Loup sat up and leaned against door eleven to catch his breath. Then he laughed; the blood from his nose coloring his front teeth.
Ray pointed at the door and laughed himself. “Saint Helena, you stupid bastard. Napoleon died at Saint Helena.” He tossed the answer card to the grass at Loup's feet.
Loup chuckled again, soundlessly. Then he stood, leaned toward Ray and whispered, “Your sister had nice tits.”
Ray spun, busted him in his already bleeding nose, and jumped on him as he fell. The soldiers scrambled down the aisle. They tugged Brandy out of the mêlée and pulled Ray off Loup, whose face gushed crimson like a running tap.
As an impartial agent of the law, Petit ordered everyone into handcuffs.
Twenty Three
Despite the cool autumn day, it was cloistered in the Gendarmerie interrogation room. But the heat, intended for the Americans' discomfort, was a double-edged sword. Steam was rising off the Colonel's collar as well.
“For the last time,” Blanc screamed, “we have no evidence Loup Wimund did anything at all.”
“He raped her, for God's sake!” Brandy said.
“Sacré.” Blanc threw his hands into the air. “Your sister was not raped.”
Ray was equally exasperated; unable to hide it and out of ways to express it. Brandy expressed it for him. “If it were your sister, Colonel,” she said, “you wouldn't make the distinction. This Loup… he tried to rape her. He admitted he…”
“No, no, no,“ Blanc screamed. “His so-called admission is useless.”
“So called?” Brandy came out of her chair. “Ray heard him.” She pointed at Petit, hovering as usual. “He heard it, if he was paying attention. I got Loup to admit…”
“Sit down.” Blanc clenched – head to toe. The veins in his eyes shot full of blood. “Sit down!”
Brandy sat. Blanc leaned across the table.
“Who do you think you are, hein? You have no authority here. En vérité, you are not even citizens. You elicited information from Loup while… how would you say, mademoiselle, beating from him the hell. That does not count even in your country.” He paced away drawing breath. “As far as Loup Wimund is concerned, we are looking at him, but so far we have only evidence you, both of you, violated his rights. You assaulted him. We have his complaint, your admission, and four gendarmes as witnesses.” He grunted. “Not to mention the damage to the Histoire Labyrinthe, n'est-ce pas?”
“You're making us the bad guys?” Brandy asked incredulously.
“We are investigating people of interest.”
“Including us – apparently.”
“We do not know you, mademoiselle. We are looking into you.” He jabbed a finger at Ray. “But we have read M. Kramer's criminal record.”
Brandy's mouth fell open. Ray's did not.
“Ahh, M. Kramer, I see, shows no surprise. He knows we will check; knows how things are. Mademoiselle is surprised a violent record follows one. Or surprised, perhaps, only that we can read?” Blanc snapped his fingers.
Petit drew a folder from under his arm and handed it to his superior.
“Eh bien, let us see.” Blanc opened the file and flipped through the report. “Public intoxication. Assault. Robbery. Ahh, of course, a weapon's charge. Everyone in America is a cowboy, n'est-ce pas?”
“I was young and stupid,” Ray said. He'd been dabbing his cuts and scratches with gauze. Now he leaned back in his chair; defiant. He caught Brandy's stare and dropped his eyes to the floor. His face reddened. “I was young and very stupid. Read the dates, Colonel. I haven't done anything like it in years!”
“The time, they must tell it differently in your country,” Blanc said, taking the moral high ground. “By my count, your last assault was committed, en passant, under forty minutes ago.”
“I meant… besides this time.”
“Comme ça? M. Kramer, this time counts. You do not get… what is it you say in the golf… voyons… a McGuffin?” Blanc sneered. Petit laughed.
“Mulligan,” Brandy said.
The laughter stopped. Both turned back to the American girl. “Quel?”
“It's a Mulligan; a free shot, another bite at the apple. A McGuffin is…” Brandy noted Blanc's scowl and, more importantly, the twist in Ray's lip. Apparently, he didn't think she was helping. “Never mind.”
In appreciation, Ray jumped back in the barrel. “Are you going to charge us?”
Blanc stared at the American, trying to figure him out, then turned to Petit and barked, “Sortez!”
The Lieutenant Colonel's eyebrows pitched a tent. He thought better of it and left without a word, pulling the door closed behind him.
Blanc sighed. He grabbed his head on either side and twisted. His neck cracked like dried twigs. A chill ran up Brandy's spine. The Colonel wagged his head, pleased with the results. “No, M. Petracus, M. Kramer, I am not going to charge you.” He pushed on his lower back eliciting another horrendous crack. Then he sat opposite Brandy and Ray and crossed his arms on the table before him. He stared and, finally, wearily said, “Loup Wimund is a worm. I have no doubt he richly deserved all he got. But you can not, you will not, take the law into your hands again. Not here. Or you will see the inside of my district prison.”
“So what happens now?”
“Let us do our job, monsieur,“ Blanc said.
“And, in the meantime, Loup goes free?”
“Parfaitement.” Blanc held up his hands pleading. “Rape was not your sister's problem. She was, pardonnez-moi, viciously stabbed and left to bleed. Those are not Loup's methods. He steals candy from children. He has no stomach for killing.”
Blanc rose from his chair. “We look still for Luis Socrates. As the only survivor of his family, he is of interest. We are questioning others as well.” He gestured to the door. “You can go. But I urge you to keep in mind there are many victims and, perhaps, as many motives. If Loup Wimund killed your sister, or took part in her death, he did not act alone. You will leave him be. And you will leave us alone. We will solve these murders… without you.”
Twenty Four
Menderez Chitichia had reasons for leaving Turkey and, more pointedly, leaving behind the Istanbul authorities. He'd speak of his birthplace but never of why he left. France was now his home. That he was perfectly content with his third shift position at the solitary Paradis District Mortuary should have indicated, to anyone who cared, his desire to exist under the radar. The best thing about life in Paradis was… nobody cared.
Chitichia, thin, brown and asthmatic, peered through the door's wired window at the hall, leading to the offices, laboratory and gloomy pathology room beyond, and the starkly lit reception area with the second shift attendant, Pierre Vayssie, at his desk. Vayssie was a pig; too fat, too loud, too leering (when he wasn't eating). Now, of course, he was eating. He cringed as his colleague shoved half a liver sausage sandwich into his mouth. Not ready to face him, but already late, Chitichia pushed into the morgue.
“It's about time, mon ami,” Vayssie said, the sandwich hanging from his mouth. Disgusted, Chitichia nevertheless amused himself knowing that, while it looked like Vayssie had a tongue made of rye, he most certainly did not have a wry tongue. Not one to cast pearls before swine, he did not share his quip.
As Vayssie yanked his jacket from the back of the chair, a glob of mayonnaise fell onto the open pages of their log book. “Sacré,” he exclaimed. Then he shrugged on his jacket as he shrugged off the mess.
At the door, he turned and said, “Take a look in number four. Despite the suture and being kept frozen for three days, she is… tré magnifique.” Thankfully, the liverwurst prevented a whistle.
“You make me sick. She is dead!”
“So is my wife.” Vayssie laughed his head off. “Merci. I will be here all week.”
In the freezer room, Chitichia checked the paperwork, looked to ensure he was alone, and opened cubicle number four. He slid the metal tray from the wall and pulled back the sheet. Vicki Kramer la
y naked; awkward stitches closing the autopsy incisions. Chitichia, his mouth free of chewed liverwurst, whistled in appreciation.
“Forgive me, Leydim, but that pig Vayssie was right. You were beautiful.”
A buzzer sounded. Chitichia jumped. Then he laughed, realizing it was merely a delivery. “Do not move,” he said, recovering the body.
Chitichia opened the side door to find Soliveres, the old paramedic, waiting. He had a round head beneath a flat gray haircut and a round belly beneath a strained gray uniform. The head was renowned for the beer it took in; the belly for the beer it held. Soliveres passed Chitichia guiding a body bag on a wheeled stretcher. It was pushed from the other end by a young man that the morgue attendant did not know. “One of these is yours,” Soliveres said. “The other one is my new partner, Aldric.”
Aldric was little more than a boy, tall, slight, spectacled, with as much acne as he had face.
“I get the one on the cot?”
“Take your pick. Both are useless to me.” Soliveres laughed. The boy's smile fought embarrassment and pimples to get to the surface. Chitichia felt for him. (Or would have had he cared). On second thought, he didn't.
“My last partner couldn't take it. Not a job for the faint of heart, eh, Aldric?”
Chitichia moved to shut the door and, only then, realized they were accompanied by a gendarme. The soldier, Leon Pomeroy, with whom he had worked often, and partied more often, was sandy-haired, sunny, and when under the influence, eager to confess – in detail – that his best military memories had been made on leave. Chitichia apologized. Pomeroy smiled, chirped, “Suicide,” and handed the orderly a report.
Chitichia admitted the body then led the parade, footsteps echoing, wheels squeaking, down the hall. Through the swinging doors, in pathology, the orderly opened a compartment, rolled out an empty tray and offered the medics good luck.
Soliveres and Aldric transferred the body.
Chitichia, meanwhile, pretending to laugh at one of Pomeroy's jokes, failed to notice a crumpled sheet lying on the floor. He also failed to notice the number four tray, upon which Vicki's body had been lying, was now empty.
The orderly secured the suicide behind its door and ushered the ambulance crew and the jovial gendarme out. He bid the medics good night, assured Pomeroy they'd drink again soon, secured the door and went back to pathology. Only then did he see his problem. Chitichia stared in silence at the empty tray. Then he felt his chest tighten, heard his breathing turn to labored pants, and realized he was hyperventilating. An asthma attack seemed on the horizon.
The phone rang. Chitichia jumped nearly out of his skin.
At the front desk, struggling for breath, trying to collect his thoughts, Chitichia wouldn't have believed his night could get worse. Then he answered the phone… “Paradis Mort… Oui, Colonel. Oui, Colonel Blanc. A body? Victoria Kramer.” The orderly's world fell apart. He repeated the name, stalling. “Victoria Kramer?”
On the other end of the line, Blanc damned his hesitation which didn't help his nerves or his asthma. Chitichia stuttered and finally confessed. “I am sorry, Colonel. But, you see… I can not find the body. It was there, in its place, a moment ago, but now she's… Oui. Oui, Colonel. As you say.”
The orderly couldn't hang up fast enough. He stared at the phone, as if unable to place its function, praying it did not ring again. Chitichia's lungs felt like bricks. He dug out his inhaler, fired a blast into his mouth and held the medicine in – deeply.
“Do not touch anything,” he said, repeating Blanc's last command, as he stared dumbfounded at the empty freezer tray. “She is gone. What is there to touch?”
His asthma attack was worsening and he gasped to catch his breath. The rales and rhonchus made his exhalations sound like the roar of a lion. Yet, despite the noise he was making, Chitichia thought he heard something else – in an empty morgue. The hair stood on the back of his neck and, though he didn't know why, Chitichia looked straight up.
Vicki was on the ceiling - above his head.
She hung upside down her fingers and toes gripping the tiles like a spider. With a gurgle, she rotated her head and stared hungrily down on him. Then she shrieked, let loose, and dropped on the startled orderly. Chitichia had no time to react. Vicki sank her teeth into the flesh of his smooth brown throat. A pain, unlike anything he'd ever experienced, shot suddenly through his body. All he could do was shout to God.
Again and again, she ripped into the morgue attendant's throat as she rode him to the tiled floor. She lapped the dark oozing blood until Chitichia lost consciousness. Then she gouged deeply, tore an artery, and relished the spurt. Vicki drank the crimson flow as if it were mother's milk and she a starving infant.
Chitichia's asthmatic alveoli, bronchioles, and bronchus slammed shut with finality. His screams ended and too his breathing. Gorging herself, Vicki drank the orderly dead, the hungry sounds of her feast mixed with hisses and moans. Then, bathed in and sated with Chitichia's blood, she fell away to the floor.
Vicki caught her breath and, renewed, skittered up the wall and across the ceiling. She opened a window and crawled out into the night. She paused in the shadows outside, clinging to the side of the building, while a couple passed below. When they'd gone, Vicki leapt to the ground and, naked, vanished into the dark.
In the District Mortuary, Menderez Chitichia lay dead; his throat torn, his body drained. The worst thing about his life there in Paradis was… nobody cared.
Twenty Five
Brandy was in pain. Father Trevelyan heard it when she called and could see it now, ironically, by what he couldn't see. The feisty American girl was wrapped in a long winter coat, though the autumn air was only just too cool for shirt sleeves, wore a wide-brimmed hat, and hid the windows to her soul with dark glasses. Ray, it was obvious, hurt as badly. With his open indifference to the church, his mere presence spoke volumes.
The priest suggested neutral ground; the church being a too formal reminder of their troubles, and their hotel room a too vacant reminder of the same. An admission that neither she nor Ray had eaten settled it. Trevelyan insisted they had to eat. So, at a café small enough to soothe Ray's dislike for crowds, in a corner secluded enough for Trevelyan to encourage talk, and dark enough for Brandy to expose her reddened eyes, they met for a meal.
Ray had scallops. The priest had skate. Brandy bore the tides of her uneasy stomach, watching both and thinking, good God, more fish! She pushed a cheese soufflé and green salad around on her own plate and wished she were hungry.
Though more attuned to the spiritual, Trevelyan soon realized the couple were hurting in body as well. Brandy took her chair sporting stiff limbs and a decided limp. Ray, in comparison, looked as if he should have been in hospital. Each movement brought a gasp, each bite a moan. He was lacerated and scratched from head to foot, had a bruised hand and, when pressed, admitted to a swollen knee. With no way around it, the pair confessed their afternoon adventure in the park.
The priest listened with alternating expressions of amusement and dread but added only, “Our, eh, er, choices are sometimes costly.”
“In more ways than one,” Ray said with a grunt. “The Colonel made it plain I'll be billed for the damage.” He glared at Brandy.
“Don't look at me. I didn't ask for your help. And I didn't tell you to jump through the hedges.”
“You asked for my help… repeatedly.”
“Well, I didn't ask you to jump through the hedges. Besides… I broke a nail.”
Neither the poor humor, nor the poorly disguised aggression, hid the fact both were hurting. Trevelyan, as much as he wanted to avoid confrontation, addressed it head on. “It, eh, isn't your fault, Brandy.”
Their table froze while life went on normally around them. Brandy looked down. Ray looked away. The priest was about to apologize and retreat, when he heard himself reiterating, “Vicki's death isn't your fault.”
“She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, is that it?
/>
“If I said so, you'd claim that was your doing as well.”
“Wasn't it?”
“You're strong, Brandy, but, er, not enough to shoulder responsibility for the free will choices of others. Blaming yourself would be the definition of hubris. Who, ah, after all, do you think you are?”
“You act like I'm trying to take credit for something.”
“That's what your subconscious is doing. Taking credit or, if you will, blame. And handing out blame for perceived wrongs. There's no short-cut to understanding, no magic to instantly heal the hurt. I'm not a pop psychologist. But there is one fact you must believe – before all else. Vicki's death was not your fault.”
She nodded.
“And it's not Ray's fault either.”
Brandy nodded again, noncommittally.
“I had a brush with the same feelings this morning,” Trevelyan said.
“How's that?”
“I was visited by the gendarmes, your Colonel Blanc.”
“He isn't ours!”
“Hell no!” Ray added; expecting and receiving a 'don't swear in front of the priest' look from Brandy. “Hell no,” he repeated. “What'd he want with you?”
“The same thing you did, I'm afraid. He wanted to know about the Templars. That's one of the reasons I, fleetingly, toyed with the idea you two had gotten me into something. I apologize. Turns out I alone was responsible for his curiosity.”
“I don't understand.” Brandy said.
“I don't either. He interrogated me thoroughly about the knights, the castle; then asked about my collection; the relics, armor, weapons. Wanted to know if any, several in particular, were missing. Wanted to know my whereabouts during the murders. It was quite disturbing. He made some rather insane insinuations.”
Ray traded looks with Brandy. “You're a suspect?”
“Er, ah, well, eh, he didn't say as much. But I, er, confess to having felt like one. Hence my rather foolish thought to blame you. A cup of tea cleared my head.”
The Devil's Bed Page 12
