by Ann Benson
That room had been searched when we went to the house the first time, but being at the end of the hallway, it was one of the last to be surveyed. When the tapes were located in the main studio, everything at the house became an also-ran, so it had gotten only a quick going-over.
“I wish we’d looked at that room better.”
“We’ll deal with what we find,” Spence said. “Everything will work out.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. I do.”
He was a better interviewer than he was a liar.
Houses whizzed by in a blur as we ascended into the hills. I prayed that Spence was right.
When we got there, the street was jammed with what appeared to be every car in the Los Angeles police force. The gate through which the houseboy had to have left earlier in his car was locked again. The observing unmarked police car was still in front of the house next door, though it was now buried behind two layers of flashing blue lights. Beyond the high fence was the modern-day fortress in which the madman holding a boy he assumed to be my son lay in wait. For me. Everyone else here was extraneous to him.
Escobar was out of the unit and deep into the trunk before I knew it; he emerged from the jumble of equipment with a bolt cutter. He headed resolutely for the gate and had the lock broken before I was even completely out of the car.
We charged through the opening and up the driveway. A brick walkway ran from the pavement to the front door, and over it there was an arched canopy. Standing underneath the dark green canvas was an unfamiliar, youngish man whose attire gave me the sense that he was some kind of manservant. Like the houseboy, he wore white pants and a short-sleeved shirt. But he was also wearing a bow tie.
I stopped and took out my gun. Spence moved to within whispering distance of me.
“You seen this guy before?” he said from behind.
I shook my head no and began to move forward again. My gun was raised and trained on the unfamiliar new player.
The poor man was shaking. The others stayed a few steps behind while I went all the way up the walk—my hanging-back days were over. With each step I took, the houseboy’s eyes widened in deeper terror. I stopped just shy of the canvas overhang and stood there with my gun pointed at his face.
“Raise your arms and step out onto the landing,” I ordered. He trembled visibly as he lowered one foot and then the next.
“Come closer,” I said.
“Careful, Lany,” I heard Escobar say from behind and to my right.
“Always,” I said quietly.
And then I did something that confused everyone, especially the houseboy. I spat on the fingers of my left hand and rubbed my own saliva on his face while the gun was about two inches from his nose.
“Lany, Jesus . . .” I heard Spence say.
“I want to be sure it’s real skin.”
The trembling houseboy was pale as a ghost, and silent.
“Where is Wilbur Durand?” I demanded.
He shook his head almost violently. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Did you bring a pair of sneakers to the Crimes Against Children division about an hour ago?”
“No, I did not,” he said. There was a slight accent, perhaps Hispanic.
The gun was still in his face. “Did you deliver groceries to your boss’s studio this morning?”
His eyes widened even further and he shook his head again. “But I heard the garage door open and close earlier.”
“What time?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Approximately.”
“Early afternoon, maybe it was—”
I interrupted him. “Going in or coming out?”
“I didn’t see. I was in the kitchen. There are many ways to come and go from this house. I mind my own business.” He waited a few seconds and said, “They told me he doesn’t like to be bothered. So I don’t bother him.”
He was scared; we would get nothing more of value out of him, and precious minutes were ticking off. “Proceed down the front walk and place yourself into the custody of one of the officers waiting down there,” I ordered.
He nodded eagerly and began to move forward. His eyes never came off the barrel of the gun as he slid by me with his hands still raised. He practically ran into the arms of a uniformed patrol officer.
I turned back to the door and looked into the dark open mouth of the unknowable beast who had swallowed Jeff Samuels. Hang in there, Jeff, just hold on for a few more moments, I’m coming to get you. . . .
I two-handed my gun, which suddenly seemed to weigh about a hundred pounds. Spence and Escobar were right behind me as I passed through the open door; Escobar started to move forward to get ahead of me, but I put my elbow out to hold him back. I heard the scrambling of footsteps outside—other cops were surrounding the house. Blue light flashed in through the blinds; the whole street was lit up. The sound of radio-squawk was deafening. If Durand was inside, he could not help but know what our intentions were.
Good. It was time for him to get scared.
It was all so unreal to me; I was operating totally on instinct—one minute a mother, the next a cop, sometimes both at the same time. Straight ahead was the living room; the orange glow of the evening sky poured in through the big picture window that looked out onto the backyard garden. As I worked my way down the hallway I leaned into each room and listened with the ears of a fox.
And then I heard muffled human voices from behind a closed door. Spence and Escobar, still both right behind me, also seemed to hear them, for suddenly we all had our guns pointed directly at the door’s center. We all stayed quiet and listened intently.
From the diagram, I knew that there were two bedrooms on either side of the home studio. What I didn’t know was whether or not there were doors connecting any of those rooms. I whispered “doors” and nodded in both directions. They both understood instantly. Spence went to the left and Escobar to the right to take a look.
But as soon as they left me there, a thin line of very bright light showed from under the door of the workroom, and then I heard a man’s voice say, Action . . .
I was Arnold Schwarzenegger, Clint Eastwood, and Charles Bronson all blended into one. I kicked in the door with one foot, did a classic drop-and-roll, then came to a crouching position with my Lethal Weapon out in front of me.
Jeff, where are you, we’re here. . . .
And there he was, off to the right; he was tied up and gagged, but there was blood on his abdomen. My very first instinct was to rush over to him, but out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. I looked to the left—the light was very poor—and there was Wilbur Durand, but as himself this time, not as the houseboy.
There was a camera trained on Jeff, and behind it was that monster, who appeared to be filming the whole horrible scene. There was a dark object that looked to be a weapon of some sort in one of his hands. He was raising his arm up slowly and very steadily.
Too steadily.
What was I really seeing? I didn’t know. And there wasn’t time to step forward and check it out more thoroughly. But the movements were too precise, too mechanical, so unhuman. Behind me Spence and Escobar were shouting, both to each other and to me, as we all tried to understand just what it was that we were confronting.
By the books, by the books, play it by the books—it was the prime directive in all of our operations. So I screamed, “Police, drop your weapon,” hoping against all logic that it would work as intended. But the arm kept rising.
I hated what the book told me to do next, but I had no choice. I trained my weapon directly on Durand and pulled the trigger. Twice.
There was smoke and debris flying everywhere in the enclosed space. But it was all wrong, just wrong—no blood, no gray matter, just a shower of sparkling shards. The arm stopped going up, but instead of dropping down as it should have when his head went kaplowee, it stayed where it was, right in mid-raise, at about a forty-five-degree angle. Stuck.
When
the echoes of gunfire finally stopped, I heard only two sounds: the rush of my own heartbeat, and a soft electronic whir, as if a machine were stuck in a small motion and could not move on to its next task.
I could no longer sustain the weight of the heavy gun; my hand dropped to my side, and I came out of my crouch. As I moved slowly toward the remains of my shooting victim, my feet crunched on bits of shattered plastic. I could smell singed vinyl along with the gunpowder.
“Jesus,” I said, when my hand came to rest on the being’s shoulder.
I had just killed an Animatronic Wilbur Durand. So I ran over to Jeff—at least what I thought was Jeff, but it was just a mannequin that looked like him. A mannequin with its guts pulled out.
I wasn’t prepared for what it would do to me to see that. Everything, and I mean everything, got crisp and clear. It was so real-looking, so perfect. There was pain on his face and he was grimacing horribly. Spence rushed past me. I don’t think I ever heard him swear like that before.
“Great shot,” he said. “Now let’s go get the real guy.”
thirty-three
Do you intend to give, propose, allege, say, or produce any justification for these crimes, some motivation through which we might better understand these offenses?
I know not what to say, your Grace, other than what I have already said.
Once again, the court was adjourned because forward progress could not be made without some agreement from Gilles. With a loud bang of the gavel, Jean de Malestroit set the following day, that being Thursday, October 20, for court to reconvene, and then summarily dismissed the lot of us.
And then he disappeared into his private lair, without another word.
It was well into the evening before he called for his barely touched supper tray to be removed. I found him in a state of obvious distraction. I let a moment pass before speaking. “I understand that your contemplations today must have been torturous. But mind your health. If you do not eat, your stamina will surely wane. And I daresay you could use a bit more rest. Perhaps an early retirement tonight . . .”
“Not for some time, I fear. There is more yet to be done. I must still get with Friar Blouyn before we meet with the others.”
Were yet more players to be introduced to this crowded joust? “I do not understand. What others?”
He hemmed and hedged for a moment. “Experts,” he finally said.
“What sort of experts?”
“In the art of interrogation.”
Now I understood the ad nauseam declarations of Inquisitional mandate of previous sessions. They would take care to make this torture legal.
And exquisite.
The finger is to be placed in the device, your Eminence, and then the crank must be twisted. Small motions at first, to give him a taste of the pain, and then more-exaggerated turns should be made. When the bone pops out of the joint, he will speak, unless he is the devil himself. And if he fails to speak, you may take it as a sure sign of his congress with the Dark One.
For this advice, the expert would be paid handsomely. That there should be profit in maiming seemed a terrible thing to me.
“But . . . torture . . .”
“Has he not engaged in torture of the most vicious kind? On children?”
I could not speak.
“It will be done only if he refuses to admit to what has been proven by the statements of the witnesses. He has sworn to tell nothing but the truth, sworn before God, and yet he insists that he did not do these things. I have no choice, Sister; I must bring it out of him in this way. God must be satisfied in this.”
God must always be satisfied.
Long before the cock crowed, my eyes came open. The first thing I saw was Madame le Barbier’s dress, which hung on the door like the remnants of some crucifixion, begging to be worn.
I had made up my mind to tell Milord Gilles of his impending torture. Perhaps once he had been a hero, a warrior who could withstand all manner of pain and difficulty for the sake of his cause, but his only cause now was self-perpetuation, hardly noble in view of the vile acts to which he had admitted. He had grown soft and vulnerable, and I hoped that the threat of exquisite pain would bring him to his senses and that he would confess as Jean de Malestroit required of him. It was time for this terrible business to come to an end, for all of our sakes. I whispered only one prayer that morning, beseeching God to sway Milord’s heart and spare us the travesty of participating in his downfall.
The dress slipped over my shoulders like a caress. I pulled on my cloak and veil and hurried out into the courtyard. I encountered no one on my silent walk through the passageways to the upper rooms where Gilles de Rais awaited his fate in sumptuous luxury. The first among the sentries, who had acted the gatekeeper on my previous visit, was caught off guard by my arrival, for he began to bare his blade until he realized that the footsteps he had heard were mine.
He shrugged apologetically. “Je regret, Madame. But one is ordered to be extra cautious. There are plots afoot to kill Milord, and everyone is suspect.”
Then he escorted me through the retinue of other guards, none of whom paid us any notice at all. At the entry to Milord’s rooms, he left me alone, without announcement.
“Captain, should you not awaken him?”
“Not necessary, Madame. He barely sleeps.”
And, indeed, it was only a few seconds after the guard’s departure and my own hasty removal of the veil and cloak that Gilles de Rais appeared in the salon. He did not notice my presence at the periphery. It had been my intention to call out to him, to speak to him of what lay ahead, to try to convince him that it would be best for all if he would simply utter the truth as Jean de Malestroit wished him to speak it.
But in my heart I encountered a coldness that I had never known before. Perhaps it was because Gilles had finally assumed the appearance of something foul; he was disheveled and unkempt, with wild hair and an animal savagery to his movements. Gone was the great lord, the hero, who had been replaced by some dark and vulgar beast.
Gone was the child I remembered.
And gone, too, at long last, was the sympathetic nurse. Without a word, I turned and slipped quietly away.
My return through the courtyard was hasty and I arrived breathless, to be greeted immediately by one of the younger nuns, who seemed quite agitated.
“Sister, calm yourself,” I said. “Is there a problem about which I should be advised?”
“Not precisely a problem, Mère, but you are required by his Eminence immediately.”
So my absence had been noted. “How long ago was his message received?”
“There was no message, Mère,” she said timidly.
“Then how do you know that I am required?”
“Because he came himself,” she answered. “He left here not ten minutes ago, distressed that you could not be found.”
I knocked timorously on the wood panel of his door, which was thrown open almost immediately.
“Well,” he sputtered, “here you are, at last!”
“Eminence, forgive me. I did not think that you would require me so early this morning, what with all of your considerations today. . . .”
“Early? Matins awaits us. Where were you when you ought to have been in your room?”
There was nothing I could do but lie and hope that none of his spies had been watching the encampments. “I went out among the gathered; there is much activity so early and I was quite safe.”
“And did what, precisely?”
“I walked,” I said. “It soothes me sometimes.”
“It soothes me to know that you are available. And safe. Please, Guillemette, take care not to put yourself in harm’s way. This crowd can be quite volatile, as we have seen.”
I looked down at the floor. “I shall endeavor to be more cautious.”
“Good.” I could feel the undercurrent of agitation in his voice, but I did not think he suspected me of lying. Something else entirely was causing his agitation.
“Matins,” he said again. “Let us be off.”
I followed him meekly to the private chapel; the main church would be filled to capacity with people from the encampments, all wishing to avail themselves of the holiness they believed could be found in the impressive sanctuary. In quiet seclusion, we relieved ourselves of dream-sins through the kyrie and were sufficiently cleansed that new sins could be added during that day without fear of crippling the soul. I whispered a special prayer to be shriven of the deception I had committed in the dark hours before dawn, then gathered my skirts and slipped out of the pew.
I stopped in the middle of the aisle as usual and crossed myself before the statue of the Virgin. Dear Mary, Mother of God, I prayed silently, grant that Gilles will be spared the cruelty of torture, and grant that this burdensome trial will soon be over, so that I may see my son.
I turned and started toward the rear of the chapel. An unfamiliar brother stood between myself and the door. The earliest rays of the sun outlined his tall body. There was something about the silhouette that stirred recognition. I squinted in the pale light, but could not see.
“Mother,” I heard the tall stranger say.
Many people call me mother. But the voice, that voice . . .
Mother, I heard again. My heart leaped into my throat.
“Jean?” I whispered.
“Oui, Maman, c’est moi.”
I clung to him with all my might, squeezing him to me with such vigor and desperation that I was afraid I might hurt him.
“His Eminence did not tell you?”
I turned around and saw Jean de Malestroit, who had observed the reunion from a distance.
“Wait here,” I said. I hurried to the front of the chapel. Jean de Malestroit turned back to the altar and tried to make himself appear busy.
“You might have said something of this,” I accused.
He wore a satisfied smile. “I had planned to do so earlier this morning. But you deprived me of the pleasure,” he said.
“Hence your upset at not finding me?”
“In part. The rest was genuine concern. Now, as to your son, when his Holiness wrote and requested that the proposed discussions be moved here so as to take place in a timely manner, I specifically requested that Jean be sent among the emissaries. And I did not tell you of the change in plans because I did not want you to be disappointed should it not come about.” He paused for a moment to take in my reaction. “I hoped it would please you.”