Destiny (5 page)

“Men like that, assassins, rarely carry identification,” the old man said, continuing to gain speed. “Feel free to jump out and go back. I won't have hurt feelings. It wouldn't be the first time I've saved someone's life only to have them squander it foolishly against the very person or thing I saved them from. Do you know if the other men in the cave are dead?”

“No,” Annja replied.

“Well, I suppose you might consider the possibility that they're still indisposed is worth the risk. I, however, don't.”

“Your attitude leaves a lot to be desired.” Annja settled back in the seat, loosening the belt.

The old man shook his head and laughed. “You're hardly the grateful sort yourself.” He shoved out his hand.

She took it, surprised at the strength she felt in his grip. Then it felt as if she'd grabbed hold of a branding iron.

The old man took his hand back and the strange sensation ended.

“Are you all right?” Concern touched his blue eyes beneath the thick white eyebrows.

“Yes,” Annja replied, annoyed that he would think she wasn't.

“Good.” He paused and looked back at the road. “My name is Roux,” he said, as if it would explain everything.

 

T
WO HOURS LATER
, Annja sat waiting quietly in the Lozère police station. She was pointedly ignored.

“I think you've disrupted their day,” Roux said. “Now there will be paperwork generated, reports to file.”

“This is ridiculous,” Annja said.

“You're an American.” Roux sat in a chair against the wall. He held a deck of cards and shuffled them one-handed. “They aren't particularly fond of Americans. Especially ones that claim to have been shot at.”

“There are bullet holes in your vehicle.”

Roux frowned and paused midshuffle. “Yes. That is regrettable. I don't get overly attached to vehicles, but I did like that one.”

Annja shifted in the hard chair she'd been shown to. “Don't you want to know who was shooting at us?”

The old man grinned. “In my life, I've found that if someone truly wishes to harm you and you survive the attempt, you usually get a chance to get to know them again.” He paused and looked at her. “You truly don't know who tried to kill you?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

“Back at the cave, one of the men mentioned someone named Lesauvage,” Annja said.

Roux took a moment to reflect. Then he shook his head. “I don't know anyone named Lesauvage.”

Working quickly, he shuffled, cut the deck and dealt out four hands on the chair between them. When he turned the cards over, she saw that he'd dealt out four royal flushes.

“Are you certain you won't play?” he asked.

“After seeing that?” Annja nodded. “I'm certain.”

Smiling a little, like a small boy who has performed a good trick, Roux said, “Not even if I promise not to cheat?”

“No.”

“You can trust me.”

Annja looked at him.

“I believe in the game,” Roux said. “Cheating…cheapens the sport.”

“Sure.”

Roux shrugged. “Let's play a couple hands. I'll put up a thousand dollars against the trinket you found in that cave.”

“No.”

“We could be here for hours.” Roux shuffled the cards hopefully.

“Mademoiselle Creed.”

Glancing up, Annja saw a handsome man in a black three-piece suit standing in front of her. His dark hair was combed carefully back and he had a boyish smile.

“I'm Annja Creed,” she said.

The man looked around. No one else sat in the waiting room.

“I'd rather gathered that you were.” He held out his hand. “I am Inspector Richelieu.”

“Like the cardinal,” Annja said, taking his hand and standing.

“In name only,” the inspector said.

Since Cardinal Richelieu had been responsible for thousands of people being beheaded on the guillotine, Annja realized her faux pas.

“Sorry,” she said. “I haven't met anyone with that name before. I meant no insult.”

“I assure you,
mademoiselle,
no insult was taken.” Richelieu pointed to the rear of the room. “If you would care to join me, I will take your statement in my office.”

Brother Gaspar of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain sat at his desk and contemplated his future. It was not a pleasant task. Thankfully, there was not much of it left. Surely no more than three or four more thousand mornings and as many evenings.

He wore a black robe against the chill that filled the room. The years had drawn him lean and spare. Beneath his cowl, his head was shaved and his skin was sallow from seldom seeing the light of day. He got out at night. All of his order did, but they couldn't be seen during the day because it raised too many questions among the townsfolk.

As leader of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain, he did not truly have a future. His mission was to protect and unlock the past. If he succeeded in the first, no one would ever know the monstrous predations his order had allowed to take place three hundred years ago.

But if he succeeded in the second and unlocked the past, made everything right again, his whole life would change. He looked forward to that possibility.

Even at sixty-eight years old, he believed he had a few good years left. It wasn't that he looked forward to getting out into the world. He had renounced all of that when he took his vows. But he had read all the books and manuscripts in his small post.

He longed for the true manuscripts, the ones he had seen as a child in Rome, where he'd been trained in the secrets he had to keep. The documents that told of secret histories and covered holders of power who weren't known to the general masses.

He sighed and his gentle breath nearly extinguished the guttering candles that illuminated the stone cave. The monastery, hidden from sight, was located deep inside the Cévennes Mountains. It wasn't a true edifice built by the hand of men in service to the church. Rather, it was an aberration within the earth that earlier monks had discovered and elaborated on.

On good days, Brother Gaspar thought of the monastery as a gift from God, made expressly for his order. On bad days, he thought of it as a prison.

He sat at his desk and wrote his weekly letter to Bishop Taglio, who guided his moves and provided counsel when needed. Although written with handmade ink, in elegant calligraphy, on paper made by the order, the letter was merely perfunctory. It was merely a chore that occupied his head and his hands for a short time.

After thirty-seven years, since he had taken on the mantle of the leader of the order, Brother Gaspar had begun to have difficulty finding ways to express the situation.
Everything is fine and going according to plan. We are still searching for that which was lost.

He kept the references deliberately vague. Enemies didn't quite abound these days as they had three hundred years ago, but they were still out there.

In fact, even a few treasure hunters had joined the pack. Corvin Lesauvage had snooped around for years. Over the past few the man had become extremely aggressive in his search. He had killed two monks who had fallen into his hands, torturing them needlessly because they didn't know anything to assuage his curiosity.

Only Brother Gaspar knew that, and he shuddered to think about falling into Lesauvage's hands. Of course, he would not. He would die before that happened.

His fellow monks had orders to kill him the instant he fell into someone else's custody. Since he never went anywhere alone, and seldom ventured outside the monastery walls, he didn't think he would ever be at risk.

Only the imminent disclosure of the secrets he protected would bring him forth. God willing, he would find the truth of those secrets himself. But, as they had remained hidden for three hundred years, there was little chance of that.

“Master.”

Startled, Brother Gaspar looked up from his broad table and the letter he had been writing. “Yes. Come forward that I may see you.”

Brother Napier stepped from the shadows. He wore hiking clothes, tattoos and piercings, and looked like any young man who prowled the Parisian streets.

“Yes, Brother Napier,” Brother Gaspar inquired.

“I did not mean to bother you while you were at your letter,” the younger monk stated.

Brother Gaspar put his pen in the inkwell with slow deliberation. “But you have.”

“For good reason, master.”

“What is it?”

“The woman has found something.”

“The American?”

“Yes, master. She found La Bête's cave.”

Angry and frightened, Brother Gaspar surged to his feet. He leaned on the desk and his arms trembled. “It can't be.”

Kneeling in supplication, Brother Napier held up his hands. Sheets of papers containing images rested on them. “It is true, master. I saw the cave myself. But only for a short time. The earth closed back over it.” He looked at Brother Gaspar. “I saw it, master. I saw the Beast of Gévaudan. The stories were
true.
”

Of course they were, the older monk thought. Otherwise we would not all be trapped here.

Rounding the desk, Brother Gaspar took the papers from the young monk's hands. He stared at the pictures. They showed the young American woman on the mountaintop and apparently running for her life. Other pictures showed motorcycles chasing an SUV.

“You saw La Bête?” Brother Gaspar asked.

“Yes.”

“Was it—” he hesitated “—alive?”

“No. It was dead. Very dead. A warrior killed it.”

“A warrior?” Excitement flared through Brother Gaspar. The old stories were true. The knowledge offered validation for all the years he had spent at the monastery. “How do you know a warrior killed it?”

“Because he was still there.”

“The warrior?”

“Yes, master.”

“He was dead, as well?” Brother Gaspar doubted the man could have been in any other shape, but just knowing the story was true and knowing all the arcane things connected with it, he felt compelled to ask.

“Yes, master. It looked as though he and La Bête had fought and killed each other.”

Brother Gaspar felt the air in the cave grow thicker than normal. “Did you examine La Bête's body or that of the warrior?” he asked.

“I did. But only for a short time. The cavern was shaking. The earthquake was still going on. Luckily, I got out before the cavern closed.”

“It closed?”

“Yes, master.”

“You could find this place again?”

The young monk nodded. “But it would do no good, master. The earth has sealed the cave tightly.” He paused. “Perhaps a quake another day will reveal it again.”

“We will watch for this, then,” Brother Gaspar said. His hand caressed his throat. “When you looked at the warrior, did you see anything?”

“You mean the necklace?”

Brother Gaspar's heart beat sped up. “Yes,” he replied in a hoarse whisper.

The necklace was the greatest secret of them all.

“The American woman carried a necklace from the cave,” the young monk said.

“You followed her?” Brother Gaspar asked.

“As far as I could,” the young monk agreed. “She was pursued.”

“By who?”

“Lesauvage's men.”

That announcement poured ice water into the old monk's veins. “How did they get there?”

“They followed the woman. I only happened to be in the mountains when I saw her with the old man.”

“What old man?” Brother Gaspar was alarmed.

“I do not know, master.”

Brother Gaspar went through the sheets of pictures. “Is he in these?”

“Sadly, no. I thought I took his picture, but when I developed the images, I found I had not.”

Brother Gaspar, whose life had been so carefully ordered for so very long, felt very unsettled. He didn't like the fact that Lesauvage's men had been so close to the discovery of La Bête or that his monks had merely been lucky.

When he had found out about the American television person, he had dismissed her at once.
Chasing History's Monsters
was pure entertainment and a complete waste of time. No one doing research for such a show presented any threat to uncovering his secrets. Or so he had believed.

“Who has the necklace now?” Brother Gaspar asked.

“The woman, I think.” Brother Napier looked flustered. “Lesauvage's men gave pursuit, but the American woman and the old man shot back at them and escaped.”

“Where is the American woman?”

“She was staying in Lozère. I don't know where.”

Lamenting that he hadn't given more thought to the threat the woman might have posed, Brother Gaspar sighed. “Find her. Find out if she still has the necklace.”

“And if she does, master?”

“Take it from her and bring it to me.”

“Of course.” Brother Napier bowed and backed out of the room.

Resentfully, Brother Gaspar glared at the table. His nearly completed letter sat there.

It would have to be rewritten, of course. And he would have to call the bishop. Perhaps, Brother Gaspar thought, he would soon be free of his prison.

Inspector Richelieu's office was neat and compact. Not the kind of office Annja expected of a working policeman. She'd seen cop's offices before. None of them were this pristine.

She wondered if maybe Richelieu was gay or lived with his mother. Or perhaps he was a control freak. A personality trait like that was a real relationship killer.

Not that Annja was looking for a relationship. But the inspector did have nice eyes and nice hands. Her mind wandered for a moment.

“Have a seat,” Richelieu invited, waving to the chair across from his tiny metal desk.

Annja sat. In the too neat office, she felt dirty and grimy. Outside in the main office with the other policemen, she'd felt that she belonged. Now she wanted a hot bath and a change of clothing. And food. She suddenly realized she was starving.

“I gave a statement to one of the officers,” Annja said.

“I know.” Richelieu sat on the other side of the desk. “I read it. Both versions.”

While waiting for something—anything—to happen, Annja had written up her statement herself in addition to the one the policeman had taken. She hadn't trusted his eye for detail. Or his ear.

“Your penmanship and your French are exquisite,” Richelieu commented.

“Thanks,” Annja said, “but I wasn't here for a grade.”

Richelieu smiled. “I've also been investigating the supposed site of the chase down the mountain.”

“Supposed?” Annja echoed.

“Yes.” The inspector looked concerned for a moment. “Would you prefer to speak in English? I'm quite good at it and perhaps it would be easier.”

“French is fine,” Annja said.

“I thought perhaps you hadn't understood.”

“I understood perfectly.” Annja put an edge to her words. Getting dismissed out of hand in the field of archaeology because she was a woman was something she'd had to deal with often. She didn't take it lightly. “There was no ‘supposed' chase site. It was there. Along with two or three dead men.”

Richelieu waited a moment, then shook his head. “No dead men.”

Annja thought about that. “Perhaps Lesauvage had the bodies picked up.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don't know,” Annja replied. “I came here to you to find out why he would send men looking for me in the first place.”

“Do you know that he sent the men?”

“I overheard one of the men say that they were working for Lesauvage.”

“But you don't know that they, in fact, did.”

“Why would they say they were if they weren't?”

The inspector looked amused and perplexed. “I'm quite sure I wouldn't know.”

“I could ask Lesauvage,” Annja said.

“I thought you didn't know him.”

“Maybe you could introduce us,” Annja suggested with a smile. The inspector wasn't the only one who could play games. He was just the only one at the moment with some reason to.

A sour smile pulled at Richelieu's lips. He pulled at his left ear. “You're intimating that I have some kind of personal relationship with Lesauvage?”

Returning his gaze full measure, Annja asked, “Are you sure speaking French works for you? Maybe English translates more plainly.”

Richelieu scowled. “I didn't come here to listen to disparaging remarks directed at me, Miss Creed.”

“I didn't come here to cool my heels for three hours, then get patted on the head and sent away.”

Opening the slim notebook computer on his desk, Richelieu opened a file that displayed several pictures. “We investigated the site. I took these pictures. I found expended cartridges, bullets in the trees and scorch marks.” He paused. “No bodies. No motorcycles.”

“Then Lesauvage picked them up.”

“Why?”

“So he wouldn't be implicated.”

Closing the computer, Richelieu looked at her. “I was hoping to establish the veracity of your claim, Miss Creed. I did find damage done out in the forest—which is federally protected, I might add, and something you might be called upon to answer for—but nothing that you and your friend couldn't have done yourselves.”

“We didn't intentionally damage the forest,” Annja said. She was annoyed. Truthfully, she hadn't expected much in the way of help from the police. This man, Lesauvage, appeared to have a large organization at his beck and call. Assuming he had inroads with the local police was no great leap of imagination.

“So you say,” the inspector said.

“I
do
say.”

“I will note your disavowal in my reports.”

“Why would we do something like that?” Annja asked, exasperated.

Richelieu spread his hands. “You're a television personality, Miss Creed. Here in Lozère chasing a monster that's three hundred years old. Perhaps you thought tales of a running gun battle through the forest would, perhaps,
spice up
your tale. For your viewers. I am told that you people in television will do anything to improve your ratings.”

“I wouldn't do that,” Annja said angrily.

“Perhaps not. But there were no bodies out there. Nor was there a giant crevasse leading to an underground cave containing the remains of La Bête.”

“The earthquake must have closed it back up.”

Richelieu nodded. “Amazing, isn't it, that nature herself would align against you?”

“What about the bullet holes in the old man's SUV?”

“A lover's quarrel?”

Frowning, Annja said, “Me? And that old man? Please.”

Richelieu laughed. “Perhaps it was over business. Perhaps you were both shooting at game and hit the truck instead.”

“No.”

“Your report here could be just to falsify an insurance claim.”

“That's not what happened.”

“But you are on the show with the woman with the…
problematic
apparel.”

Terrific, Annja thought. Maybe poltergeists could get chased away from historic manors, but she'd be haunted by Kristie Chatham's bodacious ta-tas forever.

“I have never had a problem with my apparel,” Annja pointed out.

“I have made a note of that, as well.”

Annja reached into her pack and took out her digital camera. She switched it on and brought up the pictures she'd shot inside the cave. In spite of the darkness, the images had turned out well.

“This is La Bête,” Annja said.

Taking the camera, Richelieu consulted the images, punching through them one by one. He handed the camera back. “Anyone with Photoshop could make these.”

“And take the time to put them on a camera?” Annja couldn't believe it.

“It would,” the inspector said as inoffensively as he could, “make your story seem more legitimate. When
The Blair Witch Project
appeared in theaters, many people believed the video footage was part of an actual paranormal investigation. And Orson Welles anchoring
The War of the Worlds
in news reports on the radio in 1938 was also deliberate, causing mass hysteria throughout your country. Media people know best how to present anything they wish to.”

“Those are real pictures,” Annja stated.

“If you insist.”

Angrily, Annja put the camera away. “Who is Lesauvage?”

“A figment of your overactive imagination,” Richelieu said.

Without a word, Annja got up to leave.

“Or…” Richelieu let the word dangle like a fishing lure.

Annja waited. Mysteries always kept her hanging well past the point she should leave.

“Or he's a man named Corvin Lesauvage,” Richelieu said. “If it is this man, he's very dangerous. He's a known criminal, though that's never been successfully proved. Witnesses have a tendency to…disappear. Likewise, so do past business associates.”

“Can you help me with him?”

“Can you offer me any proof that he's truly after you, Miss Creed?”

Annja thought for a moment. “There was a man who was knocked unconscious in an alley earlier this morning. In the downtown area.”

More interested now, Richelieu leaned forward. “Do you know something about that?”

Ignoring the question, Annja asked, “Did he work for Corvin Lesauvage?”

“We don't know.”

“Then I suggest you ask him.”

Richelieu frowned. “We can't.”

“Why not?”

“He was killed. Less than an hour after we took him into custody.”

Annja thought about that. Evidently there was something at stake here that she didn't know about. “Did Lesauvage do it?”

“We don't know who did it.”

Meaning you don't know if it was done by an inmate or a police officer, Annja thought.

“There was a local boy with me this morning,” Annja said. “His name is Avery Moreau. I hired him to set up my trip, arrange for things.”

Richelieu nodded. “I know Avery. He's a sad case.”

“Why?”

“His father died quite suddenly a few weeks ago.”

“I don't understand,” Annja said.

“His father was shot to death.”

“By Lesauvage?” Annja asked, thinking maybe the men had been after Avery more than her.

“No,” Richelieu said. “By me.”

Annja didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing. She wondered if perhaps Richelieu was warning her.

“Gerard Moreau, Avery's father, was a small-time burglar,” Richelieu said. “He'd been in and out of jail for years. That is a matter of record and was covered in the media. It was only a matter of time before we put him away for good or a homeowner shot him. As it happened, I shot him while investigating the report of a burglary. He hadn't made it out of the house and came at me with a weapon.” The inspector leaned back in his chair. “Needless to say, Avery Moreau has been less than cooperative.”

Thinking about things for a moment, Annja said, “Let's say for a moment that you believe me about the chase down the mountain.”

Richelieu smiled. “Let's.”

“Why would Lesauvage recover the bodies of the dead men?”

“To avoid being implicated.”

“Which is what I said.”

“You did. It's a conclusion that fits the facts as you present them. We're entertaining that for the moment.”

“Why would Lesauvage risk sending men after me in the first place?”

“You know, Miss Creed,” Richelieu said with a smile, “as I read your reports and listened to you now, I have asked myself that several times. I'm open to your suggestion.”

Annja had no idea what was going on. The weight of the charm rested heavily in her pocket. She hadn't told the inspector about it. If she had, he would have taken it away. Countries were funny about things that might be national treasures.

“I don't know,” Annja finally said. “But I intend to find out.”

 

O
UT IN THE MAIN ROOM
, Roux was playing poker with some policemen. He looked up as Annja stepped from the inspector's office.

Annja walked past him.

“Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure, but I'm afraid I have to go now,” Roux said as he gathered the pile of money he'd won. He winked at the policemen and fell into step with Annja. “Are we going somewhere?”

“No.”

“Humph,” Roux said. “Our friend the inspector didn't believe your story?”

“Someone removed the bodies,” she said. “The quake closed the cave again.”

“Pity. It would have been an exciting episode for your show.”

She whirled on him. “You know about
Chasing History's Monsters
?”

“I must confess,” Roux admitted, “I'm something of a fan, I'm afraid. Not quite as stimulating as
Survivor
, but well worth the investment of time. I particularly like…I can't remember her name. The girl with the clothing problems.” He smiled a little.

“You would,” Annja said, disgusted.

Look at the fire in her, Roux thought. Simply amazing.

“I'm a man of simple pleasures,” Roux said.

“Mr. Roux,” Inspector Richelieu called out.

Roux turned to face the man. “Yes, Inspector?”

“Would you like to make a statement?”

Grinning, Roux shook his head. “No. Thank you.” When he turned around, he discovered that Annja had left him. She was making her way out the door. He hurried to catch up.

Night had fallen while they were inside the police station. Shadows draped the streets.

“You'll have a hard time finding a cab at this time of night,” Roux said.

She ignored him, arms folded over her breasts and facing the street.

“Probably,” Roux went on, “walking back to wherever you're staying wouldn't be the wisest thing you could do.”

She still didn't respond.

“I could give you a ride,” Roux suggested. More than anything, he wanted a look at the metal charm she had found in the cave. If it was what he thought it was, his long search might at last be over. “I at least owe you that after what we've been through.”

She looked at him then. “You didn't try to tell them about the men who chased us.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I knew they wouldn't listen.”

She continued to glare at him.

“Corvin Lesauvage,” Roux said, “is a very connected man in this area. A very dangerous man.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Over dinner,” Roux countered. “I know a little bistro not far from here that has some of the best wines you could hope for.”

She looked at him askance.

“You won't regret it,” Roux said.