The Devil's Bed

by Doug Lamoreux

  A gloom settled over Brandy as well. Where was Vicki? And where, in the name of heaven, was Ray?

  She and Vicki were best friends before Ray entered the picture. That Ray and Vicki were siblings only made things more fun. Her relationship with Vicki's little brother had begun with lust and moved to love. And a six month engagement left them, where, Brandy wondered? Their most frequently exchanged emotion now was anger. Hers, more than his? She didn't know that either. Why had she asked Ray with them to Europe when she was so angry with him? Why was she so angry with him?

  “Hey, baby, you look lost.”

  Brandy was startled to find Ray beside her. “Where were you when I needed you?”

  Ray glanced at the tattoo parlor, then quickly back. “I just got here.”

  Brandy threw her bag. Ray grunted as he caught it and complained, as he often did, that no one carried a purse anymore let alone her monstrous tote.

  “I don't care what other people do,” Brandy said, uncharacteristically riled. “I don't care what they think. And I certainly don't care what they think of me.”

  A blind man could see her mood - and Ray wasn't blind. “What's that matter? Didn't you two…” He stopped, looked around and, feeling stupid, wondered if he wasn't blind after all. “Where's Vicki?”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “What do you mean you're not sure?”

  “She wasn't on the bus. Somehow… we left her back at the castle.”

  “Left her at the castle? What are you talking about?”

  “I don't know, Ray. She didn't get on the bus.”

  “Where the hell's my sister?”

  Brandy's eyebrows arched over her reddening face. “Look, Ray. You're not going to yell at me like some nasty biker skank.” She snatched her bag away from him. “I was busy doing what I went to the castle to do. We got separated during the tour, lost track of one another. When we were leaving, she wasn't anywhere around. The driver wouldn't hold the bus. Said it wasn't their responsibility.” Brandy took a deep breath. “I don't know where Vicki is.”

  Five

  Vicki stirred slowly, holding the blood-matted hair at the back of her head. “Oh, God,” she whispered, saliva running from the corner of her mouth. She was groggy; her head swimming laps. She wiped her tears, her hands filthy with dirt and blood, making matters worse. She felt horribly sick and fought not to retch. Between bouts of dizziness, she climbed down and took in her surroundings.

  She'd been lying on a tomb! She stared through cloudy eyes at the gray stone splashed with what looked like blood. Hers? Vicki had no memory of what had happened there, no clue what she was doing in a cemetery.

  She staggered to the wrought-iron fence, grabbed it for balance and vomited. She was glad she'd skipped breakfast. The returning coffee was disgusting enough. Then it dawned, she remembered skipping breakfast! She'd had a cup of terrible coffee. European coffee was abominable, that she remembered. But was it a recent memory? She hadn't had a decent cup since leaving America. Yes; they'd left America, Brandy, Ray and her. Now they were in France. And the coffee was terrible.

  Ray hadn't wanted to go. No, he hadn't! “That's fine,” Brandy yelled across the room. No, across the hall, to another room. “I'll get more done without you grumbling.”

  Brandy had been with her. But where was Brandy?

  Vicki lifted her head and everything rolled. Dear God, where was Brandy? What, in the name of heaven, was she doing in a graveyard? She followed the fence to an old gate, only to find it too encrusted to budge. Despite her head and stomach, she had no choice but to climb (fall) over the fence to freedom. Rising, Vicki stumbled away.

  The pool of blood she'd left behind mothered streaming rivulets, propelled by gravity… and maybe something darker, that flowed past the ankh symbol carved in the tomb's lid and into the large crack in the stone.

  It seeped inside the sarcophagus and, building there, dripped onto the mummified skull of the Templar knight lying interred. One slow, thick drop at a time as it oozed through the fissure. A drop on the void once covered by a nose. A drop that struck the taut papery skin of the cheek and ran away into the depths of the grave. A drop on the toothy grin. Another. Another. Vicki's blood eked through the teeth, fell into the black pit of a mouth, landed on the dried tongue…

  The blood dripped.

  People would be amazed to know the time and work required to care for a ruin. Anibal Socrates, the caretaker at Castle Freedom, had been meaning to get at the big stones buried at the edge of the courtyard for years. Today had been the day. The stones were out, piled on his cart and, after securing the gate behind the last tour of the day, ready to be hauled away. In reward for his effort his back was killing him.

  Socrates had always been a powerful man, a rich baritone, a bull, with a great mustache that arrived well ahead of him. But the years, the work and the disappointments had taken their toll. He was still boisterous but the joy was gone, still large but more gross than grandiose. His mustache had gone gray and his fleshy nose now led the way.

  His power was gone. Thank God Socrates still had his mule.

  Zorion, a thousand pounds of might, was stronger, more patient, sure-footed, durable in the sun, less sensitive to the rain, more intelligent and ate less than any horse. He could carry 400 pounds for fifteen miles without resting. With his long ears and short mane the mule looked like his donkey father, but had the height, body and neck of his horse mother. And, despite his gray sire, Zorion had the wild coat, black, bay and sorrel islands on a sea of gray mule hide, of his Appaloosa dam.

  Socrates led his loaded mule cart past the castle's out-buildings. The wood and wire wheels shrieked on the courtyard; a noise to which Socrates was accustomed. Then came a series of new sounds, the rumble as the piled stones fell, the snap of the rear gate, thuds as the rocks hit the ground. Socrates hollered, tugging Zorion's reins, and the cart came to a stop. He stared in disbelief, swore in Portuguese, and sighed deeply.

  Then followed a ballet of despair:

  Socrates rounded his cart, hiked his trousers and bent over the largest rock.

  Sixty yards behind him, wounded and disoriented, Vicki staggered into the courtyard. She fell to the ground and weakly called for help.

  The caretaker lifted the stone with a grunt - hearing nothing but the crack of his joints. He maneuvered the rock onto his cart with a thud, the scratch of stone on wood, and his own labored exhalation.

  Daylight was fading. With the coming storm the wind, too, was picking up. Socrates groaned. He bent over a second stone, grunted, thumped and scraped it aboard with the others. Then again. And again.

  Vicki struggled to rise; her head throbbing, her vision blurred. Was she actually seeing a man? And a horse and cart? “Help.” Darkness swallowed her.

  The caretaker clicked his tongue, snapped the reins and Zorion started forward. The wheels grumbled from the grass, shrieked on the courtyard, and grumbled back onto the grass. His cargo rumbled, shifted, but stayed aboard. Socrates still had the stable to muck. Poor Zorion deserved that after his hard day's work. He'd need to be quick or he'd be doing it in the pitch; certainly he'd be caught in the rain. Still his mule deserved that at least.

  Socrates had named him Zorion; meaning Full of Joy. “You give me joy,” Socrates said as he led mule and cart away. “I give you nothing but misery. If only there were something I could do for you.”

  Off the courtyard, sixty yards away, Vicki Kramer lay unconscious and unseen.

  In the fading light, with growing frustration, Brandy rapped on the door of Fournier's Tour Shop. Again she received no answer. She shook the knob, also not for the first time, and found it still locked. She looked up to find Ray, done with his assignment of peering through the dark windows, staring with a smile she wanted to erase with an emery board.

  Then he made it worse. “You push elevator buttons that are already lit, don't you?”

  Brandy shifted her huge shoulder bag, ignored the question, and asked one herself. �
��Did you see anything?”

  “I didn't see a bus, if that's what you're asking.”

  The witty banter might have gone on forever but Ray went suddenly tense. His smile vanished; then returned cut completely from whole cloth.

  “What's the matter?”

  “There's somebody watching us. Don't look around. At the corner of the building, behind me. Keep talking. In your normal voice. Ask me something.”

  “Eh, shouldn't they be here, yet?” Uh, too loud and stilted. “I… I don't understand where they could have gone. The tour just ended, you know. Where could he have gone?”

  Ray was no better. He returned to the windows with his hands cupped around his eyes. That seemed goofy to Brandy. The approaching storm featured neither sun nor glare. (Nonchalance was harder than it looked). Staring through the glass, Ray moved sideways down the building.

  “Would they take the bus to get something to eat?”

  “This isn't New York, Brandy,” Ray said as he reached the suspect corner. “He probably drives the freaking bus home.” He reached around. Something squealed! He jerked it to the sidewalk and stared into the ink and chrome face of Jerome Rousseau.

  “Easy, mate,” Jerome yipped, hands up on either side of Ray's beefy arms. “I'm a hemophiliac!”

  Even at dusk the tattoo artist was a sight. Seeing it for the first time, Brandy couldn't help but ogle. “What are you doing spying on us?”

  “Spying?” Jerome was deeply offended. “Spying?”

  “Men only repeat themselves when they're thinking up a lie,” Brandy declared. Both men stared. She ignored Ray's and defied Jerome's. “Well?”

  “I don't lie. And I was not spying. I came to help you.”

  Ray let him go. “Help us how?”

  “To warn you.” Jerome started fidgeting. “Look, it's not my business, indeed, but trust me, you don't want to be caught here.”

  “We're just looking for the bus driver.”

  “You're not going to find him here, love, not at this time of the day. And you don't want to be here either.”

  “I'm not big on puzzles,” Ray said. “We have business with Fournier.”

  “You don't know anything about Fournier's business. And, if you're smart, you don't want to. Marcel Fournier's a bad chap.”

  “What do you mean?” Brandy asked, stepping in to cool Ray's rising temperature. Not that she blamed him. The little weasel's twitching was getting to her too. Why was the guy so jumpy?

  “Just a friendly warning,” Jerome told Ray, then added, “Because I want your business.”

  Brandy saw the 'Oh, Christ!' in Ray's eyes.

  Ray tried to cover. He knew Jerome's next sentence and tried to wave it off. The artist didn't get the drift. “Did you still want that tattoo?”

  Winter came early. Brandy looked a question at Jerome then stared daggers at Ray. Jerome saw it and retreated, squeaking, “I was… I'll just… eh, later, mate.”

  When he was gone, Ray turned to Brandy. “Look, baby, I…”

  She held up a finger and Ray shut his mouth. “I'm going to change the subject now.”

  'Okay,' he mouthed without speaking.

  “Do you think we should go to the police?” Seeing his confusion, she barked, “Focus, Ray. Your sister's missing, the car rental is closed and we can't find the bus driver. Now… do you think we should go to the police?”

  Ray sighed. “I hate cops.”

  Six

  Inquiring on the street Brandy and Ray collected a good many smiles, a few grunts, several blank looks and, eventually, directions to the police station located on a poorly lit side street. With the sun already gone the building was almost invisible. Orange slits stole out beneath drawn blinds in windows twinning the entrance. A frosted globe layered with dead bugs glowed from the stoop ceiling beside a sign reading: Gendarmerie Départementale. Little about the place inspired confidence.

  “Are you ready?”

  Looking as faded as the building, Ray shook his head sullenly. “I hate cops.”

  “Think of the novelty,” Brandy said, leading him up the steps. “How often do you go into a police station through the front door?”

  They'd barely cleared the threshold when both were paralyzed by a shout from a small office within. “Stay there!”

  On the far side of a counter, through a doorway, stood a middle-aged man holding a weapon. To Ray, it was a .40 caliber SIG. To Brandy, it was a GUN! He had it pressed against his own temple. “Do not come closer,” he shouted, in English, with a heavy French accent. “Or I will blow my head off.”

  Ray grabbed Brandy. Whether from instinct or testosterone she didn't know, but she didn't like it. With an armed madman loose Brandy preferred control over her own movements. She yanked herself free.

  In the office, the gunman suddenly lowered the weapon – and laughed. “So… I told this Américain idiot, 'Go ahead, monsieur. Shoot. You will solve my problem and improve your looks.' ”

  A chorus of laughter betrayed others in the room. The gunman relished their admiration, until he saw the couple in the reception area. He frowned and tossed the gun into a basket on the desk. He wagged his head.

  One of the listeners, younger, dark too, but less threatening, stepped from the room with a smile. “Puis-je vous aider?”

  His blue uniform was pressed and polished; pant cuffs tucked into black military boots. A badge was embroidered on his left breast and his name, Petit, embroidered on his right. A blue ball cap and white leather gun belt completed his accoutrement.

  When their only response was to stare like deer caught in his headlights, Petit repeated his question in English. “Can I help you?”

  “Uh, my, uh,” Ray stumbled, recovering. “My sister is missing.”

  Petit smiled. “Américains?”

  “Yes,” Ray said, “we're visiting from the States. My sister is missing.”

  Petit's smile disappeared, replaced by sober concern or, at least, its professional equivalent. “Her name?”

  “Vicki. Victoria. Victoria Kramer.”

  “She was last seen where?”

  “At the castle,” Brandy said. “With me. We toured Castle Freedom this afternoon, but she didn't come back on the bus.”

  “This afternoon?” Petit looked at his watch. “The afternoon tour could not have been back for - thirty minutes.”

  “Right. But she wasn't on the bus.”

  Two others abandoned the office and disappeared through the outer door. Then the gunman stepped out to study Brandy and Ray over Petit's shoulder. Only then was Brandy certain he was one of them.

  His medals suggested heroism, his brass doo-dads rank. They were pinned onto, and he was squeezed into, a threadbare uniform matching Petit's. While he plainly commanded, the buttons over his gut appeared insubordinately ready to go AWOL. His thick black hair had a shock of white just left of center and his chin had a day's growth of beard. He addressed Petit with a voice that sounded like a load of gravel being dumped.

  To experience the moment as Brandy did:

  “Quel est le problème?”

  “Américains. Leur soeur était sur le tour de Marcel Fournier avec celui-ci et n'est pas revenue sur le bus.”

  “Le dernier tour?”

  “Oui, Colonel.”

  Through the babble, Brandy detected a word. The brass, ribbons and humorless attitude apparently made the unkempt guy a Colonel.

  He stepped to the counter and made it official. “I am Colonel Mael Blanc,” he said. “In charge of this Department, eh, this Region, for the Gendarmerie. Your sister, she has been to the village before? To the Lozere Department? To southern France?”

  Brandy met all three questions with one on-going shake of her head. “No. And she's Ray's sister.”

  The Colonel nodded curtly and turned to Ray. “You are?”

  “Raymond Kramer. This is my fiancé, Brandy Petracus. No, none of us have been here before. We've never been to Europe.”

  “Married?”

>   “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Your sister… she is married or accompanied by a gentleman?”

  “No. She's single and she came along with the two of us.”

  “I'm writing a thesis about burial practices around the world.”

  “Charming,” Blanc said dismissively. “Your sister is not missing. No tourist who has gone unseen for…” He too looked at his watch. “An hour? Is missing. Perhaps she will walk back from the castle.”

  “My sister tried to rent a golf cart at a mini putt.”

  Blanc furled his brow looking, with his white streak of hair, like an angry dog. “I am sure that was clever, monsieur. But the meaning I do not know.” And apparently didn't care because he turned from Ray to Brandy. “She was with you?”

  “Yes. We were taking the castle tour.”

  “She did not return on the bus?”

  “No.” She seemed to falter, then decisively repeated, “No.”

  Her hesitation only sharpened his tone. “When did you last see her?”

  “I'm not certain. I was listening to the tour. I was taking notes, formulating my paper in my head. I don't remember when or where I saw her last.”

  “Did she meet or talk to anyone else?”

  “I don't know. Just those in the tour.”

  “We have a single woman, her first time in Paradis?”

  “Her first time in France.”

  “And, most likely, less interested in Fournier's tourist trap than yourself?”

  She hesitated, feeling foolish, then managed a weak, “I suppose.” Brandy felt suddenly defensive. Everything the Colonel had said was true. Still…

  “If I were you, I would look for her to show up at your hotel later tonight.” He smiled greasily and added, “…or perhaps tomorrow.”

  Ray leaned over the counter toward the gendarme officer. “I don't like what you're suggesting.”

  Blanc's brow furled again and the dog, secure in his own junkyard, reappeared. The Colonel leaned on his side meeting Ray face-to-face. “You are a religious man, M. Kramer? You and your traveling companion? I have offended?”