The Devil's Bed

by Doug Lamoreux

  “Is Felix here?” she asked, trying to enter.

  Loup blocked the door. “He is busy.” Her 'look to kill' only amused him.

  Eve had every reason to be upset. This Fournier… She'd told Felix she'd had enough. He had agreed. He would quit Marcel Fournier, his ridiculous castle tour and, far worse, his other business. He would leave it behind for her. They would be married. They would leave Paradis together. He had promised. Yet here they were still. Eve loved Felix Bussey madly… and was mad as hell he had not kept his promise.

  “Can… I… help you?” Loup asked, dripping sleaze.

  “I do not find you funny,” she said, disgusted.

  “I was not being funny.”

  “That is funnier still.”

  The office curtains flew open; Brandy and Ray stared in. Fournier stood behind them, looking amused. Loup glared, Eve reddened with embarrassment. Fournier asked, “You are satisfied, n'est-ce pas?”

  “I'm sorry,” Brandy told the girl. “I thought you were someone else.” Fournier reached past her and closed the curtain, leaving Loup and Eve alone once more.

  Bored with it all, Loup growled at Eve, “Felix is busy. If you want nothing else, I have work.”

  Arguing with Loup Wimund was a waste of time. And negotiating with him a game for fools. Eve was no fool. “Will you tell Felix I was here?”

  “I have already forgotten you.”

  Eve stomped out while Loup laughed.

  The front of the shop was quiet. Fournier's curtain was in place and Loup was finally free from prying eyes. He pushed on the wall, on the far side of the room, opening a concealed door to a flight of stairs. He closed the panel behind him and started down.

  In this secret basement, Felix was busy packing kilos into plastic-lined cardboard boxes. Atop these solid pillows of white powder he poured loose coffee grounds. He looked up at Loup's approach. “What is going on?”

  “None of your fucking business. Just finish.”

  Felix bit his tongue.

  Brandy and Ray walked sullenly away from Fournier's tour shop. They passed Rousseau's tattoo parlor with Brandy showing no interest and Ray breaking his neck to look the other way. (His mother had not raised an idiot). Neither knew Jerome was watching them. Nor that, once they'd passed, he started dialing his telephone.

  Ray, fitted in the driver's seat of his rented Deux Chevaux like a Shriner in a parade car, maneuvered jauntily across the countryside. The shiny gray tuna can had four tin doors in a body big enough for two. The sole mirror, on the driver's side, was so close Ray had to bury his chin in his chest to use it. Brandy insisted the car was cute.

  They passed the small dock at the edge of the village, where recreational boats hired by the hour, and followed the road past cyclists and pedestrians heading into the countryside for - whatever. Ray didn't ride bikes without motors and he didn't walk. They crossed the canal that wound through the vineyards and wooded foothills. Then they climbed into the Languedoc mountains; a region of natural monuments, grottoes and, higher up, dolmens and standing stones dating to prehistoric times.

  Brandy flipped her window up on its hinges and breathed in the crisp morning air. She'd read the region enjoyed 300 days of sunshine a year. The previous night's storm had been a rarity. Lucky them. She kept it to herself.

  They scooted past a walnut orchard where a farmer shook a tree with a rope tied to his tractor. A boy with a burlap satchel scurried beneath collecting the fallen nuts. Walnut mills, where oils were extracted, were a booming business here. She'd read that too. Brandy considered mentioning it; but didn't.

  Despite her racing thoughts, when Brandy finally spoke, what came out was, “This is all my fault.” Then her eyes misted over.

  Ray wanted to reach over; to touch her. His brain begged him to comfort her. His hand wouldn't move. And he couldn't think of anything to say.

  “If we don't find Vicki. I don't know what I'll do.”

  “We'll find her,” Ray said. “Don't worry.” He drove on, staring ahead, stoically hiding his own worries.

  Fourteen

  Stone and dirt roads, half of them ancient cart paths, cut through the countryside dotted with trees and blanketed, between fertile fields, with ferns so lush and tall the car periodically vanished beneath them.

  The ruins of Castle Freedom soon came into view on the ridge. And, after several switchback maneuvers across the face of the climb Ray and Brandy found the unmarked road leading there. They passed a sign reading Propriété privée; with its warning that Trespassers seront poursuivis. Though neither read French, they shared a knowing look and drove on in violation of the law.

  Once across the castle's drawbridge, it appeared their search was ended. A chained gate barred their passage. Ray pried himself from the vehicle to examine the situation; then reported the obvious. “It's locked.”

  He breathed in a barrel of air. He studied the wall, as it disappeared in an arc on either side, surprised by how little of the grounds he could see. He thought of Vicki and felt his fear rising. He shook the gate bars, as if he were a prisoner, and exhaled his frustration. “Well, what do we do now?”

  He felt Brandy's hands on his shoulders. Suddenly, she was aboard him – piggy back. She pinched his waist with her knees, grabbed the bars above his head, and pulled herself up to stand on Ray's shoulders.

  “I take it,” Ray said, her boots biting his collarbones, “we're climbing over?”

  “Hands!”

  He lifted his palms. Brandy stood on them and Ray shoved her to the top of the fence. She flipped over and lowered herself to the gravel on the castle side. Truth be told, they'd done this before. Ray checked the drawbridge and road, confirmed they were alone (as if it mattered now), and followed Brandy over.

  They started up the curved drive and, despite the gorgeous autumn, felt a pall descend as they entered the courtyard. The morning was crisp, the sun brilliant, the birds sang yet something hung in the air. Ray headed for the castle while Brandy milled in the courtyard. She shouted for Vicki.

  No answer came.

  Brandy was about to call again when she spied something on the ground near the chapel. She started that way but, the nearer she drew, the more she slowed her step.

  Brandy did not know Anibal Socrates. Meeting the caretaker hadn't been part of Fournier's offering. And, arguing with the driver, she'd paid no attention to the man locking the gate at their departure. So, as she stared at the object in the courtyard, Brandy did not know who she saw. But she clearly recognized what she saw.

  “Ray-y-y-y,” she sputtered. “Raymond!”

  “What is it? What's the matter?”

  Ray ran to Brandy. Then he saw it too. They took hold of each other, without reservation, staring together at the washed out stain of congealed blood and the mutilated corpse lying at its center.

  The Gendarmerie arrived in a two color parade. Blue lights flashing atop blue and white vehicles. Blue and white plastic tape protecting the scene, where scientists in white coveralls and blue gloves and soldiers in blue uniforms with white gunbelts went about their work.

  Colonel Blanc, wearing a kepi with a flaming grenade badge, was his usual charming self; stabbing Brandy and Ray with his eyes as he bounced back and forth between them. “You knew this fellow?” he demanded, pointing at the thing inside the barricade that once was the caretaker.

  “No. We didn't know him.”

  “Yet, you came to see him?”

  “I told you,” Ray said, an angry flush rising. “We came up here to find my sister. We found this instead.”

  “You came last night?”

  “No,” Brandy chimed in. “This morning. Just before we called you.”

  Blanc glared at the Americans.

  So intently he failed to hear someone – something – moving, inside one of the few remaining windows in the wall of the castle, above and behind him. So intently he failed to notice the shadow of someone - something - looking down upon them.

  “How lon
g have you known M. Fournier?”

  “Who?”

  That's where the conversation ended.

  Another of the Gendarmerie's cars rounded the bend from the gate and onto the courtyard. A young soldier jumped out and hurried to Blanc. Pallid, obviously alarmed, he took the Colonel aside and whispered into his ear.

  Brandy and Ray watched as Blanc's lips tightened to a thin line. He asked several questions and, receiving the answers, began to lose color as well. A nod sent the soldier away. Blanc pulled at his jacket, straightening wrinkles that didn't exist, and turned back to the Americans. “You will wait here, please.” It wasn't a question.

  Blanc returned to his own car, signaling his driver. The lanky gendarme, whose name tag read 'Delvit', jumped behind the wheel and, in a flashing blur of blue and white, they were gone.

  As at the castle, tape now cordoned off the Socrates' cottage. Excepting Lieutenant Colonel Petit, one gendarme, and one lone scientist (they were spread thin) scurrying between van and house, and Minotte the truffler, squealing with hunger and nudging the filthy bed in her sty, nothing else moved or made a sound. Nothing else on the farm had been left alive.

  Pierre Dupont arrived at the scene as he arrived anywhere; in a chauffeured limousine and in a huff. Life was a bother as far as the aged regional magistrate was concerned and he held that against everyone. Regardless of a crime's jurisdiction, all investigations in France ultimately fell under the authority of the magistrate. The system had few supporters among the Paradis residents, among the Gendarmerie, or among criminal suspects. Dupont, however, liked it fine. Dupont was corpulent, red faced and mean. He handled all of his duties by doling out verbal hell while stroking his great gray mustache with corresponding fervor.

  Petit, at the cottage door, snapped to attention as the magistrate entered the yard, saluted, and moved aside the threshold to give him access. The magistrate got one foot inside the cottage and froze. He saw the front rooms splashed in maroon. He saw the mother and daughter hacked and thrown down like forgotten puppets. The blood drained from Dupont's face as if his throat had been slit. He spun on his heels, grabbed the door frame, and pushed himself out and down the stone path toward the gate.

  Petit was caught off guard by the magistrate's rapid retreat. It appeared the judge would faint and the Lieutenant Colonel grabbed his arm. Dupont shouted, yanked free and ran to vomit over the fence. Petit returned to attention – facing away.

  It was some minutes before Dupont recovered sufficiently to tamp his fouled lips with his pocket kerchief, adjust his vest and retrace his steps to the soldier.

  “That is the wife and daughter?”

  “Yes, your Excellency. We are certain it is.”

  “Anibal?” he asked, nervously tugging his mustache. “Where is Anibal Socrates?”

  “Dead also, your Excellency,” Petit said, “at the castle.”

  Dupont swallowed hard. “And the boy?”

  “He is missing. There has been no sign of him.”

  “Is he dead, do you think? Or has Luis Socrates killed again?”

  “Are you asking me, sir.”

  “No, no, no! Where is Colonel Blanc?” The judge regained his attitude with his strength. “Where is he for God's sake? I am talking to you now! Why is Blanc not here?”

  “The Colonel is in the timber, magistrate, between here and the castle. They have found…” Petit searched for the words. “They have found… something else.”

  It's my own fault, Colonel Blanc thought, I should not have asked.

  He'd been standing over the caretaker when he'd learned of two more bodies, Socrates' wife and daughter, found mutilated in their cottage. Three sickening murders; two horrendous crime scenes. Then one of his soldiers reported a third scene, which he ridiculously described as 'strange'.

  “After this,” Blanc demanded, “what in God's name, could possibly be strange?”

  Now as they stood in the timber, between the castle and the cottage, shielding their eyes against the morning sun and staring up at a particular tree branch, Blanc had his answer. It was strange. He was sorry he had asked.

  “Is that a suit of armor?”

  “It… looks like armor.” Unwilling to commit himself, the soldier, Tristan Maigny, called for a ladder.

  Blanc concentrated on what looked like a scabbard, hanging from a leather belt, midway down the length of the linen and chain mail. “That is a sword is it not?”

  “Oui, Colonel. It… appears to be a sword.”

  Blanc scanned the timber, heavy with wet dead fall, pungent with decaying leaves, cloying with mossy trees. He wondered at the temerity of whomever had been in these woods the previous night. The storm must have been terrifying. Even in the light of day, something ominous hung in the air.

  Maigny crouched on the timber floor directly beneath the impaled suit. He donned blue latex gloves and carefully began digging in the mud.

  “What is it?”

  Maigny lifted a mud-caked implement. “It's a hammer. It's heavy; feels like iron. Looks like a rock hammer.”

  Another soldier, with the requested ladder, butted in. “An iron rock hammer?”

  “I don't say it is. It looks like one.” He pointed. “That is a pick.”

  “Oui. For big rocks.”

  “It would take big rocks to swing it.” Both laughed.

  “Are you finished?” Blanc asked. “Have you had your laugh? Get back to work.”

  Maigny saluted his superior and slipped the hammer, mud and all, into a bag. Fulke (the other soldier) sank the ladder into the mud and leaned the top against the tree limb beside the curious evidence. He tapped a rung. “Here you are, Colonel.”

  Blanc looked at the soldier as if he were a moron and said, “I will be bereaved if you fall.”

  Recognizing an order when he heard one, Fulke climbed. At the top, he lifted the garment and found it to be exactly what it appeared; underarmor, chain mail, a moldy mantel, a leather belt and sword, and a burned and rotted cloak – all transfixed on the branch as if the wearer (a knight?) had been impaled. But there was no wearer. Perplexed, Fulke stared down at his superior. “It is; it's a suit of armor.”

  A photographer, newly arrived and standing near the Colonel, shot a picture of the suit in Fulke's hands.

  “Collect everything,” Blanc said, his mind in a whirl. “Carefully.”

  Fifteen

  The nightmare had only started for Brandy and Ray. All morning they'd been held a stone's throw from the caretaker's body, questioned as if they were criminals and, despite the sunshine, kept completely in the dark.

  Now, apparently, they'd been summoned. They were escorted across the eastern field to the unhallowed grave-site of the executed Templars and there made to wait again – without explanation. A female soldier, who'd brought them, stood between Brandy and Ray outside the fence. A second gendarme, a young man, stood inside behind the raised tomb at the opposite end. Neither spoke; just stared with unreadable eyes.

  Brandy felt disconnected as if she were having an out-of-body experience. She stole a glance at Ray. He, too, looked remote. Poor Ray. He'd convinced himself there was a logical reason for Vicki's absence and tried to convince Brandy of the same. Then he'd bottled his fears while trying to reassure hers. They'd approached the castle that morning in dread, but not even in their nightmares had either expected what they found.

  And, still, there was no sign of Vicki.

  Colonel Blanc and his shadow, Petit, finally arrived on foot from the timber. Wearing haggard faces, they entered the cemetery without acknowledging the Americans. In no mood to be ignored further, Brandy and Ray launched a barrage of questions over the fence. What's going on? Why are we being held? Where is Vicki?

  Blanc raised his hand, said, “Wait there, s'il vous plaît,” to silence them, and headed for the gendarme behind the sarcophagus.

  En route, Petit paused, directing the Colonel's attention to one of the ground level graves. Brandy stared. Excepting the soldiers, she
assumed the graveyard looked as before. Now she saw that wasn't the case. The grave to which Petit pointed was open. The lid, etched with the name Gaston Morel (which meant nothing her), was pushed aside. The grave was empty.

  “The source of the knight's uniform?” Petit asked.

  The Colonel did not reply but continued to the waiting soldier. He nodded and the gendarme bent out of view. He came up with the corner of an olive drab tarp in his hand. It covered, Brandy saw now, something in the grass at his feet. Her view was blocked but the officers got an eyeful.

  “Mère de Dieu,” escaped under Petit's breath.

  Blanc said nothing; merely swallowed. The Colonel motioned for Ray through the gate. Brandy tried to follow but Blanc called out, “Not you, mademoiselle.” He pointed at Ray. “Just you, please.”

  The lady soldier prevented Brandy's progress. Ray mouthed, 'It's okay' (though his expression suggested it wasn't), and entered the cemetery. He crossed to the officers and the tarp.

  Blanc said simply, “Prepare yourself.” Then he nodded and the gendarme lifted the tarpaulin again.

  Nothing could have prepared Ray for what lay beneath. His beautiful 'big' sister bled white and discarded like trash. He stared, trying to wrap his brain around the horror, then he gasped - unable to get a breath. Ray felt himself pitching forward.

  Blanc and Petit steadied the big American and eased him to his knees; aware the whole time of his girl screaming behind them. The gendarme left his officers and joined his colleague at the gate. It took both to keep Brandy back.

  The Colonel asked, “Your sister?” When Ray didn't reply, he asked again, “M. Kramer. It is your sister, M. Victoria?”