The crone looked up, a flash of recognition lighting up her rheumy eyes for a moment. "I hid more elixir long ago," she croaked.
"What? Stop playing games with me!" She shook Justine roughly.
Her rantings awakened Marcel. "Leave her alone, Eve," he demanded. "You're going to scare her."
"I hope I scare her back to her senses. Hold the cross, Mother." She stuck the fake cross roughly into the woman's brittle old claws, drawing blood from her patchy skin. "Hold it and remember where you put it."
Through the fog and haze of the cobweb-filled labyrinth that was Justine Quantin's two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old mind, there was one faint glimmer of remembering. She watched herself a long, long time ago pulling out a drawer and hiding something - a small bottle - in a secret compartment.
She tried to speak, but her daughter was shaking her too much. Her frail, tired body couldn't take the stress any more. It was time for Justine to join her half-sister Felicite Duplanchier.
In the throes of death, she remembered. With one last heaving breath she gasped two words.
The desk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The old woman's body remained in the chair where she'd died. It had shriveled, becoming smaller and smaller until now it was simply a shrunken, mummified corpse inside a bundle of clothes. Eve paid it no mind and neither did Marcel. This was a fact of life for the Duplanchiers. Once you took the potion, this was how your body died. Marcel and their father, Henri Frere, were the only two in many generations who had lived, aged and died as normal human beings, never taking a drop of the potion. The others lived freakishly long lives, masquerading as youthful individuals until the inevitability of time - or the lack of elixir - caught up with them.
"Did you hear what she said at the end?" Eve asked her brother, all the while knowing he hadn't. He was growing deafer each day. He shook his head.
"I think she said 'the desk.' Do you think she hid it in a desk?" She began mentally going room by room through the huge old house, recalling the furnishings in each one.
Marcel retorted, "Who knows if she even meant those words? She also said there was more elixir hidden somewhere. You were shaking her so hard she would say anything to get you to stop. You ended up killing her."
"I don't see any tears coming out of your eyes over that minor inconvenience, brother dear. I'll tell you what. As usual, I'll take charge. I'm going to do a walkthrough of the house first, and then tomorrow morning I'm going to call that man Brian Sadler. I'm going to find out what he knows about the cross."
"We have to get rid of Mother," he said quietly.
"We're going to haul her over to the cemetery tomorrow. We'll have a little family service for the old dear." She laughed mirthlessly and started upstairs to search for a desk.
Before she was gone, he asked, "Are you going to bury her with Henri? She was married to him for over forty years."
"And how do you think we'd manage that? Just call up the funeral home and tell them his ancient wife just died? Look at her body. Think someone might have a question about why she looks like King Tut? We're going to put her in the bottom space of grandfather's tomb. Her soul's in hell by now anyway. She couldn't care less where that old husk ends up."
The next day the young girl and her aging grandfather walked the same route through the Quarter that Justine herself had done every Saturday for decades. Justine was along for the ride - she was inside a cloth sack Eve had slung over her shoulder.
They were stopped by the cemetery gatekeeper, but after a few Creole words and a point of her finger, the man unlocked the gate and allowed them to pass. He would forget they had ever been there.
They hadn't been to the family mausoleum in years and were surprised to see how much it had deteriorated. Justine still scribbled triple Xs on it, Eve noted. The stupid visitors thought those were voodoo symbols, but they were simply meaningless graffiti.
"Hello, Grandfather," Eve said as she looked up at the gray marble marker that read Pierre Duplanchier. Died 1796, Nouvelle Orleans. "And good morning to you, dear Auntie Felicite," she remarked to the slab below Pierre's. Felicite Duplanchier, died 1804, Nouvelle Orleans. She didn't know much about Felicite. She was the child of Pierre's first wife, Anne Saucier, while Eve's mother, Justine, was the daughter of second wife Marie Quantin. Marie had died birthing Justine in 1766.
"Come on, let's get this over with," Marcel urged. Physical exertion taxed his old bones and he wanted to make this fast. She took the cloth sack and stuffed it far back into the darkness of the empty vault. She tossed a piece of paper inside that read Justine (Duplanchier) Quantin Frere, died 2017. She had included her mother's birth name - Duplanchier - even though Justine had hated her father so much she had taken her mother's maiden name instead. The loathing that the offspring in this family bore for their parents had been passed down through the generations. It was manifested today in Eve herself, who detested her mother and felt no remorse for having shaken the old woman to death.
Eve rummaged around nearby tombs and found a broken piece of marble that would cover the hole. "Go to hell," she muttered as she placed the piece of broken marble over the opening to her mother's tomb.
"That was a nice requiem," Marcel remarked with a rare bit of humor.
To save Marcel's aching knees they took a taxi home. On the way he said, "I've been thinking about the words Mother said last night. Back in the sixties I was in my thirties and so were you - but thanks to the elixir you were a toddler. Do you recall when Father would sell off some of the furniture now and then? When times got tough, he would sell one or two of the eighteenth-century antiques to give him cash until the next time he got in a jam."
She didn't recall that, but she had memories of their house being stuffed with antiques. This house had been in her father, Henri Frere's family since the Civil War. Eve's home - the Duplanchier house on St. Ann Street - had fallen into disrepair after her mother, Justine, married Henri in 1927 and moved all the furnishings out. Today that old house sat decaying and empty.
Marcel recalled something else. "Remember Grandfather's old desk - that gaudy French thing that sat in the parlor when we were kids? Remember that secret compartment we found in it one time? Where's that desk now? It's been gone for ages. Could that be what Mother was talking about last night? Could Father have sold it a long time ago, not knowing something was hidden inside it?"
"You know" - she patted his knee in an uncharacteristic show of affection - "you may just be onto something. It couldn't be the cross. I feel certain Mother took it out of my pack sometime during the night and stuck it away somewhere. If she did, it's in the house and I'll find it. But until you mentioned it, I had forgotten about that desk. Maybe there's more elixir hidden there that could tide me over until I find the cross. Father was a pack rat; if he sold the desk, the documentation should still be around somewhere. I'm going to look through his papers as soon as I get home."
Henri Frere had meticulously filed things in clearly marked folders, all boxed up and stored in a third-floor ballroom that Eve hadn't visited in years. In the late 1800s this room had seen fancy costume balls and Mardi Gras parties hosted by whatever ancestor of the Frere family was in residence at the time, but today it was a huge, dusty room used for storage. The light fixtures up here hadn't seen a bulb in years and Eve was far too short to reach them anyway, so she pulled each box over to the nearest dirt-streaked window and took advantage of hazy sunlight to see what was inside.
She was fortunate that her father had sorted everything by year. She started in the middle of the decade - 1965 - and would work both ways until she found what she needed.
After searching for two hours, she found it in the box filled with things from 1967. There was a bill of sale from an antique shop on Royal Street. Henri Frere had sold two items - a Chippendale armoire and a seventeenth-century French desk inlaid with ebony and animal figures. He had received a total of five thousand dollars, a tidy sum in those days.
He had sol
d the pieces to a shop called Galerie Toussaint. She knew it well; today it was still it its same prominent location on Royal Street just blocks from their house. She'd walked past it a thousand times.
She found Marcel downstairs, having his afternoon nap on a couch near the fireplace. She shook him awake and said, "Come with me, brother dear. You have to take your granddaughter to a gallery to see what they've done with Father's desk."
"Grandfather's, actually," he replied as he came out of his reverie. "Don't forget it belonged to old Pierre Duplanchier in the first place. It dates to the 1700s. Father brought it to this house when they got married and Mother cleaned out the St. Ann house."
"Even better," Eve said with a gleam in her eye. "Sounds like a perfect place to hide something, don't you think?"
Bells above the door gave an old-fashioned tinkle when they entered. Oliver's assistant greeted the pair and he asked to speak with the manager. She went to the back and in a moment Oliver emerged.
"How may I help you?" he asked, introducing himself and studying the dated clothing the pair was wearing. He knew exactly who they were, of course. They were Eve and Marcel Frere, the people Brian Sadler had seen in Guatemala a few days ago.
"We're looking for a desk," Marcel explained in his old, shaky voice. "My father sold it to your gallery many years ago. I'm hoping you may have some record of its whereabouts."
"I'd be happy to help if I can. What was your father's name?"
"Frere. Henri Frere."
Eve watched Oliver closely and saw his eyebrows raise slightly. "Um, it may take some time to search records that old. The sixties, did you say?"
"I didn't," Marcel replied as Eve smiled and nodded. "But that's when it was. Nineteen sixty-seven, to be precise."
"Yes. Well, I'm not sure -"
Eve interrupted, her words harsh. "Please don't pretend, Mr. Toussaint. You know the desk my grandfather's looking for, don't you?"
He glanced at her and couldn't look away. Just as Brian had described, there was something uncanny about this girl - something wicked. He had told Brian what he thought she was, and he was even more certain now. Her eyes were boring into his as if she could read his thoughts.
She raised her hand and murmured some words. Feeling light-headed, Oliver suddenly began to tremble. He knew what was happening; she was hexing him just as the old woman had done in the cemetery.
"I ... uh, I haven't been well lately," he gasped, dropping into a nearby antique armchair. His assistant, Betty, rushed over to see if her boss was okay.
The pretty little girl walked to him, touched his sleeve and said, "We'll be back in the morning. You'll feel better by then. Then you will show us our desk." She turned, took Marcel's hand and said, "Come on, Grandfather. Let's let Mr. Toussaint rest."
As they walked out, Oliver slipped to the floor, unconscious.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
He awoke in sixty seconds. Betty wanted to call 911, but he waved her off. He sat alone in his office, deciding how he could be ready for them tomorrow. There was a way he could be prepared regardless of how their visit ended. It only took a few minutes and now he was ready for anything. Then he called Brian.
The next morning the bell tinkled as the pair returned. Betty led them to Oliver's office, opened the door and ushered them inside. The girl was surprised to see two men in the office instead of one.
"Mr. Sadler," Eve smirked, "why am I not terribly surprised to see you here?"
"Sit down," Oliver said curtly, gesturing to the two empty chairs across the desk.
"Ah, there it is, Marcel," she purred, running her hand over the beautifully inlaid desk. She told Oliver she wanted a few minutes in his office alone and they would be out of his way.
"I thought you wanted to buy the desk."
"You were mistaken. I'm looking for something my mother may have put in this desk many years ago, decades before it ended up here. If you'll honor my simple request, I promise we will leave you alone and let you go about your life without interference."
"The desk has been sitting right here for fifty years. Anything that might have been there is surely gone by now," Oliver replied. "I can assure you there's nothing in it now except things of mine. If there ever was something else, it would have been found long ago."
The girl maintained her subdued, unassuming demeanor. "This desk belonged to my family. I have patiently explained that to you. We want a few minutes alone to look for something that might be there. I would appreciate your cooperation."
"Or what, Eve?" Brian interjected. "If he won't, do you intend to put a spell on him again?"
"You say your mother put something in the desk," Oliver added. "Who would that be exactly? Justine Duplanchier? Your house on Chartres Street. It's on the corner. Justine lives right around the corner, on Ursulines. I went there yesterday on a hunch and figured it out. The addresses are different, but it's the same house. You live with the old woman. Is she your mother?"
Suddenly the pretty little girl dressed in white was pretty no more. Brian saw her transformation once again, just like in the cavern. She stood, rising taller than before, and her voice was deep, evil and forbidding. Brian instinctively drew back, but Oliver merely watched her.
"You have no idea what you're doing! Neither of you has any concept of what powers I possess. I gave you a chance."
She raised her arms into the air and her face contorted into a vile grimace. Then she shouted, "You cannot confront me and live! I am the daughter of the Prince of Darkness!"
"Sit down," Oliver said in a steady, even voice. "I know what you are and I know what you're looking for." Brian was stunned at how calmly his friend was handling her transformation. It had scared the hell out of him earlier and it wasn't much better the second time around.
"I'm going to remove a few personal things from the desk and then you may have five minutes alone in my office," he continued as though he were chatting with a customer. "Will that be sufficient time?"
In a flash the ten-year-old was back, as sweet, demure and reserved as before. "Of course."
Oliver opened a drawer, took out a lockbox and three hanging files, stood and followed Brian out the door. They walked ten feet down a hallway, entered a storeroom and closed the door. The darkened room was lit by the flickers of computer screens displaying feeds from ten video cameras that were mounted inside and outside the gallery. Oliver entered a keystroke and they watched the girl sit in his chair. She pulled out the left middle drawer, which was full of catalogs from past auctions, emptied it and moved her hand along its bottom. She pulled up a narrow panel, revealing a two-inch-high space the length and width of the drawer itself. It would be impossible to find if you weren't looking for it.
"I'll be damned," Brian whispered as he watched her insert her hand into the false bottom. "I wonder if your grandfather discovered this hiding place when he bought the desk."
Oliver shook his head.
"Look at that!" Brian murmured eagerly as she pulled something out. "Look at what was hidden in there!"
He didn't see Oliver's eyes narrow into slits as she removed a dusty old bottle. How excited she must be to have found it!
They watched Eve replace the panel, insert the drawer back into the desk, put back its contents and close it. She returned to her chair and handed the bottle to Marcel, who put it into his coat pocket. Oliver and Brian waited the full five minutes and then knocked on the door.
"Come in," Eve said brightly, as though nothing had happened. She and Marcel stood. "We won't bother you any more. Let's go, Marcel."
Oliver asked, "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Toussaint. My grandfather and I appreciate it."
"Don't you mean your brother?" Brian said, following the script he and Oliver had agreed upon. "You're Duplanchiers ... both of you."
She whirled around and he saw the steely expression once again. "We are not Duplanchiers, Mister Sadler. My father's name was Henri Fre
re."
"And your mother?" Oliver pushed her too.
"All right. My mother was Justine Quantin," she replied. "There. Are you satisfied? Can you fill in the blanks for him, Mr. Toussaint? Your family has been in this city for hundreds of years. But mine have been here even longer. All the way back to the founding of the city."
"Of course they have," he replied. "Pierre Duplanchier was your grandfather many times removed. Duplanchier blood runs in your veins whether you like it or not."
"Believe what you wish," she responded flippantly. She couldn't resist taunting him once again, even though it meant revealing a secret. "And Pierre wasn't my grandfather many times removed -"
Marcel held up his hand. "Enough, Eve. Let it go. You've said too much."
Oliver retorted, "Ah, now we get to the meat of the issue. For once, you're telling the truth. If my assumptions are correct, Pierre was really your maternal grandfather - Justine's father. How old is she really - your mother, I mean? How old is Justine?"
She didn't respond.
Brian asked, "What really does give you and your ancestors such long lives? Is it what's in the bottle you took from the desk?"
As she realized that they had eavesdropped on her, her face became beet red. Without another word she took her brother's hand and they walked out. The tinkle of the bell signaled they were gone.
"I don't think she's going to invite us over for cocktails anytime soon," Oliver said. "I'm glad you were here with me. When I called yesterday, I was afraid it would be too short notice for you."
Brian wasn't paying attention. He was thinking about what just happened. They'd agreed to let her go through the desk - they would watch the cameras and see what she wanted - but she went straight to a secret compartment. Brian was worried for a moment that Oliver had hidden the Black Cross there, but once Oliver consented to the search, he presumed his friend didn’t know the compartment was there.
They replayed the video several times. She had wanted the bottle so badly she'd allowed a brief peek into her convoluted, bizarre existence to get it. She found it, but what was its significance? Was it really the secret to long life?
The Black Cross (Brian Sadler Archaeological Thrillers Book 6) Page 14
