“What if he sees us lurking around?” Rosenfeld said.
“Relax. We’re just out for a night stroll.”
“Stroll? It’s almost midnight. Nobody goes for a stroll at midnight.”
The light in Delacroix’s office went dark. A minute later, he was exiting the glass doors at La Maison de Nostradamus and turning the key in the lock. Rosenfeld and Crow flattened themselves against the stucco exterior of the fine watch shop on the corner at Rue de l’Horloge.
“Nobody goes for a stroll at midnight?” Crow whispered.
“He’s probably going home.”
“Let’s find out.”
“What if he comes this way?”
Crow ignored the question and peeked his head around the corner. Delacroix set off in the opposite direction. Crow watched him reach the end of Rue Nostradamus then take a slight right. He continued up Rue Tronc de Codolet. Crow and Rosenfeld followed a safe distance behind. By the time Delacroix reached the next intersection at Cours Victor Hugo, Crow and Rosenfeld were a block behind. Delacroix stopped and turned to look behind him. Crow pulled the two of them back behind the corner and waited.
“This is nuts,” Rosenfeld whispered.
When Crow felt it was safe to look again, Delacroix was gone.
They hurried down Rue Tronc de Codolet and stopped. Crow looked to the right down Cours Victor Hugo. Nothing. He looked left. Nothing.
“OK, we lost him,” Rosenfeld said. “Can we go now?”
Crow looked across Cours Victor Hugo to what appeared to be almost an alleyway.
“Come on,” he said and tiptoed across the street.
He just caught the image of Delacroix up in the distance making a right at the end of the block onto Rue du Grand Four. They raced to the end of the short, narrow street to see Delacroix making a left onto Rue Maréchal Joffre. Delacroix strolled up the street past brick planters overflowing with flowers in front of three-story stucco apartments with black iron knee-high railings that marked the border between the sidewalk and the street. The only sound was the slight breeze blowing between the buildings, trickling water falling into the storm drains, and the distant bark of a dog. The asphalt blended with brick pavers at a small plaza and fountain called Place Louis Blanc. Crow felt exposed along the long avenue and moved left among the trees and bushes to give them cover.
Delacroix’s thin frame strained up the incline of Rue Maréchal Joffre and, after sufficient space between them, Crow and Rosenfeld resumed the stalk. At the end of the street, Delacroix turned right and ascended a set of stone steps. Crow and Rosenfeld quickened their pace to the intersection and Rosenfeld suddenly stopped.
“What is it?” Crow asked.
She nodded to the figure of Jean-Claude Delacroix disappearing behind massive wooden doors into a large building. “I know where we are,” she said.
“Where?”
She pointed up at the imposing stone edifice in front of them. “Collégiale Saint-Laurent, the Collegiate Church of Saint-Laurent.”
“Midnight mass?” Crow said.
“No.” She took him by the shoulders. “It’s time for a little history lesson.”
“We don’t have time for that now. We need to see where he’s going.”
“I know exactly where he’s going.”
“Then let’s follow him.”
“He’ll keep. I need to give you the backstory.”
“I’m listening.”
“When Nostradamus died, his remains were laid to rest in what’s now a restaurant,” she said.
“Doesn’t sound too glamorous for a man of his position.”
“It was a Franciscan chapel at the time. It was the site of numerous pilgrimages. Both Louis XIII and Louis XIV came to Salon to pay tribute. During the French Revolution in 1792, some soldiers were passing through Salon and decided it would be a great idea to get drunk and visit the Nostradamus tomb. Things got out of hand and they ended up breaking into the tomb and scattering his bones. Some say Nostradamus predicted this. Century 9, Quatrain 7 says, ‘He who will open the tomb found, / And will come to close it promptly. / Evil will come to him, and one will be unable to prove.’ Well, two days after the desecration of the tomb, the soldier who robbed it and scattered the bones was shot dead.”
“Nice,” Crow said.
“The entire month of July is commemorated by Nostradamus faithful because he died on July 2. His remains were moved for safekeeping after that incident. He now lies in rest inside this building in the Chapel of the Virgin.”
Crow started walking again.
“Where are you going?” Rosenfeld said.
“Are you kidding? Delacroix’s undoubtedly headed to the chapel. I want to see what’s going on.”
Rosenfeld grabbed his arm. “That wouldn’t be wise.”
“Why not?” He looked at her a moment. “Wait a minute. You’re afraid of the Nostradamus curse.”
“I am not.”
Crow chuckled, “You are. Look, I know you study this guy, but you don’t believe all this mumbo-jumbo, do you?”
“Crow.”
“You’re an educated woman. Please tell me you don’t buy into all this superstition.”
“It’s just disrespectful. If he’s meeting with other Nostradamus enthusiasts, let them have their time.”
“OK, I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if that front door is locked, we turn around and go home. If not, we take a peek inside.”
“Crow.”
“Deal? It’s midnight. There’s no way that place is left open this late. Deal?”
Rosenfeld hesitated. “OK, but that’s it. The door’s locked, we go home. No more snooping around.”
“I promise.”
Jean-Claude Delacroix’s steps echoed off the marble floor of the church narthex and he pulled the wooden door open to enter the large nave. There were eleven chapels inside the church. He walked straight ahead toward the Chapel of the Virgin.
Crow and Rosenfeld scaled the steps Delacroix had climbed just moments before and stopped in front of the large wooden doors of the Collegiate Church.
“Ready?” Crow said, looking around and rubbing his hands together.
Rosenfeld nodded slightly.
Crow eased his hand toward the knob. He grasped it and started to turn.
“Hold it a second,” Rosenfeld said.
Crow pulled his hand back and rolled his eyes. “What?”
“What if Delacroix sees us? As kind as he’s been to us, it would be humiliating.”
“OK, let’s say Delacroix does see us. We were just walking around town, you told me about the whole tomb story, and I insisted on seeing the tomb. I’m curious that way. I’ll take the heat.”
Rosenfeld bit her nails. “OK.”
Crow reached for the knob again. “Ready?”
Rosenfeld nodded.
He clutched the large knob again and turned it. The massive door moved forward ever so slightly and creaked open.
Crow looked back at Rosenfeld and smiled. “Show time.”
Chapter Nineteen
Delacroix entered the chapel directly across the great hall from the entrance to Collegiate Church of Saint-Laurent. It was one of eleven chapels inside the church which were more like alcoves honoring notable figures in Christendom like John the Baptist, Joseph, and Mary. The Chapel of the Virgin featured a limestone statue of Mother Mary holding an infant Jesus atop a round pedestal set inside the wall. She gazed down on a white vase filled with yellow daisies. A liturgical pool was carved into one wall. On the back wall was a marble grave plate marking the tomb of Michel de Nostredame with an epitaph chiseled on it. A thick wooden table was set before the tomb, and behind the table sat a gray-bearded man with the hood of his black robe covering the bulk of his face. A half-dozen men also dressed in black robes with large hoods and red sashes sat in silence in a semi-circle facing the table. Three bulky men in suits stood rigid watch over the others, one by the entrance to the chapel, the other two unobtrusively
to either side of the bearded man at the table.
In front of the bearded man was a stone bowl filled with water. Beside the bowl was a crystal decanter with a dark liquid inside. Just to the side of the decanter was a wooden cup with a thick stem. On the other side of the bowl was a large wooden spoon. In front of the bowl lay an open book with a pen resting on a blank page. The room was illuminated by a series of votive candles that lined the floor in front of the tomb and several on each end of the wooden table.
The suited man by the chapel door held out Delacroix’s robe. Delacroix turned his back to him and slid the robe over his clothing tying the robe with the red sash and pulling the hood over his head. He took his seat in the semi-circle with the others.
Crow pushed the front door open with caution. He allowed Rosenfeld in then held it to a quiet close. They looked around the narthex and listened to the voice in the distance. Crow crept up to the wooden door leading to the nave and ever so slightly cracked it open. Rosenfeld positioned an eye below Crow’s head to get a look.
The old man at the table outstretched his arms and began a recitation in French. Rosenfeld translated the words in her head. “Here lie the bones of Michel Nostredame, whose almost divine pen was considered by all worthy of recounting and reporting coming events beyond Earth’s sphere to men, according to the influence of the stars.”
“What’s he saying?” Crow whispered.
“Sh-h-h,” she said. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”
“He departed this life in Salon-de-Craux in Provence,” the old man continued, “in the year of grace 1566, on 2 July, aged sixty-two years six months and seventeen days. O posterity, do not take his ashes, and be not envious of his rest here.”
“He was quoting the epitaph on Nostradamus’ tomb,” she whispered.
The old man took the decanter of black liquid and dramatically poured it into the bowl of water. He then took the cup, reached down inside with his fingers, and sprinkled some of the contents into the bowl. Setting the cup down, he stirred the concoction with the wooden spoon, swirling the contents round and round, his eyes getting bigger with each stir. He laid the spoon aside and pulled the hood of his robe down until his face disappeared. Then he leaned over covering the bowl with his hood. His back bowed as his lungs filled with air then exhaled. Again he breathed deep until he could draw no more air into his body and expelled the air from his lungs. The edges of his hood rippled under the force of his breath. He sucked air through his nostrils again and pushed the air out through his mouth.
He sat motionless for a time with his head still covering the bowl. He seemed not to breathe at all. The room was perfectly still, but the inside of the man’s brain was a boiling cauldron. Disjointed images flashed in his head and began to bubble up from a smoky abyss until they were dizzily spinning in circles. Lightning struck. Hurricanes swirled. Great fires raged. These images spun in his mind like a huge tornado round and round and round. Gigantic waves formed in the ocean and pounded ashore swallowing everything in their path. Earthquakes toppled large buildings reducing them to rubble. Masses of humanity fled in terror. He closed his eyes tighter and braced himself with his hands on the table as if he had vertigo. His head slowly rotated in a circle while the horrid images compounded in his head, one disturbing scene replaced by another. The death and destruction climbed and climbed, the images churned out of control until the spinning torrent of horror reached a fever pitch. The images spun faster and faster. The noise inside his head grew louder and louder. He strained his mind’s eye open wider to take it all in. The tornado of images spun even faster. He struggled to retain his sanity. Faster and faster the images passed in front of him as if he were watching them fly by on some out-of-control merry-go-round. He moaned and closed his eyes even tighter. The images spun in a torrent circle like a flood of water rushing down a massive drain, like a genie being sucked back into its lantern, until there was nothing but sudden darkness. He bolted upright. His eyes were wild and large. His robe snapped at the speed of his extended arm, and his boney finger pointed straight ahead across the great expanse of the cathedral to the door behind which Crow and Rosenfeld stood. “Les intrus!” he yelled.
“What the hell does that mean?” Crow said.
“Intruders,” Rosenfeld translated.
“Shit!” He grabbed Rosenfeld by the hand and bolted out the front door of the church. The three bulky men sprang into action and headed for the door. Crow and Rosenfeld scrambled down the stone steps and Crow made a split-second decision. The road they had taken to the church had too long of a straightaway. They cut to the right then dashed down a narrow street to their left.
The three men sprinted down the stone steps and stopped at the bottom looking around in every direction. The lead man motioned with his pistol sending one to the left and one straight ahead. He took off to the right and just caught a glimpse of them at the bottom of the street as they were turning right. Crow took the next immediate left. The man rushed down the street in pursuit. He turned right at the bottom. They couldn’t have reached the end of the Boulevard of the Kennedys without his seeing them. He took the left that Crow and Rosenfeld had just taken. He paused at the next intersection scanning the street to his right. He looked to his left. There they were entering General de Gaulle Park.
Crow pulled Rosenfeld by the hand. They dodged playground equipment and benches in the tree-lined park. At the other end of the block Crow looked over his shoulder. The suited man was scaling the waist-high park fence like a hurdle. They exited the park and scooted up Rue Théodore Jourdan.
“Hand me your scarf,” Crow said.
“What? Why?”
“Don’t argue. Just do it.”
Rosenfeld untied the plaid scarf from her neck as they ran and handed it to him. Just a few yards up Rue Théodore Jourdan was a cobblestone pedestrian path to their left. A set of steep, narrow steps leading up to some apartments was on their right.
“Up there,” Crow pointed.
Rosenfeld scampered up the steps. Crow darted a few feet into the pedestrian path, dropped the scarf, then raced back across the street and up the narrow steps. They huddled inside a doorway at the top. A few seconds later, they heard the hurried footsteps of the man. He spotted the scarf on the ground at the entrance to the pedestrian street and stopped. Snatching it up, he examined it in an instant then tossed it aside and dashed down the cobblestones and around the corner.
“Hurry,” Crow said leading her back down the steps.
They shot back past the park and took a sharp left. Running full speed, they took a sudden right at Place Eugène Pelletan. Rosenfeld let out an involuntary scream and they both came to an abrupt halt, standing there panting in disbelief of their misfortune. Just as surprised was another of the suited men who came to a stop from a dead run in front of them. He stepped slowly, his eyes fixed on them. He reached inside his coat and pulled a gun from his holster.
Chapter Twenty
Crow and Rosenfeld stood there for a moment catching their breath. Their eyes were glued on the man with the gun. He edged toward them. They instinctively raised their hands. Crow felt to his right and pulled Rosenfeld behind him, putting himself between her and the gun. The man inched closer until he was just a few yards away then stopped. He frowned and tilted his head slightly, keeping his eyes locked on the two them. Crow’s heart was beating out of his chest. His mouth was dry. He took a big swallow then continued panting. His hands were raised shoulder high. Rosenfeld peered over his left shoulder at the man’s face then down at his gun. The man seemed confused. He took a step back, still watching them. Then another step. He holstered his gun inside his suit coat, turned, and jogged off in the opposite direction.
“HOW MANY TIMES are you going to ask me that? I have no idea why he let us go.” Crow tried the light switch just inside the front door of the farmhouse. “The power’s still out.”
“It makes no sense,” Rosenfeld said, lighting the room with her phone. “One minute they’re in
hot pursuit, then the guy corners us and just lets us go?”
Crow threw the car key fob on the kitchen table and relit the candle. “What did you want me to do? Call after him and ask him if there’d been some mistake?”
She ignored the quip.
“All right,” Crow said, “you told me when we got back here you’d explain what all that weird crap was about with the guy in the hood.”
She sat down at the table. “You may want to take a seat. This’ll take some time to unpack.”
Crow sat down next to her.
“Nostradamus didn’t just have these prophetic visions out of thin air,” she said. “He had some help.”
“Help?”
“Yes. You saw all those items on the table, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The bowl in front of him was filled with water.”
“What kind of water?” Crow asked.
“Ordinary tap water. The glass decanter was filled with ink.”
“You mean ink like you find in a pen?”
“Exactly. Nostradamus would pour ink from his inkwell into a bowl of water. Then he would add nutmeg.”
“That’s what the guy was sprinkling from the cup?”
“Yes. Remember, Nostradamus was an apothecary, so he understood what mixing nutmeg, ink, and water would form.”
“And that is?” Crow asked.
“Well, the Egyptians used nutmeg as a substitute for hashish, if that tells you anything. Nutmeg is also said to promote vivid daydreams. Nostradamus discovered that mixing it with water and ink created an elevated state of awareness. It stimulates the central nervous system.”
“Like an amphetamine.”
“Exactly. You saw the book on the table and the pen? Nostradamus would inhale the mixture of nutmeg and ink then wait for his visions to come and write them down. I suspect that’s what this man was doing, too.”
“And you buy all this?”
“I’m not saying I buy it. I’m just telling you what they were doing. It is rather spooky that after sniffing that stuff he suddenly was aware we were there.”
The First Face of Janus Page 13
