“Man, I am so sorry.”
Terrance dabbed the bloody corner of his mouth. “Don’t be. That’s what friends are for.”
Crow sank in his seat.
“Besides,” Terrance said, “as far as my story goes, I just fended off two carjackers.” He laughed, “I’m gonna be the neighborhood badass.”
“Terrance, I don’t know what to say.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to say. Just wanted to let you know they’re on your trail. Watch your back.” He looked up to see a police cruiser pulling in front of his car and neighbors standing on their stoops in their bathrobes. “Hey, gotta run. The cops are here. Time to go be a hero.”
The line went dead.
“Terrance from the hotel,” Crow said to Rosenfeld. “Sounds like the same guys who came looking for me at the farm found him. They beat him up looking for us.”
Concern was etched on her face. She turned her head toward the window with tears in her eyes.
Crow stared at her. “Still think this is a vacation?”
They pulled into Avignon TGV Station just past one in the afternoon. Crow gazed up at the modern 1,115-foot glazed roof of silver and white and thought how much it looked like a futuristic cathedral in one of his books. From the outside, it appeared to be an immense quonset hut. The entrance of the station resembled a bunker with grass-covered berms to either side, a place where one might seek refuge from a nuclear blast. They rented a small but luxurious Mercedes-Benz for the forty-minute drive to Salon-de-Provence from the rental agency across the parking lot on the north side of the station. The rental agent was extremely helpful showing them how to enter the address of their destination into the car’s GPS. She waved them goodbye from the parking lot with a smile then retrieved her phone from her pocket.
Crow checked his rearview mirror every few seconds for signs they were being tailed. He also tilted his side mirror from time to time to scan the skies.
“You really believe you can stop them, don’t you?” Rosenfeld said.
Crow checked his paranoia. “If I can get just one step behind them, yes. I don’t believe in this fatalistic crap. Nothing’s etched in stone.”
She smiled at him then looked out the windshield at the road. “Maybe Dr. Grumbling and Kyle were right. Maybe you can’t stop them. They’ve been doing this for nearly 500 years.”
“Is that why you’re here? To give me moral support?” he asked with a little bite in his tone.
“No, in fact, I’m here to give you intellectual support and expert advice.”
“Are you ready to give up?”
She paused. “No, actually, I’m not. At least not until after we’ve seen what Delacroix has to say. At some point, though, you may have to determine that the code is uncrackable. I mean, think about the history here. They’ve apparently been able to watch Nostradamus’ predictions come true for half a millennium. That’s a long time to be right. They’re very good at this. They’ve faced people like you before.”
“I was chosen for a reason,” Crow said.
She looked over at him. “This isn’t Lord of the Rings, for God’s sake. You’re not somehow special because some homeless guy gave you a book.”
“Then you explain why he went to so much trouble to give it to me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he read Destiny Raider and thought you’re some oracle.”
Crow smiled. “I’m flattered. You’re familiar with one of my books?”
“I actually read it.”
Crow almost choked on his laugh. “You read one of my books.”
“Long train ride from Boston to Washington. I saw the paperback at the newsstand at the train station before I left and couldn’t resist.”
“I’m humbled.”
“You’ve never been humble in your life,” Rosenfeld joked.
“OK, let’s say I’m honored. How’s that?”
“Much more honest.”
“Your theory is the old man in Montreal was a fan and this is all just some elaborate joke concocted by a deranged reader?”
“Now, I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?” Crow asked. “Look, I know I attract a lot of nuts—that’s part of the gig—but you and Grumbling, and now Kyle, all seem to be in agreement that the First Face of Janus is very real. If not, I wouldn’t be here. If you didn’t believe it, you wouldn’t be here. So for some reason I’ve been given the quatrains. I’m not suggesting I’m ‘the chosen one,’ but maybe they knew I wouldn’t be dismissive of them.”
Unlike me,” Rosenfeld said.
“Are you saying you would just ignore something like this?”
She thought for a moment. “Not necessarily ignore. I would be curious, I guess. Just not sure I’d be as curious as you.”
“You mean, not curious enough to come all the way to Europe chasing a clue.”
“Well, yeah,” she said.
“But you’re here.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Somebody offers to fly me first class to France to see where Nostradamus lived in Salon, I’m down for a good road trip.”
“But you don’t expect to find anything?”
“Let me put it this way,” she said, “I’ve studied the First Facers and the CV for a long time. They’re not going to be found unless they want to be found.”
“And you don’t think I can find them?”
“If you do, you’ll be the first to find them in 500 years,” she said. “Chew on that, Mr. Chosen One.”
Chapter Fourteen
Crow and Rosenfeld rolled into Salon-de-Provence around 2:30 in the afternoon. The life of the most famous sage in the world was almost in the background of this bustling little village. The centerpiece was not Nostradamus at all but the Château de l’Empéri, a ninth-century castle that was home to the Holy Roman emperors.
They parked on the street across from the entrance of Old Salon and walked through the gateway of the Tour de l’Horloge, the Clock Tower, built in the seventeenth century. The narrow street looked like something out of a storybook. Quaint shops and outdoor cafes lined the tiny lane paved with bricks. Tourists relaxed at small outdoor tables enjoying beverages and conversation and the enjoyable summer weather. A bald man with an eye patch over his left eye sat alone. He watched intently with his good eye as the two strolled by.
Jean-Claude Delacroix had agreed to meet them at La Maison de Nostradamus, the House of Nostradamus. The museum was the site of Nostradamus’ home where he lived from 1547 until his death in 1566. It was damaged in the earthquake of 1909 but restored and opened as a museum in 1992.
The second street up they took a left on Rue Nostradamus and there it was. They approached the entrance to the ancient home and Rosenfeld stopped.
“I’m sorry.” She was surprised by her own reaction.
“You crying?” Crow asked.
“No. Well, maybe a little.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “It’s just that I’ve studied Nostradamus for so long. Yesterday we were standing in Washington, D.C., and here we are getting ready to enter a place where so much history was made. So much amazing writing was done over a twenty-year span. It’s just a little overwhelming to think that I’m actually here.”
“Take your time,” Crow said.
“Makes me wonder why I never did it before.” She dabbed another corner of her eye and laughed. “God, I am such a history geek. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I completely understand.” She stood there trying to regain her composure. “You OK?” he asked.
Rosenfeld blushed a bit and waved a hand in front of her face. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go see Monsieur Delacroix.”
Crow opened the glass door that replaced the wooden one from Nostradamus’ day. He allowed Rosenfeld to enter first. Jean-Claude Delacroix was a slender man with a thin but prominent nose jutting from his angular face. He had a noticeable diastema which didn’t seem to inhibit his contagious smile. Shoulder blades were
never more appropriately named than the boney ones that extended below Delacroix’s skinny neck, more closely resembling a coat hanger that had been slightly bent to a slope with a black jacket hanging on it. His receding hairline exposed nearly three-quarters of his skull which gave the illusion of a larger than normal brain. He stepped from behind the counter and greeted them warmly.
“Monsieur Crow?”
“Monsieur Delacroix.” Crow shook his hand. “Thank you for meeting with us. Allow me to introduce Dr. Sidney Rosenfeld. She’s an expert on ancient books and manuscripts from Rothschild’s in Boston and a bit of a Nostradamus aficionado.”
She held out her hand. “Delighted to meet you, Monsieur Delacroix.”
Delacroix took it and gave it a gentle kiss. “Pleasure. Madame?”
Mademoiselle,” she said.
He addressed them both. “Would you like a private tour of the museum?”
Rosenfeld opened her mouth to answer.
“That’s a very gracious offer, Monsieur Delacroix,” Crow said, “but we’re sort of on a tight schedule. Maybe some other time. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“Yes, of course. Follow me, please.”
He led them up a flight of stairs to an office where they all made themselves comfortable. Delacroix sat behind his desk, Crow and Rosenfeld in the barrel back chairs in front of it.
“Now, then,” Delacroix began, “how can I be of assistance?”
Crow unfolded the paper he kept in his coat pocket and handed it to him. Delacroix reached in his own coat pocket for his reading glasses. He read over the quatrains in silence for a few moments then looked up.
“Where did you get this?”
Rosenfeld and Crow exchanged glances. “It’s a rather long story,” Crow said.
“I think you may be in for more than you bargained for,” Delacroix said.
“Are you referring to the First Face of Janus?” Crow asked.
Delacroix leaned back in his chair. “So you know about them.”
“Not by choice, I can assure you. I was thrust into this.”
“Most unfortunate.”
“That’s why we’ve come all this way,” Crow said.
“You can still walk away.”
“I know that, but I won’t. I would very much like your interpretation of the quatrains.”
Delacroix tapped a pen to his thin lip and looked them over once again. “I think it is obvious they are referring to Century 4, Quatrain 71. I wold have to consult The Prophecies to tell you exactly what that is.”
“In place of the bride the daughters slaughtered,” Crow read from his pad. “Murder with great error no survivor to be / Within the well vestals inundated / The bride extinguished by a drink of Aconite.”
“I see you are well ahead of me.” Delacroix held his bottom lip with his index finger and thumb and mulled over the words in the verses. “I would think it is referring to a wedding, naturally. It sounds as though the bride is the target of a murder, but her daughters are killed instead. Notice it says, ‘Murder with great error.’ Sounds like it is a mistake.”
“And the next line? Within the well vestals inundated?” Crow asked.
“I suppose it depends on where you put the emphasis.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if it were meant to be read ‘within’ pause ‘the well vestals inundated,’ then one could presume the word ‘well’ was meant to modify ‘vestals.’ In other words, ‘good’ vestals. I would take that to mean ‘inside, the good vestals are inundated.’ Vestals can refer to virgins, but it can also mean unmarried women.”
“But there is no comma after ‘within,’” Rosenfeld pointed out.
“There aren’t any commas in the entire line,” Crow said.
“This is true,” said Delacroix “One would think Nostradamus would have placed one there if that were his meaning.”
“But it could be a typographical error,” Rosenfeld said. “I explained to Mr. Crow that many publishing houses printed these prophecies, and several made mistakes in the typesetting.”
“You are correct,” Delacroix said. He reached behind him for a large volume and began thumbing through it until he landed on the page he was looking for. “Just as I thought. There was no comma in the original text.”
“OK, so hold on a second,” Crow said, “if we read that verse without a pause, it reads ‘within the well.’ Like a drinking well?”
Delacroix shrugged. “There is really no way of knowing for sure.”
Crow frowned and rubbed the back of his head. “‘Within the well vestals inundated.’ What do you think ‘inundated’ means in this context?”
“‘Inundated’ means overwhelmed,” Delacroix said.
“But ‘vestals inundated.’ The word ‘vestals’ is plural,” Crow said, “meaning there are more than one.”
“Yes, we can assume the vestals in question are the bridesmaids,” Delacroix pointed out. “And, if you believe Nostradamus’ prediction, it’s more than just the bridesmaids. He said, ‘no survivor be,’” Delacroix observed.
Crow’s face turned grim. “So, it’s not just the bridesmaids. Everybody at that wedding dies?”
“It would appear so. Except the bride, of course. At least, not right away.”
“‘The bride extinguished by a drink of Aconite,’” Crow said.
“Aconite is a poison,” Delacroix said, “but I suspect it is used here as a euphemism for suicide. I would guess that the bride is so distraught over the death of her daughters—and if we’re correct, everyone at the wedding—that she takes her own life.”
“Yes, that’s pretty much what we had guessed,” Rosenfeld said, “that the bride takes her own life.”
“And it is just that, mademoiselle. A guess.”
“But it’s a plausible guess,” Crow said.
“I am sorry you came all this way for me to tell you something you already know.”
“Don’t apologize,” Crow said. “You’ve been tremendously helpful, but there’s more.” He pointed down at the paper.
Delacroix read the second quatrain. “‘Add the note of C twice / And take away the score / Count on good stock / Rich in grace.’”
Crow looked at him and cocked his head slightly.
“My guess is ‘the note of C’ and ‘the score’ are both musical references,” Delacroix said. “What they mean, I do not know. The part about ‘good stock’ and ‘rich in grace’ I would think refers to a well-to-do family.”
“Yes,” Crow said, “that’s what we figured, too.”
“Again, I tell you something you already know,” Delacroix said regretfully. “It is possible whoever wrote these quatrains may be employing the same Green Language that Nostradamus used.”
“Green Language?” Crow asked.
“Also referred to as the language of the birds,” Rosenfeld said.
“I don’t get it.” Crow looked at the two of them as if he were the only one who wasn’t in on the joke.
She said, “Nostradamus used little techniques like anagrams, homonyms, and metathesis.”
“Metathesis?” Crow said.
“That is the interchanging of consonant sounds,” Delacroix said. “Dionysius used this technique in Greece in the first century before Christ. You exchange one consonant for another. For example, the word ‘broom’ becomes ‘broon.’ Dionysius did it to make texts flow more naturally. Nostradamus did it to mask his true meaning.”
“So, we don’t know if this is really a wedding or a webbing?”
Delacroix chuckled, “It doesn’t appear Nostradamus used metathesis in the quatrains in question.”
“But he could’ve used other deceptions,” Crow said.
“And it is likely that he did. The trick, of course, is figuring out the puzzle.”
“Well, we’re going to assume it’s a wedding.”
“I believe that would be a safe assumption,” Delacroix said.
“The big question is which bride? Wh
ich wedding? That’s actually what we were hoping you could help us with.”
“That is the proverbial needle in the haystack,” Delacroix said, rubbing his sharp chin. “However, keep in mind that Nostradamus only predicts events of large consequence. I do not mean to sound elitist, but this is not going to be just any ordinary wedding. ‘Rich in grace, good stock.’ It will involve people of breeding and importance. People of fame or power or both.”
“So we could be talking about some kind of society wedding?” Rosenfeld asked with a flavor of contempt in her voice. “Those affairs are meaningless exercises in excess.”
“Perhaps, mademoiselle, but Nostradamus predicted events that would change the course of history. This would be a wedding of monumental importance. However, keep this in mind, the importance may not be readily apparent. Michel de Nostredame has a way of revealing things in his own time.”
“I guess the first place to look is the social pages, but it could be any country on earth.” Crow said.
“Any country, yes, that is correct. But do not be surprised if the wedding is not listed at all.”
“What do you mean?” Crow asked.
“What I mean is this apparently is not going to be a wedding on the order of, say, Prince Charles and Lady Diana. If it were, then everyone would already know about it. No, I suspect this wedding is being kept under wraps.”
“Then how do we find it?” Rosenfeld asked.
Delacroix said, “I would suggest you concentrate your efforts on venues.”
“Venues?” Crow asked.
“Yes, venues. It is doubtful royal weddings are going to take place in a barn. Read the prophecies and your new quatrains. Find the venue and you find the wedding.”
“So, you think it’s a royal wedding?” Rosenfeld asked.
“I would suspect so,” Delacroix said.
“Why?” Crow asked.
“Count on good stock,” he said quoting the new quatrains. “I’ve studied the First Facers long enough to pick up on word play. It may sound odd, but they have a wicked sense of humor sometimes. I believe ‘count’ refers to a title of nobility.”
“Very interesting,” Crow said. “You have been a tremendous help, Monsieur Delacroix.”
The First Face of Janus Page 10
