“Or, something I’m going to do.”
Mirella tensed, but not because of what I’d just said. Movement across the room caught her eye. Whatever it was, it was a false alarm, because she relaxed again almost immediately.
“What do you mean,” she asked. “Do you plan to do something in particular?”
“Other than find out what made Eve sick, no. But we could still be in the middle of a prophesy.”
I hate to keep saying long story, but this is also a long story. I ran into a prophet on the island, and that prophet seemed to think I was important enough to save, to the extent that she effectively traded the lives of hundreds in order to ensure my continued existence. I’m still a little upset about this.
“Goodness, Adam, how long do these prophesies last?”
“Who knows? There are parts of the bible that haven’t happened yet, right?”
She laughed.
“That isn’t a prophesy.”
“Depends on who you’re talking to,” I said. “I don’t think I slept through the Second Coming, though.”
I never met any of the folks who wrote the Christian Bible, nor the guy who inspired them to write it. I did meet two or three of the old testament scribes, and there were definitely prophets and prophesy involved there. (Generally, the person named as the prophet in the Bible was actually the scribe for the real prophet, which means the raw prophesy was being filtered through someone before anybody even heard it aloud.) My point is only that while I was joking, it wasn’t a very good joke.
“We could still be in the grip of one is what I’m saying,” I said.
“How would that impact the questions we have now?” she asked.
“Not sure. Another prophet? If someone wants to stop me from doing something I haven’t done yet, how do they know I’m going to do it?”
She sighed, and paused, as the waitress brought over a new round of drinks.
“Perhaps we should take all of the magical hand-waving out of the conversation and stick with available facts,” she said. “We don’t have enough of them, but I will not come out of it with a headache.”
“Prophets aren’t magic.”
“Call it what you want. Magic to me is the ability to do something for which there is no available science.”
“A whole lot of things through history were mislabeled magic using the same reasoning.”
“I know. You’ve told me, many times over. It doesn’t invalidate my point. You just don’t like the word magic. All right, so we don’t know who’s trying to kill you or why they’re trying to kill you. We assume the bounty is generous enough to send all capable hands in your direction, as there’s plenty of evidence of that. This means we can’t trust Dimitri’s people, as you’ve already concluded given the part of the phone conversation I heard with the troll. Where does that leave us?”
“We have money and two clean passports each. That’ll get us pretty far.”
“It doesn’t give us the protection we were counting on, and the anonymity of clean passports is somewhat overrated. You know this. I’m wondering if the woman was right and we should go back to the island.”
“That seems extreme.”
“Someone tried to blow us up not three hours ago.”
“Yes, I remember.”
She downed her drink and signaled for another. This happens around me sometimes.
“Why continue?” she asked. “Eve is awake. By the time we return to the island, perhaps her mind will have recovered enough to provide us with more thorough information than where she shoplifted her clothing.”
“Unless she never remembers.”
Mirella nodded slowly.
“You’re frightened,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“I should have seen that sooner. I thought you were in this to save the life of this unattainable woman of yours, but that isn’t it at all. You want to solve the mystery before you get sick.”
“That is entirely too insightful. I hate you a little for even suggesting it.”
“She’s getting better, so now you don’t have to worry. Let’s go back. Dimitri can find out where this contract came from, Eve can tell us where she became ill, and the next time we leave it will be with a better plan than this one.”
I didn’t answer. It was hard to deny the reasoning. At the same time, we didn’t need to be on the island to hear what Eve had to say. We could be in Chicago already.
Mirella could tell I wasn’t changing my mind. Not only would I have jumped at the suggestion otherwise, I’d have suggested it first.
“Smaller steps, then,” she said. “We can’t stay in Paris, which is fortunate as we have no reason to stay in Paris.”
“Aside from the romance of it all.”
“Its charm has worn off. Airport? You said no earlier, but it’s the fastest way to Chicago.”
“No, not the airport. If there’s one thing I’m an expert at, it’s fleeing parts of Europe.”
“You have a plan. Can you tell me what it is?”
“Only part of it,” I said. “The rest is a secret.”
She laughed.
“You’re serious?”
“I might be. You’ll think it’s dumb. Just trust me.”
“All right. As long as it’s better than escaping France on foot. Or swimming.”
She tensed up again, only this time she didn’t calm down. Something had changed in the restaurant in the last few seconds.
“Do you imagine that this bounty is rich enough to entice a person to open fire in a crowded restaurant?” she asked.
“I don’t like a single thing about that sentence. What do you see?”
“Go ahead and turn around, I don’t think it matters if they see your face; they clearly know you’re here.”
I turned.
There were three men of note: one at a table on the left, one at a table on the right, and a third standing at the bar at the far end of the room. As Mirella said, the place was crowded, so the men weren’t easy to spot if you didn’t already know to look for them. This must have been why Mirella only decided they were a threat in the last few seconds.
“Can we make the jump over the railing?” I asked.
“I can. I don’t think you can.”
“Twist-an-ankle bad, or break-a-leg bad?”
“The second one.”
“So, we’ll call that a last resort. Who’s the guy at the bar talking to?”
“You’ll see.”
A series of gestures passed between the man at the bar and the two at the tables, and then he stepped aside, and the fourth man revealed himself. It was Jacques.
“Oh, well that’s all sorts of interesting,” I said.
“I can probably kill him from here,” my girlfriend declared. She’s the best.
“No, better not.”
Jacques raised his hands to show that he didn’t have a gun. It didn’t mean anything—surely the other three were packing—but it worked to secure his personal safety as he made passage from the bar to the table.
“How about now?” Mirella asked under her breath.
“Maybe.”
“Can I sit?” Jacques asked. He was speaking in English now, undoubtedly for Mirella’s benefit. That was smart.
“Sure,” I said. “We’d both like to kill you, just so you know.”
“I thank you for the warning.”
He pulled a chair up to the table and sat.
“I want you to understand,” he said, “that I had nothing to do with what happened earlier, and further that it is still my intention to help you reach safety, wherever it is you intend to next travel. Chicago, or elsewhere.”
“Thanks. What do you think, honey?”
“I think that sounds like what someone who would like to get us alone and away from all of these people would say,” Mirella said.
“I agree. Jacques, unless I’m confused about something, you’re the only one who knew we’d be at Ina’s, so t
hat narrows down the suspect list an awful lot.”
“I can only agree with this reasoning, Randall. I came to the same conclusion the second I heard of what took place in the penthouse. But as I told no one, and none in my organization knew enough of what our meeting entailed to connect you with the bounty, I was stymied by this information. I began to wonder if perhaps I had made the arrangements and then immediately suffered some kind of head injury. But I also knew that it hardly mattered if it was I or no, as nobody but me would pay the penalty for it. Truthfully, my only solution was to find the true source of the information, and if possible, bring them to you. And so I have.”
“This seems…awfully convenient,” Mirella said.
“Again, I agree. No sooner did I decide this course of action but I came upon the man, because as it turns out he was looking for me at the same time. It seemed hardly possible, to the extent that I fear we may have damaged him somewhat in the intervening minutes, as we attempted to tease out more information. He continued to refuse disclosure of his source, but did allow that were we to come to this restaurant we would find you. And so, we did, and here you are.”
“That’s a pretty crazy story,” I said.
“Most of what has happened since this afternoon qualifies under that descriptive. I’ve since learned you may be the oldest living being, and that is undeniably mad, would you not agree?”
“Sure, that’s fair.”
“According to this odd little man, everything I just told you should be enough to spare me from the wrath of your benefactor…” he looked at Mirella. “And from you.”
“That depends,” I said. “What’s his name?”
“He gave me seven names, each more preposterous than the last. Here.”
He took a phone from his pocket, called up an image, and slid it across the table.
“Maybe you can tell me which of his preposterous names I should use?”
I took a good look. The guy in the picture was tied to a chair and looked pretty roughed up, but I still recognized him.
“Yeah, okay, this is starting to make some sense,” I said.
“I’m glad someone feels this way,” Jacques said.
“His name’s Thelonius D’Artagnan. Take us to him; we have a lot to talk about.”
Interlude (3)
From the journal of Dr. Lew Cambridge
Day forty-seven.
* * *
The patient is conscious.
* * *
I was at the top of the island when she awoke, dealing with a medical matter that was urgent only in the mind of the person who was afflicted, and about which I won’t commit to in detail here. My frustration at having been away—it’s been twenty-seven hours—is mitigated only marginally by the satisfaction in learning that she’s conscious.
* * *
Per Janet’s notes:
* * *
--at 10:42 A.M., Janet proceeded to change the patient’s IV drip and perform a regular vitals check.
* * *
--at approximately 10:49 A.M., Janet became aware that the patient’s eyes were open. At this point, Janet attempted to engage the patient in conversation. Patient appeared to be aware but unresponsive.
* * *
--at 11:02 A.M., Janet contacted the hospital and updated the team regarding the newest development. Efforts were begun to reach me telephonically. (Note: these efforts did not succeed. I returned unaware of the change in the patient’s status until my arrival at the hospital this afternoon.)
* * *
--at approximately 11:32 A.M., the patient moved her head, and it ‘became clear she could hear me’, in Janet’s words.
* * *
--11:35 A.M., or thereabouts. Despite Janet speaking only in English, the patient began attempting to communicate with Janet in an unknown tongue. This continued for forty minutes. (Note: approximately twenty minutes of it was recorded on Janet’s phone. As I write this, I have not had an opportunity to listen.)
* * *
--at approximately 12:15 P.M., the patient began speaking in French, which Janet could identify but not speak. This was followed by German, ‘something like Spanish’, and an unknown fourth Latinate tongue.
* * *
--patient finally arrived at English at roughly 12:18 P.M. Her first words were as follows:
* * *
“Where am I?”
“I will kill you.”
“Why am I so weak?”
“What has happened?”
* * *
Janet answered the first question, requested politely that the patient not kill her, and then explained that she was unsure how to answer the other two questions. It was impressed upon the patient at this time that what happened to her and why she was so weak were things she was best positioned to answer herself, given our current uncertainty.
* * *
The patient stated that she did not know, and that she would like to sleep.
* * *
All other communications from the patient have been requests for privacy. I will be interviewing her myself shortly.
5
It was just after Midnight by the time Jacques was able to put us in the same room as Thelonius D’Artagnan. The meeting took place in the office of a storeroom that looked a lot like the kind of place I had been expecting to end up in at the beginning of the evening, way back when we were planning to meet the passport counterfeiter. It wasn’t on the river, but it was close.
Thelonius was sitting in a wooden chair in the middle of the room. It looked like he had been tied down for a portion of the evening, and also for that portion of the evening someone had been hitting him hard in places that bruise visibly. That he was no longer tied down or being struck by someone could have been because Jacques informed the necessary parties—Thelonius shared the room with five armed men—that we were coming, and to please stop trying to beat information out of him. It could also have been that he talked his way out of the beating.
Thelonius was a portly being of indeterminate age—anywhere between 40 and 140—with a round face and a thick beard. His hair was long and stringy, covering ears that were just a little too large and floppy to be associated with that of a human. (Although you had to know this already to look.) Had the hair been whiter, he would have looked a lot like Santa Claus. Since it was graying, he gave off more of a Jerry Garcia vibe.
He was an imp. And actually, since we’re here, so was Santa. But that’s a story for another time.
When we walked in, he was in the middle of a tale. Because of course he was.
“…and then,” he said, in perfect French, “to the surprise of all, the tiger sprang up!”
The five men ostensibly guarding Thelonius jumped back in surprise, as if the tiger were in the room with them.
“But, it was dead!” one of them said.
“That is what they thought! But no!”
“Excuse me,” Jacques said loudly, “if we could bring story time to a conclusion?”
At least one of his guys looked ready to draw on Jacques for interrupting.
“But I’m nearly finished!” Thelonius said.
He did not in any way sound like a man who had been held against his will for the past few hours. He sounded like he was exactly where he wanted to be. This could either be because we were fulfilling a predicted sequence of events—so none of this came as a surprise to him—or because this was just what imps did.
It would be an understatement to describe imps as gifted storytellers. That would be like calling a fish a gifted swimmer. They lived and breathed stories in a way that made things which were self-evidently impossible sound not just feasible, but likely.
I don’t think it’s an understatement to say that a large portion of the world’s myths and legends could be pinned on an imp. One of their kind is the reason a name I used to go by—Dionysos—was considered a god. I’m still kind of pissed about that.
“I’d wager you have another hour left,” I said, in Englis
h, stepping into the room.
He saw me, and grinned.
“The eternal man arrives!” he said. “And yes! You have it correct. Another hour at most. That is what I meant when I said it was almost finished.”
The fact that he wouldn’t be telling the rest of the story was nearly enough to cause a mutiny among Jacques’s men, something he didn’t appear entirely aware of. This is another interesting thing about imps: they could probably start revolutions if they wanted. I’ve never met one who did want to, but it’s reasonable to argue that a decent number of revolutions took place because of an imp anyway, whether or not it was intentional. Good storytelling can be a superpower.
“Leave us,” Jacques said, to his men, in French.
This didn’t go over well, but they left.
I pulled up another chair and sat opposite the imp. Mirella closed the door and took up her usual defensive position near it. If I didn’t know her really well, I’d think she did this in every room she was in. It was nearly true.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” I admitted.
“The beginning is always the best place for a story,” Thelonius said. “Start there!”
“That’s the problem, I don’t know where that is. Earlier tonight, we were getting passports and heading out of town, which we couldn’t do until we got the information Jacques here supplied for us. That should be the beginning of the story. But it turns out there’s been a price placed on my head, and that pre-dates our arrival in Paris, so that could be the beginning, except I don’t know who’s sponsoring the bounty, and I definitely don’t know why, or how they know who I am and that I’m alive. That seems like a crappy place to start a story, don’t you think?”
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