a late-model Mercedes, sleek and shiny, black with tinted windows, the other a VW Jetta maybe five or six years old, also black. I radioed in the plate numbers. While we waited for the response, I checked my gun, just in case.
The reply came back that neither vehicle belonged to Durand, which was a disappointment. The Mercedes turned out to be leased, which momentarily restored a bit of hope, until the dispatcher added that the lessee was a big downtown legal firm. I scribbled the numbers in my notebook and then unbuckled my seat belt.
“Neither one belongs to him or his company.”
“He might still be here.”
He wasn’t. Mr. GolfPants and the Skankmeister assistant were there waiting for us. Both insisted that Wilbur Durand was once again out of the country.