Counterfeit Conspiracies (22 page)

For a moment, thoughts of my own quest fell aside, and I considered the many men and women who had suffered and even died on their religious pilgrimages here. A journey of such importance they willingly made the necessary sacrifices the completion required.

"Takes your breath away doesn't it?"

The softly spoken words brought me from my contemplation of the past and thrust me squarely back to the present. I managed to keep my gaze forward and calm. "Yes. It's indescribable, Jack."

"What strikes you the most?"

"The building, what else? It has superb architecture, like every other structure in this town. What about you?"

"I agree with your assessment. The architecture is unlike anything on earth and only adds to the magnificent contents."

Something in his tone struck me as odd. "Have you been here before?"

"Once, with a group of mates on a bike tour. I always promised myself I would return, but life does get in the way. Yet, here I am, with you, despite circumstances beyond my control. Surprise, surprise."

No, I wasn't going there.

"I'm trying to figure out what clues there might be here," I said. "Do you see anything?"

"Other than a spectacular version of architecture built from the fifth to the fifteenth century and priceless artworks? No."

I fought back my disappointment. All this way and . . . nothing? I hated failure. Still, I had only been in the cathedral a short time. Not really long enough to be sure.

But I had no idea how long Jack had been here.

He might have left the hotel and hotfooted it right over to Le Puy, picked up what we needed and completed the mission already. He had the car. He may have been lying about Geneva or decided not to go.

I looked at him. His gaze left
The Seven Liberal Arts
and met mine. The few people in the room disappeared until it was just the two of us staring at one another. I had no idea what he was thinking, but I felt confused. Was it possible he was as genuine as he seemed? Could I trust him?

Probably too risky. So far, the recovery mission comprised a series of tragic incidents and disappointments. I've never handled disappointment well, but this assignment, including the horrible odd murders, made every experienced emotion feel heightened.

I hadn't truly believed the sword was real, had argued it with myself and Max from the beginning. On a personal level, maybe Simon's strange disappearance was not really strange at all, and Jack's bizarre intrusions into my life were nothing more than coincidences in the normal realm of life's occurrences. Whatever. The bottom line—deal with my disappointment the usual way. Alone.

By unspoken mutual consent, we stayed for another hour, wandering the beautiful building and checking anomalies that caught our eyes. The
Black Virgin
and the
Chapelle of Reliques
with its
Seven Liberal Arts
drew me again and again, but I saw nothing to connect with the investigation.

Strangely, Jack's voice was a welcome intrusion from the darkness of my thoughts. "Ready to go up to the statue on the top of the hill? Or has hunger taken over?"

"No food. I'm thirsty, but more curious to see the view from the statue. Let's go."

"If you're sure. You'll really be thirsty when you've ascended all two-hundred-sixty-odd steps to the top."

"No, I won't. I think there are fountains along the way. Don't you remember from when you were here before?"

I worked to hide my disappointment about failing to find anything, but was unsure I succeeded. I let Jack lead the way, and of course he looked great in clothes that looked freshly ironed.

My things were less pressed, but at least my London shopping spree meant the clothes I pulled from my pack might be crumpled but attractive. I told myself so, anyway. Although, I still didn't remember the pink sweater. My hair, fastened atop my head since my shower at Thierry's, was falling haphazardly down, while Jack's head was perfectly groomed without a hair out of place. How did he do that?

"You should have slept and waited for me at the hotel. Lunch was delicious, and even with the traffic I made great time," he said casually, reading my mind again. I felt like spitting on him. Never mind how I despised people who spit.

"I had wonderful food." I tried not to think about the crushed sandwich and lukewarm water, or what preceded their sampling, focusing instead on the cheese and the wine I'd enjoyed a few hours ago with Rollie. "And I feel great." I wished I had finished off the bottle of wine.

He turned and grasped my chin lightly. "Yeah, I can tell from those big circles under your eyes how much sleep you've gotten." His face changed when pain chased across my face and I couldn't maintain a neutral expression. "What's happened here, Laurel?"

His index finger moved lightly over the abraded skin, and he bent to see when he gently lifted my chin high. "When? Where? How?" he asked quietly. "That cut wasn't there when I left you this morning."

Thankfully, I could explain quite truthfully what happened. "I'm not sure. I must have scraped it somewhere, but I don't know how. Besides, until you touched it, I had forgotten it was there."

The grimness hadn't left his face as he continued to study the mark. I had no idea why he was making such a federal case out of a little graze.

He finally let go of my chin and briefly touched my cheek. "Don't ever lie to me, Laurel. I'm depending on you to tell me the truth. I plan to do the same for you." He held out his hand and his mood changed. "Allow me to assist you, mademoiselle, in achieving your desire to reach the top."

I was absolutely
not
ready for this kind of byplay with him. He already lied. Unless he'd had his own personal "Q" to put a rocket app on his James Bond car, he certainly hadn't had time to get to Geneva and back. "I need no help, thank you." I ignored the outstretched hand and brushed past him.

Fortunately, I was right. The area sported plenty of rest areas, fountains, and toilets. The steps weren't even that steep. It was also quiet. I assumed everyone was down below in the town partying in sixteenth century style.

When we reached the halfway point, I asked, "Did you know about the festival?"

He picked up a loose stone, looked at it for a minute, then threw it and watched it roll away. It seemed like a deliberate stalling tactic, but I wasn't sure why. Surely, the fact he knew about the festival wasn't a state secret.

"I have heard something about it but I've never attended. It looks like quite a lot of fun if one is interested in that sort of thing."

"Not a renaissance man?"

"Oh, I think I'm a man for all times. I'm just not a fan of a particular period of time in history. I enjoy reading about historical events, but I like living in the present."

"Speaking of the present, have you found out anything more about 'the place' we're wanting to find?"

"Not really," he replied.

Something in his expression told me he was definitely lying this time. Previously, even when instinct told me not to trust him, I recognized his fairly straightforward actions in our dealings—except of course for Geneva. Yet now I knew he wasn't being truthful, which struck me as interesting.

I managed to keep my tone neutral. "What does 'not really' mean?"

There was another pause. This time it was obviously significant. Strange, because I would say men like Jack don't make the kinds of mistakes that allow opponents to read them.

It couldn't be climbing the steps, because he was in great shape. Even I wasn't having any trouble breathing, and I hadn't seen the inside of the gym in six months. So I waited.

When he decided to answer, his tone was flat. "Just what it means. I might have heard something, but I'm discounting the story because of the source. The rumor isn't worth giving thought to, much less sharing it with someone."

"The 'someone' being me I suppose?" I made a disbelieving sound. "Yet, you've thought about what your source said, right? And now you're making a decision to keep the information to yourself, which makes the story important enough to have made a decision about the data."

The argument sounded convoluted, but I knew he knew what I meant. Should I tell him I could tell he was lying to me? Hell, yes.

"There's just one other thing." I stopped suddenly and pivoted on my step. He was one step down, so we stood eyeball to eyeball. From this angle, I could see all the markings in his eyes which made up the brilliant teal, the effect I had really thought was fake, but now recognized couldn't even be duplicated by a master contact designer. I took a deep breath. "Moments ago, you were going on about being truthful with each other. But you must have lied about going to Geneva. You'd never be standing here now if you drove your car there and back. I've discovered I can tell when you're lying to me. So either come clean, or we stop this uneasy alliance."

His expression didn't change, but I knew he was considering my words and weighing whether or not I meant what I said.

"Laurel," he began, his tone suitably regrettable.

So, he had decided not to share. I tuned out the rest, turned and resumed my trek to the top. I couldn't do anything about the proximity of our positions, but knew better than most how to freeze someone out. From that moment on, no matter what he said, I ignored his words.

Some might say that's passive aggressive, but I called it survival of the fittest in a war of attrition. If he wasn't going to share information, I would not only
not
share with him but also pretend he didn't exist.

We reached the pinnacle. I could only think of the word 'amazing' to describe the view of Le Puy, and even that fell short. I was speechless but not on purpose this time. I stared, trying to process each component. A few other people milled around, but for the most part, it was just the two of us at the top of Massif Central. As he started to speak something caught my eye, and again I didn't hear what he said.

From the vantage point, I looked over a large estate set off far from the main part of town and even other estates in the surrounding countryside. The house appeared to be built directly out of a rock wall, the stone of the building's façade dark, almost black. Some parts even darker than others. In fact, the structure had an exterior façade quite astonishingly different from any other building in this charming locale.

Carefully, I turned and looked the other way to minimize my obvious interest. Jack had finally stopped talking, and I didn't want him to catch on to my revelation. The intuition I had thought deserted me on this case was pinging like crazy. It was too early at this juncture to draw any conclusions, but I needed to pinpoint the black house's location, because it was the direction I was headed.

"Laurel, aren't you taking this a little too far?"

I grinned to myself and politely said, "Excuse me?"

"Oh, so you are speaking to me again?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Jack snorted. Somehow, he made even that atrocious noise attractive. "Come off it."

No sense antagonizing him further. I had places to go. "I've seen enough. I'm ready to head back down," I said, my voice soft and serene.

"Laurel . . ." If he had been the type to go red-faced sweating and apoplectic, now would have been the time.

My answer was to give him a look at my oh-so-straight shoulders and—even if I am the one to say it—the swing of my attractive backside as I headed down the steps.

Of course he followed, and this time we walked in complete silence. I have no idea what he thought, but I knew what occupied my mind. The black estate.

Such an unusual looking house, seemingly carved right out of the side of a mountain. A structure that would appeal only to a certain type of person. An individual who wanted the extraordinary and possessed the money to achieve it.

I had to rid myself of Jack and make plans. Decide how I was going to get to the house and be prepared for any and all eventuality.

Getting to the car became the next hurdle. I didn't want Jack to catch on, and almost everything I needed was inside the vehicle. Except for certain equipment that I hoped to obtain if the necessary stores were still open.

I glanced at my narrow wristwatch. I had plenty of time to find rappelling equipment. Just in case. Surely, there were shops in this town that sold such things. I wasn't an expert, but I had engaged in several rock climbing sessions over the years.

It seemed to take forever to reach the road, but really it was only a few minutes before we arrived back at street level.

"See you around," I said casually and walked away, only to find myself being whirled around to face him.

I couldn't stop the sound of pain that hissed through my lips. Even through the bandage, his grip was tough. Not meant to bruise, just meant to control. But I have a firm rule, and no man manhandled me. The pain started a powerful surge of heat through my veins.

I barely noticed the look of shock on his face as I reached out my right foot and wrapped it around his leg fast enough to gain the advantage. I head-butted him once and unbalanced him.

Fortunately, for me, and unfortunately for him, when he fell he took me down with him. I'm not sure if it was the surprise of my attack or my weight, but as I rose to my feet, standing victoriously over my spoils, Jack Hawkes lay sprawled, unconscious, on the bottom step of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame du Puy.

Breathing heavily I checked his pulse. It was steady, his respiration normal, and pupils were reactive and not dilated. I searched his head for a wound. There was no blood, but a new lump had begun forming on the back of his head near the top. Out for the second time in as many days. He must have caught the lip of the bottom step.

I wished it hadn't happened, but even as I pulled the cell from my bra, he began stirring. For a second I considered what to do. The more I thought about it the stronger the urge became to flee.

The call connected right then and made my decision for me. After an extended language-barrier hassle, I was done. I even mentioned this was the second bout of unconsciousness in about twenty-four hours. I'd done all I could. The woman at the other end thanked me, and as I made my way back to the car, an ambulance siren could be heard. I smiled, feeling nostalgic. The approaching ambulance would take good care of Bond, James Bond.