Fisher

by L. L. Muir

  “It is far too cold for bees, monsieur,” the leader said. His name tag read Capitaine Marchant.

  “Oui. This is why I say the problem was imagined. I only panicked when I supposed one was after me. So allergic am I, n’est ce que pas?”

  The troupe relaxed their stance only slightly and watched Marchant for the next move.

  “I should have considered the cold,” Fisher continued, “if I had been thinking clearly.”

  “The woman,” said the man to his right. “She said you needed aid?”

  Fisher laughed and shook his head. “No doubt she assumed I had lost my faculties. That is all.”

  Marchant smiled in a way that might have been intended to set him at ease, but it did not. “Indulge me, monsieur, and tell me the year.” His pointed look at the kilt and sporran insinuated he had reason to worry.

  The year? How the bloody hell would he ken the year? So he laughed. “You think me imbalanced?”

  His inquisitor’s brows rose, but he was not so amused. “I think I would prefer to hear you tell me the year. If you please.”

  Fisher did some quick math. He knew Soni had come to them as a babe in 1999. As it had been close to the turn of the millennium, they’d all overheard Culloden’s visitors mention the year. And though most of them were unconcerned with the passage of time, all 79 of his fellows had been mindful of their wee witch and her family’s yearly visits. As of February, Soncerae had aged 16 years. And since February had not yet come again, and he couldn’t say he’d noticed Hogmanay, the year had to be...

  “2015.”

  The men to either side seemed disappointed, so he assumed his guess was correct.

  Marchant pressed on. “And the month?”

  Fisher did some narrowing of his own eyes then. “Winter. Obviously.” Christmas had to be near, though he wasn’t confident enough to say. Soni had worn some rather festive earrings the last time she’d come to the moor—wee wreaths of holly and berries. But still, that might have been days ago. Could have been months. Time simply did not matter on Culloden.

  “Identification, if you please.” The head man held out his hand.

  Identification? What were the chances Soni had left him a card or something when she’d made his weapons disappear?

  Fisher nodded, stalling, while his hands searched the pockets of his jacket. Then he said a wee prayer as he opened the latch of his sporran and reached inside. Something bit into his finger and he cursed, which put everyone back on alert, damn them.

  He slowly lifted his hand to display his middle finger and the substantial fish hook embedded in the side of it. “Hazardous life of a fisherman, I fear.”

  The wee army grimaced as they watched him pull the hook from his skin, produce a strip of cloth from his pouch, then dab at the blood. He split the cloth down the center, then used one piece to wrap his finger, and the other to wrap the dangerous end of the hook before placing it back in the sporran to bite again another day—hopefully, a fish and not himself. And while he entertained them thusly, he hoped the four would take pity on a bleeding man and allow him to go along his way.

  “Come, monsieur. I insist. We have a first aid kit in the security offices.”

  It was impossible to say whether or not Fisher had a choice in the matter, so he adopted an innocent air and followed the leader back toward the entrance of the basilica while the other men maintained the formation. One to each side and a fourth, unseen, at his back.

  So this is how I must spend my two days’ of life? Dancing to the tune of overzealous riot police, locked away in the dungeon of the basilica?

  At least he had his chance to save the lass from her would-be assailant. At least he’d proved himself a good man. Had he not?

  Still, if I ever see that lass again, I may be the one from whom she needs rescuing!

  The security offices below Sacré-Cœur were surrounded by high iron gates that might have been intended, once upon a time, to keep the very devil himself from escaping. That was assuming someone could have lured him inside, of course. By the way the other officers eyed Fisher, one might think that day had truly arrived. It did not help that he stood so much taller than their entire force. His bulky head of hair might seem more like a black lion’s mane compared to the closely cropped and slicked-back hair of his captors.

  Not under arrest, insisted Marchant. “Mais, je dois m’occuper de Vos blessures.” But I must tend to your wounds.

  In any case, he was led inside a cell of two stone walls and two inner walls of the aforementioned iron constructions that were solid from the floor up past the five-foot mark, then scrollwork and vertical bars reached into the high ceiling. Designed hundreds of years before, the solid bits were likely high enough to block the view of most. But for a man like Fisher, it allowed him to see what some others could not.

  Advantages, he liked. If he were stuck there for two days, at least he’d be able to see beyond the cell.

  If Wyndham could see him now—the one being judged. Would they find him worthy of their trust and release him?

  Marchant and one of the guards joined him in the cell and offered him the chair with its back to the open iron gate. Fisher walked around the table to put his own back to the stone wall. Still pretending he was there for his own good, the two officers decided, with a shared glance, not to insist he sit elsewhere.

  For a long while, they ignored him and spoke about another officer, one who would soon be retiring. They spoke the names of possible replacements which did not interest Fisher in the least. The passage of so much time began to irritate him. Precious seconds and minutes of his two-day-long life were slipping through his fingers. He had yet to find someone to see to his marker!

  He toyed with the idea of explaining his dilemma to the pair when a third man entered the room. This one wore a painfully clean white shirt and carried a large box with a handle. He tried to act professional while he took in the sight of a Highland warrior in traditional dress, but his face blanched and gave away his uneasiness.

  He pulled a chair close and asked Marchant where the prisoner had been injured.

  “Right hand,” Fisher said, showing off the blood on the moderately fringed cuff and the fact that he understood the language, thank you very much.

  The attendant addressed him directly, then, and asked him to remove his jacket. He produced a pair of blue plastic gloves, a bottle of fluid, and a stack of small white squares that looked like cheesecloth. He tugged on the gloves, all the while sneaking glances at Fisher, who stood and removed his jacket as he’d been asked.

  Fisher couldn’t resist stretching and towering over the other men while he did so.

  Marchant remained seated, but the other officer got to his feet as if expecting trouble. Fisher sighed silently over the silliness of the situation. Did the man truly believe a Highlander could be contained if he were unwilling?

  That thought led to another—just how long would Fisher play along with their little charade?

  The attendant waited for him to be seated, then gestured at his arm. “Pull back zee sleeve, s’il vous plait.”

  Fisher tugged his sleeve up to his elbow and marveled that the pain had subsided so quickly. Usually, a good hook in the skin left a lingering pain, but the stinging and bleeding had ceased early on.

  “Present your wound, sir.”

  He held up his hand to take a look at the hole. Without the pain to remind him, he had a devil of a time finding the damage. A small line of dried blood led his gaze to the spot he remembered, but there was no puncture mark to be found. Neither was there damage on the other side.

  Fisher quickly checked his other fingers, then the other hand. When no injury could be found, he looked at Marchant, who had been watching his every move. The man gestured for Fisher to hold out his hands so he could check for himself, but the officer had no better luck. He then invited the guard to find the hole.

  So cocksure, so certain was he that he could find success, that Fisher had to laugh when he
failed. The man looked again, three times, before the Highlander had endured enough and pulled his hands away.

  Marchant shrugged. “The hook, monsieur.”

  Fisher reached carefully into his sporran, felt for the telltale cloth, then carefully removed the hook. He smothered a chuckle when he realized how completely the Frenchmen had pushed aside thoughts of security in favor of solving the mystery of the missing hole in his skin.

  Marchant tested the hook’s tip on the pad of his own pointer finger. The attendant agreed it looked to be wicked enough to catch both man and fish. And while the guard preferred to demonstrate exactly how the hook had been hanging from their captive’s finger, Fisher refused to let him press the hook to his digit just to prove it could have happened.

  “Certainement it happened,” Marchant snapped. “We all observed the blood dripping down to his wrist, non?”

  “Fake blood?” The guard stepped back from the table and patted his weapon again. “Perhaps we should look inside this pouch.”

  “A more important question,” Fisher suggested. “Why would I carry fake blood about?”

  “A distraction?” The leader pondered aloud. “This woman. Perhaps you wanted to distract us from her?”

  “Nonsense. I hooked my finger long after she’d disappeared. And I told you I do not know her.”

  The other two guards were called into the strange interrogation room to verify what they’d seen, to examine Fisher’s hands, and to offer an opinion. “Perhaps we should invite the colonel to—”

  Marchant cleared his throat violently, which cut off the medic’s suggestion. “Non,” he said. “I will not bother the colonel with a wound that does not exist, to show him a hook that did no harm, or a man who has done nothing wrong.”

  The guard protested. “He said winter, not December, when you asked the current month.”

  Fisher smiled pleasantly. “Ask me again.”

  Marchant laughed. “I believe we have wasted enough of this man’s time.”

  “I must write a report,” warned the attendant.

  “To report that you wasted two perfectly good gloves?” Marchant rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “I will see him out.”

  The medic looked at his pile of unused supplies, shrugged, then began loading them back into his kit.

  Much sooner than Fisher had expected, he left the iron gate behind. He was grateful for Marchant’s escort, for the wide queue of tourists parted easily for the uniform and made his escape all the faster. Once outside, he gave the captain a nod and turned away, but a hand on his elbow turned him back.

  Marchant gestured to another officer who panted for breath while holding out a long triangular box. Fisher recognized it and accepted it as his own. Once that officer disappeared into the building, Marchant put his hand on Fisher’s elbow once more.

  “Please, monsieur,” he said in a low voice. “Give me the truth before you go. Please tell me how a significant hole in a man’s hand can heal so quickly. I saw the hook in your skin, hanging from you. I watched you bleed. Are you a devil? An angel? I have seen many things in my life to shape my faith, but never something like this...

  “I must laugh this off for the sake of my men, for the sake of my own position. I will not imperil my reputation by reporting what has happened. But for my own peace, I beg you. Tell me what has happened here. Why this has happened here?”

  The man released Fisher’s elbow, though he clearly didn’t want to.

  Fisher was tempted to give him the truth he asked for, but there was no reason to torment a man who was simply doing his duty, trying to protect the people of Paris from fanatics who might disrupt their hard-won peace.

  He summoned a winning smile. “A magician, sir. A simple sleight of hand. A distraction, just as your man suggested, so I wouldnae be punished for leaving my identification at home. A false bit of skin. A bubble of fake blood beneath it. Aye, yer man sussed it out.” He glanced around. “And my assistant, when I get my hands on her, will owe me a fine supper for leaving me to face the music alone.”

  “No danger to my public?”

  “None at all.”

  “And the bee?”

  Fisher laughed. “My bee and my imagination pose no danger to anyone but me. I was mistaken. And I begin to believe it is not the first time.”

  Chapter Nine

  From the metro, Martine walked to the corner of the roundabout called the Star of Charles De Gaulle. Streets shot out in all directions, completing the stellar shape. In the center stood the famous Arch of Triumph around which a terrifying flow of traffic circled the monument using six or seven lanes.

  Drivers frantically shifted from one lane to the next, moving to the inside, then out again, cursing when they couldn’t exit when they wanted to, forced to circle again for another try.

  Martine stood there, mesmerized for a few minutes before she took a sharp right, which led her away from the colossal monument and directly to her hotel. She was back in her room before dinner time, but she was far too exhausted, emotionally, to go out again.

  “Well, Julia, we’re back.”

  The last thing she’d expected was to still have her sister’s ashes with her, but she wasn’t going to freak out about it. After all, she’d dreaded the moment when she’d walk back through that crooked door alone, truly alone, for the first time in her life.

  But no. That wasn’t true. She’d been truly alone since the night she’d left Julia’s body at the hospital. And after nearly two months of being alone, she was still standing, still breathing— going through the motions like the rest of her fellow beings—when she shouldn’t have been.

  Of course she should feel blessed to be alive, but it was hard to be grateful when she knew for damn sure it had been a cruel mistake. It should have been Julia sitting on the edge of the bed in the Hotel Maria, dreading the fact that she’d be spreading Martine’s ashes the next day, making sure her unworldly sister got out into the world, even if she wasn’t still alive when it happened. Julia was the one who should be coming back through that crooked door alone, knowing things would never be quite the same again.

  The difference was, when Julia went back home again, she’d have a life waiting, people waiting—waiting for her to make her big contribution to science that would change the world for the good. There would be hundreds of med students who would follow in her footsteps just because they were Julia’s amazing footsteps. And human life would be improved over and over again because of her.

  But now? Now, because of one stupid decision, one stupid little mistake, the world was doomed to go it alone, to try to catch up to what it might have been, with Julia. All those people out there, walking around on top of the planet, had no idea how behind they were.

  A setback. That’s what Julia would have called it. We were all suffering from a setback. One day, we’d catch up with ourselves and things would be right again.

  It was her sister’s favorite term for anything negative. “If we don’t get up and fight for this, think of the setbacks!” “If we don’t get up and run this morning, think of the setbacks. We won’t be ready on race day. And I won’t do this without you, so you’ll be setting us both back, Martine, if you don’t get your butt out of that bed!”

  Martine addressed her purse. “Well, way to go, Julia. You didn’t get your butt up off that road, and you set us both back. Way back. Shame on you.”

  She shrugged off her coat and stripped out of her obnoxiously colorful clothes, then hopped in the shower and turned on the water before Julia had a chance for a witty comeback.

  What had she been thinking, going without dinner in Paris of all places?

  By eight o’clock, whole hours after the sun had gone down, Martine’s stomach tried to break records for how loudly a body organ could complain. She’d been so nervous the night before, she’d eaten every snack, every breath mint in the room, leaving her nothing to munch on when she needed it most.

  Rain had splashed against her window and put he
r to sleep after her shower. Now her hair had dried funny on one side, she was chilled to the bone, and her stupid stomach would eat itself if she didn’t risk pneumonia and find a restaurant. Maybe somewhere low-key that didn’t mind if your hair was flatter on one side.

  Her gut twisted with all its might.

  “Fine!”

  She threw off the coat she’d used as a blanket and got her to feet. A few serious stretches got blood flowing back into her fingertips and toes. A minute later, she was dressed, then back inside that coat that still held a little warmth from her body. She gave her hair four brushstrokes, but that was all the time she had. Scooping up her cheap, broken umbrella, she headed out the door with her credit card tucked into her bra. In her other hand, she held the ancient room key which she had to leave at the desk every time she went out.

  The creepy manager stood behind the desk. Dang it!

  “Going out?”

  She gave him half a nod and set the key on the desk, then headed for the door. He said something about the night shift, but she pretended not to hear. After all, there were three other people in the foyer, and he might have been talking to someone else. It was rude, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that Julia would have done the same thing—if only to avoid giving the man the wrong idea.

  That was another difference between herself and her sister. If Julia were rude, it was with a purpose. If Martine was rude, she’d feel guilty for days, then make a fool of herself trying to make up for it.

  Wasn’t there a song about Paris in the rain? If there wasn’t, there ought to be. The lights from the streetlamps were multiplied by the rain on their glass, turning them into sparkling stars whose light multiplied again when they shattered against every wet surface.