The Parchment (The Memory of Blood)

by Sylvie Brisset

  "Come on, Miss Jones. Stop this game, will you. Your grandfather gave you a book. Give it to me and we will take you back safely to your desired location. Refuse, and I do not guarantee either your safety or that of those you love and whom you, very awkwardly, involved in our business."

  "You killed my grandfather!" she cried in a voice choked with sobs by this simple idea.

  "Your grandfather was old. He died of an attack before we even began to question him seriously. And believe me or not, the late Mr. Stone had practiced, and personally, in the past, interrogations that looked much more like torture. I'm a choirboy compared to the executioner he was. I have basically done justice."

  "Do not blacken the memory of my grandfather. I forbid you!"

  She heard him change his position, and was afraid that he might get closer to her. But to her relief the voice always came from the same distance.

  "You are not in a position to forbid me anything! Let us return to this famous book. I give you two minutes to give me your answer. Not a second longer."

  She heard what she supposed to be a pencil that hit a desk in a regular interval. He had to be following the movement of the second hand of a watch.

  If I refuse to cooperate, he will have no difficulty in hurting my family or Steve’s. He seemed sure of the fact that I possessed the book. Perhaps he found something in Grandpa’s house that confirmed this thought? Trying to deny seemed a vain attempt. My attitude the last few hours was not normal. Logic would have led me to the first police station I saw. And she still did not know why she had not done it the night before. She could try to save time, but her chances were thin. She had announced to all who may worry about her absence that she was taking a short holiday.

  Her interlocutor had already begun searching in her place. It was only a matter of time before he got his hands on the book. And she was not convinced that it was worth risking her life. Especially since, whatever her decision would be, she was in danger.

  Forgive me Grandpa. But I will not die for a myth. Too many people have already died for these few pages.

  "I do not have it anymore."

  The pen stopped its merry-go-round against the table.

  "I would have hoped from you something more imaginative."

  "I tell you the truth. When your henchmen searched my house yesterday, I got scared. And I got rid of the book, suspecting that it was what they wanted."

  "Where is it?"

  "What guarantees me that you will keep your word?"

  "Nothing. But you have no choice. Furthermore there are only few places where you could secure it. By your friend probably…"

  "No. I got rid of it before. I did not want to involve him in this."

  "Do not take me for a fool, Miss Jones. My patience has limits. You did not go to the police, but almost immediately to your friend. It only left a few choices."

  "I had an envelope in my car. I entrusted it to the post office."

  "Clever, I have to admit. And who is the mysterious addressee?"

  She hesitated. Enough people were already involved in this business. Maybe if she were telling the truth, he would let her go. The chances were slim, but she saw no other options. No one would worry about her absence for a long time. The time she would earn would allow no cavalry to come rescue her.

  "Myself. In my place," she added. She did not want to see them go after her employees.

  "It seems that you will be my guest until tomorrow, so we can verify all this. For your own safety, I fear that my hospitality will not be the most comfortable."

  "You cannot keep me indefinitely. Someone will worry about my absence. I also hired several private detectives investigating the disappearance of my grandfather. A kidnapping in broad daylight is probably easier for them to reconstruct than a murder in an isolated house."

  He was silent for a few seconds.

  "I hope for you that you don’t try to save time. I will not hesitate to make you disappear. An accident happens so quickly. Let's say I have scruple about killing a young woman when it is not necessary. But you would be mistaken to take it for weakness. And your detectives, if they exist, do not constitute a threat to me. Clear enough?"

  Michaela shook her head in understanding. She was exhausted by this conversation, and did expect only one thing, to be left alone. She did not protest when she recognized the grip of "Elegant" pulling her out of her chair. She had not heard him approaching. He pushed her unceremoniously out of the room. He kept her waiting, time to open a door that creaked on its hinges. Nevertheless small-sized, Michaela bumped the frame of the door and made a backward movement.

  "Pay attention! The steps are slippery. Straight ahead."

  Groping for fear of falling, Michaela found the staircase. She bent down and carefully descended the steps, which led her to the cellar. "Elegant" had not followed her. She heard a door slam, a lock drawn. She removed the blindfold, but saw nothing more than when she wore it. The cellar was a black hole. She slipped on the floor, squeezed herself up to take as little space as possible. While rocking, she shed silent tears.

  Cautiously, arms outstretched in front of her, and dragging her feet on the floor, she tried to discover where she was. Her hands met only concrete walls. The floor was empty, the room very cramped. Perhaps a cellar. But a bare cellar. Glass bottles could have been weapons, but her kidnappers had left nothing. Carefully, she went up the stairs, but found the door closed. She knocked, asked for a bottle of water, but nobody took the trouble to reply. Even with her ear stuck to the panel, she distinguished no sound. She went down to sit at the foot of the wooden staircase. She waited. She had nothing else to do.

  Michaela had fallen asleep, without even realizing it. When she awoke she was thirsty, cold, and starving. She needed to go to the toilet. And above all she was afraid. In the absence of a watch that would have embarrassed her in doing her job, she had no idea how much time elapsed. She considered all scenarios. The most optimistic, where they got the damn book, and freed her. And the worst, where they tortured her and threatened her family, because the book was not where she said it would be.

  The hours stretched on in an oppressive silence. She heard only, here and there, the barking of dogs. Somebody indeed had to come to take care of them. Why did they abandon her there? They should have already got this book. What would happen to her? Was she going to die of thirst and hunger here? If they opened the door, she would rush headlong.

  She cried, cried for help. In vain.

  Fear gave way to anger. Anger to despair. Despair to renunciation. All she wanted now was for this waiting to finish. One way or another. She had lived in her mind all possible scenarios, and she was exhausted.

  No sound filtered from upstairs. Groping, she found the staircase. She let her hand run on the banister for fear of falling. She slowly climbed the stairs in total darkness.

  Suddenly, the cellar door opened, the daylight sprang, dazzling her. She protected her eyes, time to adjust to this sudden clarity. When she lowered her hand, she only had time to see "Elegant", a gun in his hand. She heard a slight explosion. So light, she thought she had dreamed it. Then everything went black and she collapsed in the staircase.

  CHAPTER - 10 -

  Michaela's body rolled down the stairs, bouncing off a few steps to reach the ground, which her head struck violently. Her forehead was crowned with a black spot not bigger than a pea, marking the entrance of the bullet. A dark hole on its border, with nothing flowing from the wound. Yet her head bathed in blood flowing from her skull. It was impossible to determine whether the bleeding was caused by her fall or the exit of the projectile. Her eyes were wide open. Her face still expressed surprise. Her folded legs rested on the last steps.

  The cellar was now lighted by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, revealing a totally empty concrete structure. Clarity did not make the room less sinister, giving it the appearance of a crypt.

  Michaela was hovering above her body, frightened by "Elegant" coming down the stairs,
the weapon still in hand. She had recoiled, wanted to protect herself, and felt a shock when he crossed her, unconscious of her presence.

  She heard "Leather jacket", who came too in the cellar, while blaming "Elegant" not to have waited until the girl was outside before killing her. They would have to carry her!

  Kill her? The glance of the young woman went from her body to the two men. Was she really dead? Was she insane? Was her imagination playing tricks on her?

  This disjointed body had to be hers. Yet she was not certain. It is true that when we look at someone, we look overall, or at least the entire face, while facing the mirror, we would just look at a detail, we focus on what we like the least.

  Yet it had to be hers! There must have a rational explanation. A mirror effect perhaps? But she could distinguish nothing abnormal. The room was desperately empty. Michaela put her hand to her forehead in search of a wound, and watched her hands devoid of flesh. She was immaterial, a ghost.

  She wanted to rebel. She did not want to die. She was too young. There were still so many things she wanted to do. She had put in recent years all her energy into her business, but she had other ambitions.

  She wanted to return to her body. She slowly slid inside. But nothing happened. She crossed it, as if it was only a hologram, except that it was her who was the image. Her body had a real existence, but not her. She was horrified. She rose again and looked at her body that did not seem to recognize her, did not accept her.

  She saw with horror that her bladder had loosened. She had rarely thought about her death, but had never intended to end up shot in the head, in a dark cellar, bathed in her urine.

  "Elegant" echoed her own disgust by cursing. He sent "Leather jacket" to look for a bag. Which he did, grumbling.

  "I told you to wait! I warn you, you will clean your mess alone!"

  What was she supposed to do? She felt lost. No need to rely on these two killers in an attempt to revive her. She had to get help. Maybe it was not too late. In movies, it was enough to do electric shock and all was in order. Maybe if she electrocuted herself....She saw "Elegant" and "Leather jacket" rolling her body in plastic and carrying it out of the cellar.

  "Hey! Where are you going? Wait! I'm still here!"

  But why try to ask for help from her murderers? If they became aware of her presence, they would finish the work, that's all.

  She had read in novels that people who die a violent death haunted the place of their death. Would she have to spend eternity in the cellar? Frightened by this idea, she had one thing in mind, get out!

  Without knowing how she had achieved this, she found herself in the entrance of the house, facing the door of a library. It was the room where she was interrogated, she was convinced of that.

  As supposed, there was a fireplace facing a desk at which sat a man. He was leaning on documents he examined through a magnifying glass. The room was rich, with quality furniture. Obvious wealth but without ostentation. The walls on either side of the hearth were furnished from floor to ceiling with shelves of books, sometimes sculptures. The floor was covered with carpet.

  She had no trouble recognizing her grandfather’s book on the desk. The man was unknown to her, and seemed not to react to her presence. Michaela wrath surpassed her fear.

  "Bastard! You had what you wanted, then why did you kill me?"

  But the man pursued his reading without breaking off. Michaela had a strange sensation. She spoke about her own death, and yet she was not done with the idea that she had died. The possessive adjective did not alter the case. It was as if she were speaking about someone else.

  Hearing "Elegant" and "Leather jacket" back from the cellar, the man looked up and shouted out to them without moving from his place.

  "Hurry up! Otherwise we will miss our plane. We must go to France as soon as possible, or the others are going to seize this guy before us! Put that out of my sight!" he added, pointing to the body of the young woman. "We will chuck it out on the way. We did not have time to polish up and it does not matter anyway."

  The two men nodded and carried the body outside the house.

  Michaela scrutinized the man, trying to recognize him. His face was not unknown to her, but she could not remember where she had seen him. At her grandfather’s, perhaps? His blue eyes were cold, expressionless.

  Ice Eyes! Michaela thought. Judge Kopf. Lord!

  A judge had commissioned her murder and that of her grandfather! And yet how many other people? She now understood why the case was so quickly closed. The police could do nothing for her. Who could she ask for help? She had to stop this murderer one way or another.

  Kopf put his magnifying glass on the desk, closed the book with a snap, and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he rose and left the room without granting a glance to the ghost who was watching him.

  About whom had he been speaking? Michaela wondered. If Kopf wanted to attack someone else, she needed to warn him. The enemies of her enemies were her friends. She also felt a little responsible. Kopf got the documents due to her.

  But what? The telephone on the desk seemed to defy her.

  She tried to get closer and tipped over on the spot, ending up upside down in an uncomfortable and ridiculous position. She renewed her test and managed to end up right. How did she ever succeed in leaving the cellar? She tried to move forward, mimicking the movements of the breaststroke, but did not move forward. On an impulse, she looked over her shoulder to check if she was not equipped with wings. But none on that side either.

  She lost her temper. Patience had never been her greatest asset. They could at least provide "instructions for use"! Whoever "they" could be. She was not going to remain scotch-taped at the door of the library. She had to get on the phone!

  A moment later, she found herself against the desk. Well, she was making progress. She had to think of the place where she wanted to go, to move. Closing her eyes she focused on Porkelevitch office. But when she reopened them she found herself in the same place. She growled her disappointment.

  Maybe it was necessary to follow the road in her mind, to be able to go to the chosen place? But as she ignored where she was, things were going to be more complicated than expected. Especially knowing that she did not exactly have a browser in her head. She had already got lost in her own district!

  One problem after the other one, she lectured. Otherwise she would become discouraged even before trying.

  She tried to grab the phone, but once again her hand merely passed through the material. It was getting really boring!

  A door slammed, and she heard someone turning a key. They were decamping! She was not going to stay there alone making her acrobatics! She thought of the road she had followed blindfolded when she arrived and then proceeded in the opposite direction. She instantly found herself in the back seat of the car. She uttered a cry of victory!

  She had to get more information, and could not afford to lose her kidnappers. She had no idea of their identity, except that of Kopf, or where she was.

  She was a little afraid to go on an adventure, to not have time to better master her new condition, but she really had no choice.

  All she could hope for was that Porkelevitch was worthy of his fees. She doubted, however, he would be smart enough to find traces of the documents of her grandfather and managed to warn on time this guy that seemed to be the new target of her killers. Better yet to follow them. She would take advantage of this journey to try to manage better her new possibilities or, more precisely, handicaps.

  Finally, she would still go to France. But not as she had expected to.

  CHAPTER - 11 -

  Porkelevitch did not like using a computer. But he soon reconciled with the new technology when he discovered how much information he could glean on the Internet when he knew how to read between the lines. All was not worth taking, but for what he called the preliminaries, it was a good start.

  It had been several days since he had opened his mailbox, and he found
many commercials that made him grumble with annoyance. With a furious finger, he destroyed them.

  He opened and read the lapidary message of Michaela. It was not logical. The young woman had worked hard to find the murderer of her grandfather and suddenly she would go on vacation? He boasted of possessing a gift of observation, and the girl was not a young birdbrain, ready to go shopping on a whim.

  Something had happened. The question was what? If she had discovered something, would she have expressed it? She maybe ignored that her grandfather, to obtain works of art, sometimes associated with disreputable and unscrupulous people.

  He was convinced that the deaths of Graam, Steinbeck the receiver of the port and Stone were connected. He had made some progress. The three men appeared to be part of the same affair.

  Not to mention the corpse found in a slaughterhouse, bled to death, hanging from a meat hook. It was small fry, but his death was spectacular. Too much for a small thief. He had to tread on somebody's toes. He resold occasionally the product of his thefts to Steinbeck. Coincidence? Unlikely.

  There were also two others that had been seen dragging near the receiver shop the day after his death. And given the way they were dressed, they were more buyers than deliverers. He did not know their identities. But he was certain to discover them quickly. He only hoped that it would not be in the obituaries.

  Michaela cell phone was of no help to him, redirecting him to voice mail. He tried to call her company, but he was told that she was absent for a few days. Again the information was given in writing. He was left with only one track, that of money. It was time to visit her banker.

  ***

  When Porky appeared at Michaela’s bank and asked to speak to Mr. Little, the banker immediately ushered him into an office, which had only one table, three chairs and a computer. It seemed that when one had been a cop, one kept the stigma of it. Even before Porky gave his name, the bank employee told him,