The Devil's Bed

by Doug Lamoreux

  “A raid on Fournier's shop?” one of the soldiers blurted out.

  “No, no,” Petit shouted, glaring at the soldier. 'No' to it being Fournier's shop and 'No' to speaking in the ranks. The Lieutenant Colonel mentally put him on report.

  “Not his shop, you idiot,” Blanc said. “Fournier is bringing his drugs in to the castle. All of this nonsense, these murders, have been in preparation of this delivery. They are using the legend of the Templar ghosts to frighten people from the castle. I have sources and will bet my life on it. Tonight we collect the evidence. We arrest the killers with blood on their hands. And we stop a shipment of hard drugs.”

  “The men have been instructed to hold their fire unless…”

  “At the slightest provocation,” Blanc said, interrupting his junior officer. “And there will be one. We will be forced to shoot Fournier to death.”

  Eyes darted. A lip or two thinned under pressure. One eyebrow momentarily arched. All quickly returned to front and center. Good, Blanc thought, very good. “Move them out, Lieutenant Colonel.”

  The soldiers loaded into the van. Petit took the trailing car with Andre Fulke as his driver. Blanc scanned the block, as he headed for the lead car, and spotted Jerome at the edge of the building. “You're late,” he shouted. “What are you waiting? You will ride with me.”

  Jerome stepped nervously over. “Bloody hell, this has nothing to do with me.”

  “You are forgetting to whom you are talking, you little rat!”

  Jerome swallowed hard and the word “psycho” did the wave across his throat.

  “You are my eyes and ears in Paradis, my tattooed friend,” Blanc said. “In particular when it comes to Fournier. I would not dream of going to the castle without you; for I would be deaf and blind.”

  “If he sees me he'll have me killed.”

  “He need not see you. Get in.” After a pause, he added, “Or I will kill you.”

  Jerome sighed heavily. He and Blanc climbed in. The driver, Maurice Delvit, pulled the car away.

  As they turned onto the main drag, and into an aggravating bottleneck of tourist vehicles, Blanc ordered Delvit to turn on their emergency lights. The van and trail car followed suit. Flickering swaths of blue cut through the rising dusk as their vehicles moved through the village.

  “I still don't know why I'm here,” Jerome complained, slumped in the rear seat.

  “I already told you,” Blanc said. “And, if I were you, I would pray my information was correct. If you are wasting our time, M. Rousseau, you will be sorry.”

  Jerome slid still lower.

  “Once we have reached the edge of the village,” the Colonel told Delvit, “turn the lights out. We shall make at the castle the stealthy surprise.”

  Several of Fournier's men carried cardboard boxes, all boldly (and bogusly) labeled Coffee, to a truck parked beside his unlit building. Furnier quietly hurried them up from the cellar, through the wall panel, the back room and outside, reminding them in no uncertain terms to protect his merchandise as they worked.

  “Ne perdez pas de temps. Dépêchez-vous,” he said. “Et soyez prudent.”

  He'd counted on Felix… No matter. Soon they would be on their way.

  Then he saw the parade of blue lights coming toward his shop. He launched the box in his arms into the truck and slammed the tail gate.

  He stuck his head inside the back door and gave away his age, shouting, “Le marechaussee!” It was the name by which the Gendarmerie had been known when Fournier was a kid and he spit it out as if it were spoiled food. He waved his arms at his workers. “Drop them,” he shouted in a whisper. “Drop the boxes! Hide!”

  His men did as instructed; following the boxes to the floor. When they were out of sight, Fournier went to the floor too – sliding the back door closed with his foot. Then he held his breath. Fournier saw the reflection of flashing blue lights through the windows against the darkening walls. And then… all was gloom again. He raised his head but saw and heard nothing. He stood quickly and quietly and peaked out a side window to see the flickering blue lights of the Gendarmerie disappearing in the distance. They had raced by, without slowing, and continued on headed out of the village.

  Only then did Fournier realize he was still holding his breath. He exhaled forcefully, inhaled deeply and tried to still his racing heart. His men closed in around him watching after the police.

  Finally, the disbelieving Fournier asked aloud, “Where are they going?”

  The soldiers, packed into their tactical van, knew where they were headed. What they didn't know was what they would find when they got there. They silently traded smiles; looking forward to the fun.

  The Colonel's car, and the vehicles behind, followed the trail of Fournier's bus out of the village, across the canal and, into the rocky hills that led to Castle Freedom. They were halfway up the mountain face, a quarter-mile from their destination, when Blanc ordered the vehicles to the side of the thin country road. He did not want to surprise Fournier too early. They would wait there and give the drug dealer all the rope he needed to hang himself. Then they would drop on him and his men and catch them breaking the law.

  It wouldn't be long. The sun was nearly gone and soon the darkness would be upon them.

  The sun set in a glorious explosion of blood red that ran away into the black horizon and was replaced by a shining full moon. Its blue light lit the stage and threw eerie shadows like glass shards across the rocky Languedoc hills, the ruined castle, the lonely chapel, the stark field, and the unhallowed cemetery at the edge of the timber.

  In that forgotten graveyard, what had, the previous night, been an elaborate rite of bloodletting was, this night, simplicity itself, as the sleeping Templar mummies awoke in their tombs. The creatures again pried free and shoved clear the stone lids covering them and, driven by the powers of hell, began to climb from their graves in a swirling fog.

  Francois de Raiis, the leader of the living dead knights, stood beside his sarcophagus. Benoit Lambert, their chaplain, shambled over and joined him. He lifted their golden cross in skeletal claws and began to chant a mantra of evil.

  “Diabolus, meus Senior, quod three everto in Hierarchies' of Abyssus…”

  The other tombs disgorged their horrors. The thing that once was Henri Ethelbert, glistening daggers on his belt, slithered from his resting place and joined in the chant.

  An unsteady Louis Godenot used his halberd throwing spear as a crutch and pushed himself to his feet. His rusted chain mail jangled and scratched against the stone as he stepped from his grave.

  Jules Lefebvre, his teeth clacking - in pain and anticipated pleasure - in his skull-like face, fought eagerly to again escape the grave. In the name of the Devil, in the cause of vengeance and, hopefully, in a torrent of blood, he looked forward to putting his flail and mace to work.

  Free again, Geoffrey de Charney stuck his long-dead talons back into his tomb and withdrew his crossbow. As he stood, the last resting place of Gaston Morel (destroyed the previous night) fell under his red gaze. He didn't mourn. He didn't care. He just paused, briefly, and stared at the vacant tomb. Charney kicked the cracked lid, already yawning, and toppled it into the empty grave. Then he turned and took up Lambert's chant.

  From somewhere in the distance came a series of hair-raising sounds, like the shrieks of damned spirits carried on the wind, that settled quickly into the cries of whinnying horses. The Templar knights, still chanting, shambled from the cemetery and disappeared into the fog.

  Three

  Brandy and Ray stood side by side in the courtyard chilled by the night and alarmed by a settling fog. Had the dark of the previous night fallen over Castle Freedom now they'd have been in hot water. Worse, Brandy thought with amusement; pea soup. Instead, they were given a gift in the form of a shining full moon. Why not, Brandy wondered. Nights of unparalleled darkness, moons too full to be believed. It was, as Father Trevelyan said, a land of ancient legends, mystery and superstition.

&
nbsp; Still not everyone was pleased.

  “This is ridiculous.” Loup planted his feet and crossed his arms with no intention of taking another step. “We have been over it.”

  The rest of the group stared in disgust and weariness. They'd gained little by their experiment but, with their jackets pulled tight, were still willing to try. All but one.

  “We're going over it again.” Ray said. “Felix, have you a flashlight in the bus?”

  “I do not know. I have never used the bus at night.” Glad to escape the argument, Felix and Eve headed for the bus. Ready for a break, Father Trevelyan set down his satchel, called, “I'll help look,” and followed after the young lovers. Aimee, ever the reporter, remained wishing Loup would just get on with it.

  Tired of the argument, Ray bottled his frustration and creeping desperation, turned to Brandy and calmly asked, “Where to next?”

  Brandy looked intently about the moonlit courtyard, closed her eyes to concentrate and finally shook her head. “I don't remember, Ray.”

  “Honey, you need to try.”

  “Don't you think I'm trying?”

  For the hundredth time Ray assured her it wasn't her fault but Brandy wasn't listening. It was and she knew it. Her mind was off to the races. Had she been paying attention, had she not left the castle without Vicki, had it not been for her thesis, had they not been there in the first place, they wouldn't have given a damn about the castle or the Templars and Vicki wouldn't be dead

  Ray lowered his head to hers and wrapped his arms around her. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'm sorry.”

  She leaned into Ray, giving him the weight of her shoulders, but painfully aware he couldn't lift the weight off of them; the weight of the world.

  Felix, Eve and the priest returned carrying one flashlight that, for reasons unknown, worked sporadically and one rusted gas lantern, the condition of which had yet to be determined.

  “This is stupid,” Loup complained. “We can't go on with such equipment. We can't go on in the dark. What do we gain?”

  Still holding Brandy, Ray said, “We're going on by matchlight if we have to. Where to next, Felix?”

  “As I told you, I gave the execution speech here,” Felix spread his arms reliving the invitation his charges observe the courtyard. “Everything was without event as always. We went to the chapel. Then… we went to the cemetery.”

  “By the chapel?” Ray pointed.

  “No. Well, yes, but not that one. I told you, I was referring to the one beyond.”

  “I can't keep it straight,” Ray shouted, throwing up his hands. “Give it to me again. What's holy and what's not.”

  “This near graveyard is the chapel cemetery. It is holy ground.” Felix pointed into the dark and the fog in the direction of the distant timber. “We went to the Templar cemetery, the burial plot at the edge of the timber, in unhallowed ground.”

  Ray nodded and turned on Loup. “And you?”

  Loup hesitated choosing his words carefully. “This is where the girl and I first began talking.”

  “And then…”

  “What do you want me to say? We talked for a moment or two. Then she left.”

  “That's what you said before, but it's not what you said in the park.” Ray was growing angry.

  “This one hit me,” Loup whined, pointing at Brandy. “I was giving you the tough… the hard time… I told you before, your sister left me here. She followed everyone else. I did not go to the Templar plot. Why should I? I have seen it a thousand times. I did not see your sister after. What happened to her I do not know.”

  “You are lying.”

  Eve said it - taking everyone by surprise. She stepped forward with the same light in her eye, the same twist to her lip, Brandy remembered from the tour that afternoon. The red-head looked at Loup with fire in her eyes and repeated, “You're lying. I saw you at the Templar cemetery. You were with the American girl.”

  Ray moved in on Loup with blood in his eyes. “Do you think this is a game? Do you? What happened at the cemetery?”

  “Nothing. We…”

  “You… what?”

  “We… just… We had…”

  “You just had… what?” Ray grabbed Loup by his shirt front.

  “Sexe,” Loup screamed, throwing a hand up to protect his wounded face. “Elle a voulu le sexe! She wanted it! I gave her what she wanted.” He fell back and only Ray's grip kept him from hitting the cobblestones.

  “Get up, you son of a bitch!” Ray dangled Loup as if he were a puppet, his free hand clenched to strike. “You're still lying! You're going to tell us what happened or, I swear to God, you're not going home alive.”

  The Frenchman struggled, shouting, “Leave me alone.”

  “Wait a minute, Ray,” Brandy said, interrupting. “Ray. Be quiet.”

  Ray scowled at her. “Didn't you hear what he just…”

  “Raymond, be quiet! I'm sorry, Ray, I know, but listen! Be quiet and listen!”

  Ray released Loup. The group went silent and strained their ears.

  “Listen… to what?” Loup asked with a sneer. He pulled at his clothes trying to reclaim his dignity.

  One by one they heard it; a rhythmic tattoo, heavy on the ground, growing nearer. Another joined it. And another. And…

  “Horses!” Brandy said. “Riders!”

  “Épatant,” Loup said, the sarcasm slurring his voice. “We are in the country. You hear horses in the country.”

  “At night?” Aimee said. “Who rides at night?”

  Brandy shushed them. Hoofbeats; approaching, slowing. Then somewhere in the dark, the horses were reined up. A whinnying followed here to the right, a breathy snort there on the left, a stamp of the ground over there. Their party was surrounded. Then came a new sound; a rising choral chant from the darkness.

  “Laus Lucifer, unde totus bona flow.”

  “What the hell is that?” Ray asked. A shiver shook his frame; a feeling his grandmother always described as, 'A ghost passing through you.'

  “Laus Him totus creatura hic in Terra.”

  “It sounds like… singing…” Aimee said.

  “No,” Trevelyan snapped. The priest closed his eyes.

  “Laus Him supremus minions of Abyssus.”

  “It isn't singing. It's chanting. It's a doxology. They're chanting… in Latin.” The chorus grew in volume and strength. It drew nearer.

  “Ut is eram secundum cado, est iam quod umquam vadum exsisto, universitas saecula saeculorum.”

  “What are they saying?” Brandy asked.

  Father Trevelyan held his hand up, silencing her and listening intently.

  “Laus Him. Laus Him.”

  Even in the limited light Brandy saw the color drain from his face. He shook his head in confusion and dismay. “It's blasphemy…”

  Four

  A mounted shape suddenly appeared from the dark to the south. The horse's hooves thudded the ground as it rounded the corner of the chapel. They hit the stones of the courtyard and the thud became a clip-clop as if someone were shaking a bag of bones. The horse reared, pawed the air, snorted a cloud and whinnied. They could just make out the rider in the blue moonlight. He wore a hooded cape, a soiled white mantle, chain armor and a sword. His bearded face, with eyes like burning red lanterns, had the dried gray features of a corpse. The vision was all the more horrible because, in the darkness, the evil chanting continued unabated.

  “Laus Lucifer, unde totus bona flow.”

  “Laus Him totus creatura hic in Terra.”

  Aimee, Eve and Loup screamed. Felix shouted. Ray swore an oath and Trevelyan called upon God. Brandy simply gasped and stared as another rider appeared from the shadows to the north. All could see, as he moved in the moonlight, he too looked like a mummy. He clopped across the courtyard and reined up at the right hand of the first.

  “Laus Him supremus minions of Abyssus.”

  Two more riders appeared behind him. “My God!” Eve shrieked. Then, again, two more to
the south.

  “Ut is eram secundum cado, est iam quod umquam vadum exsisto, universitas saecula saeculorum.”

  One of the last, Brandy saw, was cloaked differently. He wore a black (maybe brown; it was hard to tell in the gloom) hooded cloak and carried a long wooden staff at his side adorned with a gold cross that glinted in the moonlight.

  “Laus Him. Laus Him.”

  The group from Paradis had moved into a knot. Aimee swallowed and whispered, “We're surrounded.” Loup, his working eye wide with exploding panic, turned a circle within theirs as if to verify the reporter's assertion - or perhaps looking for room to run. What to Brandy had once felt like a large courtyard, shrunk significantly with the addition of six riders. She and Ray, independently, scanned them back and forth.

  Felix took hold of Eve, cocked his head toward the priest, and called out, “Who are they?”

  Breathlessly, Trevelyan said, “They're… Templar knights.”

  “Nuh-ahh,” Ray said in disgust. While Brandy, in spite of her fear, shook her head at his brilliant addition to the conversation. But Ray wasn't through. “Nice duds,” he shouted. “Is it Halloween already, you French fucks!”

  “What's the matter with you?” Brandy barked.

  “Me?” Ray cried. “What's the matter with them?”

  The riders' grinning skulls stared back with hellish red eyes. Then the first rider drew his sword.

  “I don't think those are costumes,” Brandy said. “Let's get to the castle.” She looked around and, though no one spoke, most in the group nodded. Loup was already backing toward the ruins behind them.

  Trevelyan was concentrating on the two knights to the left; particularly the one carrying the cross. He was appalled by the blasphemy of the Christian symbol in the fiend's hands yet couldn't look away. Brandy saw his obsessed glare and grabbed his sleeve. “Father? Father Trevelyan?” He seemed not to hear. “Father!”