Archangel Crusader (16 page)

Uncertainty floated in the chestnut eyes. A timid smile started to curl the corners of the boy's mouth, but it all changed to terror when the dangerous truth finally registered.

And he did scream, but no one heard his desperate plea behind the mysterious door.

Chapter Thirteen

Rays from the rising sun filtered through the clouds while Michael rode east. The sky looked like the religious pictures of his youth, with silver beams of light piercing the dark gray clouds. After a few strategic turns, to make sure he was not followed, Michael headed west toward Arkansas. It felt good to ride through open country again after all these years. He had missed the smells, the fragrance of the dirt, even the grass.

The land represented the soul and the spirit of his young years. He remembered a day when, at twelve, some old cowboy convinced him he could ride a bull. Although Michael was underage, the man arranged for him to ride in the rodeo.

"Nothing to it," the rugged man said. "You're good on a horse. You can handle it. You'll become famous... It's good money. If I could do it at your age, you can. The girls will look at you for sure."

Ranch hands hoisted him atop the meanest beast of the bunch and opened the gate. As soon as the Brahma bull bolted in the enclosure, young Michael realized his mistake. Under him, a ton of twisting, pounding, skyrocketing muscle kicked and spun. He held on to the rope as hard as he could, pale and screaming, while the cheering crowd whirled around and up and down. A deadly carnival roller coaster ride, the boy thought with terror, the frail body taking a severe beating. Michael did not get trampled but almost died of fright. It took him a week to recover, less than for one of his stepfather's regular beatings.

This was the law of the country, as Michael knew it as a child. He still respected that old cowboy for teaching him a lesson in humility. That young boy had quickly learned the values that later shaped his life. Freedom at all cost, respect for life, love and protection for the children. Women remained a mystery, however. Michael wondered if he would ever understand them.

All his romantic involvements ended the same way. Michael never found what he looked for or knew what to expect from a relationship...until he met Veronica, his first true love. And now, she had been taken from him by that popinjay in black leather. How he hated Krastinios’ guts. Michael could do nothing when he met him before, but now it would be different. At least he had the tools to fight, and soon, he would.

Hungry and dirty from the road, he stopped in Nashville for the night. The streets smelled of burgers and fries. Michael kept an inconspicuous profile, using mind suggestion to alter his appearance. To passers-by, he looked like an old, solitary biker better left alone.

After dinner, sitting on the bed in a dark motel room with green and gold draperies that smelled of stale cigarette smoke, Michael called Debbie and Walter on his mobile phone. The FBI had contacted them. They honestly answered all questions, including the fact that they had no idea where he hid. Michael did not enlighten them either, only saying that they could contact him soon at his destination. He hung up the phone before the call could be traced. Satellites had a way of giving out locations.

When Michael called Dave, the FBI had been there too, but only briefly. Since Michael had officially cut all ties with his family at the age of fourteen, they seemed to believe the story Dave fed them and probably would not come back. Dave's farm still looked like the best place for Michael to wait. Besides, Jennifer would try to reach him there.

Jennifer... Was she safe? He dialed Tori’s number but obtained no response. An inexplicable malaise seized Michael as he thought about his daughter. Time to establish mental contact. Relaxing on the bed, he launched his consciousness to the French city of Paris and from there spread his awareness over the continents. Michael searched relentlessly for any sign of Jennifer's psyche. She couldn't possibly be lost, but he couldn't find any sign of her on the planet. She had to be alive. Michel would know if she were dead. Why couldn't he reach her? He could only hope Jennifer would call him soon.

Finally, Michael fell into a troubled slumber, the strong body giving up to physical exhaustion as well as mental strain. His sleep that night crawled with nightmares. They brought up the recurring face and atrocious cold eyes of the snake-alien Lufriec, surfacing from another dream weeks ago, out from under the silvery hood of a monk's robe.

*****

Jennifer thoroughly enjoyed the Eiffel tower. She cringed with apprehension during the noisy elevator ride, amidst enormous beams of rough brown iron and closed her eyes a few times. Despite her fear of heights, the view from the top of the great lady of steel, proved rewarding. As long as she kept her eyes on the horizon, Jennifer was fine, but vertigo seized her every time she tried to look down. Down below, magnificent palaces, museums, and white churches sprinkled the hills. Parks and streets formed a picturesque grid, a gigantic map with the lazy River Seine snaking nonchalantly through it.

For lunch, they took the cruise on the river in a Plexiglas boat. The food wasn’t that great, but Jennifer’s eyes devoured the scenery passing by. Old stone bridges decorated with statues, antique bookshops in the open air, cathedrals and churches. People in a hurry walked everywhere. Jennifer even saw Lady Liberty on the riverfront, saluting the passing barges. Who would have ever guessed she was French?

In the afternoon, Jennifer fed the pigeons in the square in front of Notre Dame. She marveled at the height of the elegant towers of the great cathedral, at the lace-like pattern of the stone carvings along the portals, at the stained glass windows and rosacea. She looked up at the flying buttresses until her head reeled, frowning at the ugly gargoyles staring back at her. She wondered if the hunchback of medieval times still slumbered under the eves of the highest tower among the gigantic bells.

Following the left bank, Jennifer and Tori walked among the crowd of the Quartier Latin, mainly students of the neighboring universities. When they came upon the Place Saint Michel, Jennifer stopped and stared. A huge fountain dominated the intersection. There towered a colossal archangel, framed by magnificent wings. The bronze statue of Saint Michael brandished a snake sword and trampled the Devil in a demonstration of raw strength and righteous wrath. The handsome fiend writhed under the onslaught.

Somehow the statue of the archangel reminded Jennifer of her father, right down to the long wavy hair... She had not been able to reach him lately. She’d tried to concentrate as he taught her, but to no avail. She’d also called his mobile phone, but for some reason the lines did not connect.

“
Maybe we should go home,” Tori suggested. “We have to get ready for our big night.”

Jennifer agreed. The very special night at the Opera was her first great event. Setting her worries aside, the young girl focused on the evening. She would wear the red dress Tori had bought for her.

Back at the penthouse, mother and daughter tried different hairstyles and makeup combinations. They giggled, striking poses in front of the mirror of the master bathroom. Jennifer marveled at the professional lights and drawers full of assorted lotions, creams, powders, blushes, eye pencils, nail polish, lipstick, and a variety of cosmetic tools she had never seen before.

The two decided to look alike tonight. To achieve this, they carefully chose two long, bright red silk dresses of slightly different styles: one flattering Jennifer's budding breasts with a frilly ruffle, and one that downplayed the voluptuous bosom of her mother. The back on each dress exposed much bare skin. Even the hairstyles would look similar, at least from the front. By cutting short bangs in the front of Jennifer's long hair, combing them in a boyish fashion, and pulling up the rest in a high chignon, Tori made their faces look strikingly alike.

Jennifer practiced walking in high heels. These, with her tall stature, added five years on her. False eyelashes, lipstick and careful makeup made her look like the little sister of her gorgeous mother. Jennifer basked in the feeling. She knew now without a doubt that she had found her real mother and felt very secure. Both enjoyed the same things, they even looked alike. If only her father could see them now!

*****

The white limo pulled up in front of the brightly lit Opera House, which resembled a white wedding cake with gold and green bronze decorations. Krastinios, casually holding up the dark-green, velvet drapes, watched from the private office window above the lobby. His expert eyes appraised the two beautiful women who stepped out of the car, wearing red silk and gold lamé stoles, diamond necklaces and bracelets covering their flawless skin.

"Thank you for the exclusive tickets," Krastinios said, turning back to the middle-aged man in the expensive suit sitting behind the antique cherry desk.

"This is nothing after all we owe you, dear friend." The gray-haired man looked fearful in the glow of the desk lamp. "Besides, it is such a privilege to serve you. We greatly appreciate your generous support of the arts, among other favors." The lecherous smile of the man told of depraved tendencies. "See you later, at your little party."

Bowing slightly, Krastinios smiled, more to himself than to the man, then left. Down the central stairway of Venetian marble, his feet barely touched the red runners held in place by polished brass retainers. Krastinios reflected on the incompetence of simple humans. They could not be depended upon and usually found ways to fail in the most important tasks, like the Secret Services, that bunch of amateurs...

Krastinios should have gone to Washington himself. The agents in charge of organizing Debbie's accidental death had fumbled. "A slight error in timing," the Colonel had explained. "We could easily terminate her anytime, if you like." How could it look like a random terrorist act now? Krastinios could not kill Debbie without attracting attention to the Crusade. Too late... The opportunity had come and gone. Time to implement plan B.

As he crossed the landing, his eye caught a television screen displaying his archenemy. This Crusader, as the journalists named him, was becoming bothersome. This last week, his face had been showing up everywhere in messages packed with subliminal suggestions to restore the planet. Other speakers had picked up his cause, and his ideas spread with unexpected alacrity. A renewed interest in ecology, world peace and solidarity now surfaced in all the media. The little tramp had learned much in a short time, enough to become a major thorn in Krastinios’ side. Like all Reptilians, he liked the heat and counted on the global warming. Without it, Earth would be a cold home for his people. Why had the Blue Angels bothered to teach a lowly Earthling? Didn’t they know they couldn’t win this time?

From the second floor, leaning nonchalantly on the stone railing, Krastinios kept the foyer in his field of view. There, Jennifer and Tori admired the architecture and the paintings while waiting for the curtain call. Krastinios had obtained for them the best seats in the house, first balcony, front row, also known as the presidential lodge which, however, presidents rarely used anymore. He would surprise them by showing up at the last minute, his seat conveniently reserved in the same box.

Krastinios had not come tonight for the premiere of Romeo and Juliette, although the ballet, remarkable in every way, featured the most reputable dancers in the world. No... He had come to stalk his chosen prey: two beautiful white doves, already wearing the crimson of their very blood.

Jennifer and Tori seemed to enjoy the game. As they approached in all their glamour, they acknowledged a smile from a good-looking man, a glare from a less beautiful woman.

Krastinios followed them into the crowd of multicolored organza, shiny satin, starched pleated shirts and black neckties, with an occasional tuxedo or black hat. He was the only man there wearing fine leather, open on a smooth tanned chest. His rare elegance, perfect posture, ideal proportions, and natural poise made Krastinios the most fashionable man in the crowd. Many women, and quite a few men noticed and coveted him.

Taking a detour to observe his doves, Krastinios chuckled at their surprise when the usher showed them to their seats. He waited a few minutes then ambled toward them. "What a delightful surprise!" he exclaimed, all charisma and smile. "I could not have wished for better company. Jennifer..." He formally kissed her hand. "Madame Fontaine." He reiterated the courtesy.

Mother and daughter caught their breath at the apparition. A question furrowed Tori's eyebrows, but she soon joined in the conversation already started between Krastinios and Jennifer. They talked about the magnificent ceiling, painted by Chagall a few decades ago. The modern style contrasted with the classic gold columns and centuries-old architecture. The angels sported black-contoured Picasso-like faces, and the bright colors and bold shapes won Jennifer's vote. Tori, who had seen pictures of the original ceiling felt it more suited to the style of the edifice.

"The new generation likes it," Krastinios concluded as an apology.

When the lights dimmed, the crowd hushed. In the low incandescence of a huge chandelier, the spectators held their breath while the majestic curtain of crimson and gold lifted slowly, revealing a diaphanous veil. The flimsy fabric caught the light but still concealed the rich decor behind. After a few customary tuning scales, the orchestra struck the first notes of the introduction.