Where are you, Harry?
I came to a door and leaned close. Nothing. My knee trembled and I wondered how much farther I could go. Then I heard muffled voices.
Hide! the brain cells screamed.
The knob turned and I slipped into blackness.
The room smelled dank and sweet, like flowers left to die in a vase. Suddenly, the hair on my arms and neck stood straight. Was that movement? Again, I held my breath and sorted sounds.
Something was breathing!
Mouth dry, I swallowed and strained for the tiniest motion. Save for the steady rhythm of inhaling and exhaling, the room was devoid of sound. Slowly, I crept forward until objects emerged from the darkness. A bed. A human form. A nightstand with water glass and adjacent vial of pills.
Two more steps and I could see long blond hair on a patchwork quilt.
Could it be? Could my prayers possibly be answered this quickly?
I stumbled forward and turned the head to expose the face.
“Harry!” God, yes. It was Harry.
Her head rolled and she gave a low moan.
I was reaching for the vial of pills when an arm caught me from behind. It wrapped around my throat, crushing my windpipe and cutting off my air. A hand clamped across my mouth.
My legs thrashed and I clawed to break free. Somehow I got hold of the wrist and twisted the hand off my face. Before it arced back I saw the ring. A black rectangle with a carved ankh and crenulated border. As I thrashed and clawed I remembered a bruise in soft, white flesh. I knew I was in hands that would not hesitate to end my life.
I tried to scream but Malachy’s killer had me in a grip that compressed my throat and muffled my mouth. Then my head was yanked sideways and pressed against a bony scarecrow chest. In the murky gloom I saw one pale eye, a white hair streak. Light-years passed as I struggled for air. My lungs burned, my pulse pounded, and I slipped in and out of consciousness.
I heard voices, but the world was receding. The pain in my knee faded as a numbness overtook my mind. I felt myself being dragged. My shoulder struck something. Softness underfoot. Hard again. We banged through another doorway, the arm a vise on my trachea.
Hands grabbed me and something rough slid over my wrists. My arms shot up, but the pressure on my head and throat was released and I could breathe! I heard a moan from my own throat as my lungs gulped precious air.
As I reestablished contact with my body, the pain returned.
My throat ached and my breath was labored. My shoulders and elbows were stretched from the traction, and my hands felt cold and numb above my head.
Forget your body. Use your brain.
The room was large, the kind you see in inns and lodges. It had a wide plank floor and heavy log walls, and was lit only by candlelight. I was roped to an overhead beam, my shadow a Giacometti figure with arms held high.
I turned my head and the ovoid shadow skull elongated in the flickering light. Double doorway straight ahead. Stone fireplace to my left. Picture window to my right. I stored the blueprint.
Hearing voices behind me, I threw one shoulder forward, retracted the other, and pushed with my toes. My body twisted, and for a split second I saw them before the ropes spun me back. I recognized the streaked hair and eye of the man. But who was the other?
The voices paused, then continued in hushed tones. I heard footsteps, followed by quiet. I knew I wasn’t alone. I held my breath and waited for them.
When she stepped in front of me I was startled but not shocked. Today the braids were coiled on her head, not hanging down as they had been when she had walked the streets of Beaufort with Kathryn and Carlie.
She reached out and wiped a tear from my cheek.
“Are you frightened?” Her eyes looked cold and hard.
Fear will rouse her like a junkyard dog!
“No, Ellie. Not of you or your band of zealots.” The pain in my throat made it hard to talk.
She ran the finger down my nose and across my lips. It felt rough against my skin. “Not Ellie. Je suis Elle. I am She. The female force.”
I recognized the deep, breathy voice.
“The high priestess of death!” I spat.
“You should have left us alone.”
“You should have left my sister alone.”
“We need her.”
“Didn’t you have enough others? Or does each kill excite you so much?”
Keep her talking. Buy time.
“We punish the intractable.”
“Is that why you killed Daisy Jeannotte?”
“Jeannotte.” Her voice grew harsh with contempt. “That vicious, meddling old fool. Finally, she’ll let him be.”
What’s the right thing to say to keep the conversation going?
“She didn’t want her brother to die.”
“Daniel will live forever.”
“Like Jennifer and Amalie?”
“Their weakness was going to hold us back.”
“So you take the weak and watch them torn to bits?”
Her eyes narrowed into something I couldn’t interpret. Bitterness? Regret? Anticipation?
“I brought them out of the famine and showed them how to survive. They chose cataclysm.”
“What was Heidi Schneider’s sin? Loving her husband and babies?”
The eyes hardened.
“I revealed the way and she brought poison into the world! Evil in duplicate!”
“The Antichrist.”
“Yes!” she hissed.
Think! What were her words in Beaufort?
“You say death is a transition in the growth process. Do you nurture by slaughtering babies and old women?”
“The corrupt cannot be permitted to pollute the new order.”
“Heidi’s babies were four months old!” Fear and anger made my voice crack.
“They were perversion!”
“They were babies! ” I struggled and tried to lunge at her, but the ropes held firm.
Beyond the doorway I could hear the sound of others moving around. I thought of the children at the Saint Helena compound, and felt my chest heave.
Where was Daniel Jeannotte?
“How many children will you and your henchman kill?”
The corners of her eyes pinched almost imperceptibly.
Keep her talking.
“Are you going to ask all your followers to die?”
Still she said nothing.
“Why do you need my sister? Have you lost your ability to motivate followers?” My voice sounded tremulous and two octaves too high.
“She will take the place of another.”
“She doesn’t believe in your Armageddon.”
“Your world is ending.”
“The last I looked it was doing fine.”
“You kill redwoods to make toilet paper and pour poisons into the rivers and oceans. Is that doing fine?” She thrust her face so close to mine I could see vessels throbbing at her temples.
“Kill yourself if you must, but let the others make their own choices.”
“There must be perfect balance. The number has been revealed.”
“Really? And is everyone else here?”
She drew back her head but didn’t speak. I saw something spark in her eye, like light skipping off broken glass.
“They’re not all coming, Elle.”
The eyes never faltered.
“Kathryn’s not going to die for you. She’s miles from here, safe with her baby.”
“You lie!”
“You’re not going to hit your cosmic quota.”
“The signs have been sent. The apocalypse is now and we will rise from the ashes!”
Her eyes were black holes in the flickering light. I recognized the look for what it was. Madness.
I was about to respond when I heard the snarling and yapping of dogs. The sound was coming from deep inside the lodge.
I yanked desperately, but the ropes only tightened. My breathing turned to frenzied gasping. It
was reflex, unthinking struggle.
I couldn’t do it! I couldn’t get free! And what if I did? I was there among them.
“Please,” I begged.
Elle stared, her eyes unfeeling.
A sob escaped me as the barking grew louder. I continued to thrash. I would not submit passively, however hopeless my resistance.
What had the others done? I saw the torn flesh and punctured skulls. The barking turned to growls. The dogs were very near. Fear beyond control overcame me.
I twisted to see and my eyes swept across the bay window. My heart froze. Had I seen figures moving outside?
Don’t draw attention to the window!
I dropped my gaze and rotated back to Elle, still straining, but my thoughts now on the outside. Was there still hope of rescue?
Elle watched me wordlessly. One second passed. Two. Five. I spun myself to the right and stole another peek.
Through the ice and condensation I saw a shadow slide from left to right.
Distract her!
I pivoted back and fixed my eyes on Elle. The window was to her left.
The barking grew louder. Closer.
Say anything!
“Harry doesn’t believe in—”
The door burst inward, then I heard deep voices.
“Police!”
Boots chocked on hardwood.
“Haut les mains!” Hands up!
Snarling and yelping. Shouts. A scream.
Elle’s mouth turned to an oval, then to a thin, dark line. She drew a gun from the folds of her dress and aimed it at something behind me.
The instant her eyes left me I wrapped my fingers around the ropes, threw my hips forward, kicked out with my feet, and arched toward her. Pain screamed through my shoulders and wrists as my body swung out, my arms in full extension. I flexed my hips and brought my boots up, hitting her arm with the full force of my weight. The gun flew across the room and out of my field of vision.
My feet slammed to the floor and I scrabbled backward to relieve the pressure on my upper limbs. When I looked up, Elle stood frozen, an SQ muzzle trained on her chest. One dark braid had fallen and looped her forehead like a brocade sash.
I felt hands on my back and heard voices speak to me. Then I was free and strong arms half dragged, half carried me to a couch. I smelled wintry air and wet wool. English Leather.
“Calmez-vous, madame. Tout va bien.”
My arms were lead, my knees were jelly. I wanted to sink back and sleep forever but I struggled to stand.
“Ma soeur! I have to find my sister!”
“Tout est bien, madame.” Hands pressed me back into the cushions.
More boots. Doors. Shouted commands. I saw Elle and Daniel Jeannotte handcuffed and led away.
“Where’s Ryan? Do you know Andrew Ryan?”
“Take it easy, you’re going to be fine.” English.
I tried to pry myself loose.
“Is Ryan all right?”
“Relax.”
Then Harry was beside me, eyes enormous in the dreamlike gloom.
“I’m scared,” she murmured in a thick, slurry voice.
“It’s O.K.” I wrapped my deadened arms around her. “I’m taking you home.”
Her head dropped onto my shoulder, and I rested mine against it. I held her a moment, then released her. Summoning up memories of religious education from my childhood, I closed my eyes, clasped my hands in front of my chest, and wept quietly as I prayed to God for the life of Andrew Ryan.
35
ONE WEEK LATER I WAS SITTING ON MY PATIO IN CHARLOTTE, thirty-six exam booklets stacked to my right, the thirty-seventh on a lap table in front of me. The sky was Carolina blue, the yard a deep, rich green. In the adjacent magnolia, a mockingbird strove for a personal best.
“Brilliantly average job,” I said, marking a C+ on the blue cover and circling it several times. Birdie looked up, stretched, and slithered from the chaise.
My knee was healing well. The small hairline fracture in my left patella had been nothing compared with the injuries to my psyche. After the terror in Ange Gardien I’d spent two days in Quebec, recoiling at every sound and every shadow, barking dogs in particular. Then I returned to Charlotte to hobble through the remainder of the semester. I filled the days with relentless activity, but the nights were difficult. In the dark my mind loosened, releasing visions the daytime had locked away. Some nights I slept with the lamp on.
The phone rang and I reached for the handset. It was the call I’d been expecting.
“Bonjour, Dr. Brennan. Comment ça va?”
“Ça va bien, Sister Julienne. More important, how is Anna?”
“I think the medication is helping.” Her voice went low. “I don’t know anything about bipolar disorder, but the doctor gave me a great deal of material and I am learning. I had never understood her depression. I thought Anna was moody because that’s what her mother said. Sometimes she’d be down, then suddenly she’d be full of energy and feeling good about herself. I didn’t know that was, what is it called . . . ?”
“A manic phase?”
“C’est ça. She seemed to go up and down so quickly.”
“I’m so glad she’s better.”
“Yes, God be praised. Professor Jeannotte’s death hit her hard. Please, Dr. Brennan, for Anna’s sake, I must know what went on with that woman.”
I took a deep breath. What to say?
“Professor Jeannotte’s troubles stemmed from her love for her brother. Daniel Jeannotte spent his life organizing one cult group after another. Daisy believed he was well intentioned and wrongly scorned by mainstream society. Her career in American academia was compromised following complaints to her university by parents of students she had steered to Daniel’s conferences and workshops. She took a leave from teaching to do research and write, and resurfaced in Canada. For years she continued to be supportive of her brother.
“When Daniel hooked up with Elle, Daisy began to lose confidence. She thought Elle was a psychopath, and a struggle developed between the two women for Daniel’s allegiance. Daisy wanted to protect her brother, but was afraid of something catastrophic.
“Jeannotte knew that Daniel and Elle’s group was active on campus, though the university had tried to drive them off. So when Anna had her encounter with them, Daisy wanted to monitor them through Anna.
“Daisy was never a recruiter for the group. She learned that cult members had infiltrated the counseling center, looking for students to befriend. My sister was recruited that way at a community college in Texas. This agitated Daisy all the more because she feared being blamed because of the episode in her past.”
“Who is this Elle?”
“Her real name is Sylvie Boudrais. What we know is patchy. She’s forty-four, born in Baie Comeau of an Inuit mother and québécois father. Her mother died when she was fourteen, her father was an alcoholic. The old man beat her regularly and forced her into prostitution when she was fourteen. Sylvie never finished high school, but she tests in the stratosphere for IQ.
“Boudrais disappeared after dropping out of school, then showed up in Quebec City sometime in the mid-seventies offering psychic healing for a moderate fee. She acquired a small following, and eventually became the leader of a group that took up residence in a hunting lodge near Ste-Anne-de-Beaupré. There was constant money pressure, and problems developed because of underaged members. A fourteen-year-old turned up pregnant, and the parents went to the authorities.
“The group disbanded and Boudrais moved on. She did a brief stint with a sect called the Celestial Pathway in Montreal, but left. Like Daniel Jeannotte, she wandered from group to group, turning up in Belgium around 1980, where she preached a combination of shamanism and New Age spiritualism. She established a band of followers, including a very wealthy man named Jacques Guillion.
“Boudrais had met Guillion early through the Celestial Pathway, and saw him as the answer to a group’s cash flow problems. Guillion fell under her sp
ell, and was eventually persuaded to sell his properties and turn over his assets.”
“No one objected?”
“The taxes were paid and Guillion had no family, so no questions arose.”
“Mon Dieu.”
“In the mid-eighties the group left Belgium for the U.S. They established a commune in Fort Bend County, Texas, and Guillion shuttled back and forth to Europe for several years, probably transferring money. He last entered the U.S. two years ago.”
“What happened to him?” Her voice was small and tremulous.
“The police think he’s buried somewhere on the ranch.”
I heard the swish of fabric.
“Jeannotte’s brother met Boudrais in Texas and was captivated. By then she was calling herself Elle. That’s also where Dom Owens came into the picture.”
“He is the man from South Carolina?”
“Yes. Owens was a small-time dabbler in mysticism and organic healing. He visited the Fort Bend ranch and was infatuated with Elle. He invited her to the South Carolina compound on Saint Helena, and she seized control of his group.”
“But it all sounds so harmless. Herbs and spells and holistic medicine. How did it come to violence and death?”
How does one explain madness? I didn’t want to discuss the psychiatric evaluation lying on my desk, or the rambling suicide notes found at Ange Gardien.
“Boudrais read extensively, especially philosophy and ecology. She was convinced the earth would be destroyed, and before that happened she would take her followers away. She believed herself to be the guardian angel of those devoted to her, and the lodge at Ange Gardien was the jumping-off point.”
There was a long pause. Then,
“Did they really believe it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think Elle was willing to trust entirely to the power of her oratory. She relied in part on drugs.”
Another pause.
“Do you think they believed enough to be willing to die?”
I thought of Kathryn. And Harry.
“Not all of them.”
“It is mortal sin to orchestrate the loss of life, or even to hold another living soul as a captive.”
A perfect bridge.
“Sister, did you read the information I sent regarding Élisabeth Nicolet?”
Death Du Jour tb-2 Page 36
