by M. J. Rose
“The police?”
“Could they be this bad at surveillance? Don’t worry. We have over an hour to get to a store that’s five minutes from here, right? We’ll lose them.”
At the next corner, the car continued on after Jac made a left.
“Okay, he’s gone,” Griffin told Jac. “And I don’t see anyone else on our tail. At least not yet. Circle this block. Nice and slow.”
“You sound pretty knowledgeable about evasion tactics.”
“Everything I know is from movies on plane trips and books I read when I’m on a dig. I always mean to read the kind of novels that get reviewed in the New York Times, but I can’t help it; I’m drawn to high-octane thrillers. If my favorite authors do decent research, we should be okay. If they don’t . . . well . . .”
“That’s not the most reassuring thing you’ve told me.”
“No, I wouldn’t imagine it is.”
They drove for another five minutes in silence and then he said, “There could have been more than one car. Someone might have called for another vehicle to pick us up at another point, but I don’t see anyone on our tail.”
“On our tail. Very dramatic.”
“I’m all you’ve got. Go easy on me. Okay?”
She nodded. “Griffin?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him turn.
“Do you think Robbie’s okay?”
“Yes. He’s resourceful. He’s clever. But more than that, he believes in what he’s doing. If anyone can survive on sheer will, it’s Robbie.”
After another few blocks, he suggested they stop and have breakfast. “We have at least an hour before the stores open. Find someplace where we can sit and watch the street from the window.”
Jac took a left, then a right, and stopped in front of a café.
They got a table by the window with a view of the wide boulevard.
They ordered cafés au lait and croissants. Didn’t talk much while they drank the coffee and picked at the buttery pastries. Even though neither of them brought up what had happened the night before, Jac felt it was being discussed in the silence. She didn’t know if the encounter had been about her and Griffin or an escape from the awful situation. She’d need to sort it out. But after Robbie was back. And safe.
“I have about two hundred euros,” Griffin said. “It should be enough for the supplies. But if it’s not, do you have cash?”
“I have a credit card.”
“We shouldn’t put anything on cards. They’re traceable.”
“Once we get all these supplies, how are we going to get them back into the house without alerting the police that anything suspicious is going on?” she asked.
Griffin took a sip of his coffee. “Did Malachai give you his number in that note?”
Jac fished the letter out of her pocketbook and handed it to him.
Griffin took out his cell phone and punched in the reincarnationist’s number. “Malachai, it’s Griffin. I’m with Jac. We need you to help us.”
An hour and a half later, Jac pulled up in front of the House of L’Etoile and opened the gates to the courtyard. Anyone watching saw her park the car and then saw three people emerge.
Jac. Griffin. And Malachai Samuels, carrying a suitcase. A visitor coming to stay.
He’d taken a taxi from his hotel and met them at the sporting goods store, where they’d filled his empty suitcase with their purchases.
Once inside, Griffin turned on the stereo, then took the suitcase to the kitchen. “Give me a few minutes,” he said. “I have to call Elsie. I’m her wake-up call.”
“You do that every morning?” Jac asked.
“No matter where I am,” Griffin answered and headed out to the living room.
“He’s a good man,” Malachai said. “Robbie’s lucky to have him as a friend.”
Jac nodded. Didn’t trust herself to say anything. Griffin’s dedication to his daughter had moved her.
Jac opened the bag and with Malachai’s help emptied the spelunking equipment on the table.
“Thank you,” Jac said. “You were a great decoy.”
“My pleasure. That’s what I came here for. To help any way I could.”
She picked up a helmet and, using the kitchen scissors, cut off the price tag. “It’s a long way to come. From what Griffin’s been telling me, I don’t think there’s anything you can do to get Robbie to sell you the pottery.”
“I’ve raised over a quarter million dollars.”
She shook her head. “Robbie might have poisoned someone. Killed him. Money’s not going to get him to change his mind.” She shook her head again. “This is all so crazy. Ever since we were kids, he took chances that he shouldn’t have for his ideals. He almost got killed when he went to Tibet in the middle of an uprising to see if he could help the monks save their relics. But this time . . .”
“He has strong beliefs.”
“In things that can’t matter. In shards of pottery that are part of a made-up fairy tale. Myths are metaphors.”
“The pottery isn’t a myth. It’s real. Reincarnation is real,” Malachai said.
He was ready to fight. Jac wasn’t.
“It’s not worth dying for,” she said.
“Anything worth living for is worth dying for.” There was a longing in Malachai’s voice that made Jac hesitate before responding.
“You sound like him.”
“We share a lot of the same beliefs.”
“I never thought of you as a romantic.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I got to know you far better than you got to know me.”
“I didn’t get to know you at all.”
“Jac, I desperately want to know what the pot shards say and have there be a fragrance that helps people remember their past lives. But I didn’t come just to acquire a memory tool. I’m here because I’m worried about you. I wanted to be here if you needed help, too. I had a brother once . . .” His voice drifted off for a few seconds. “I want to help you find your brother.” He put his hand on her wrist.
Bruised from where Griffin had pulled her up out of the hole the night before, she tried not to flinch.
He looked down at the spot he’d touched.
“I hurt myself. It’s nothing.”
As Griffin came back into the room, he snapped his phone off and put it in his pocket. Jac saw a slight frown crease Malachai’s wide forehead.
“How’s Elsie?” she asked.
“Bereft. One of her goldfish died overnight. I had to promise two more to replace it. And an underwater castle.”
Before Jac could respond, the house phone rang. Rushing, she picked it up before the second ring.
It was Inspector Marcher.
Jac’s heart sped up, and she held her breath.
“Do you have news?”
“No. But would it be possible for me to drop by and speak with you?” Marcher asked.
Jac walked out of the kitchen and into the pantry to take the call in private. “Can’t we talk now, over the phone?”
“It will take only a few minutes.”
The smells in the white-tiled room brought back long-forgotten memories. She used to love to cook with her grandmother, who always gave Jac the job of gathering the ingredients. The stored dry goods gave off a warm odor. A corner of her heart hurt.
“Have you made any progress?”
“Nothing substantive, mademoiselle.”
One shelf held a dozen black packages of Mariage Frères Chinese and Japanese green teas. Her brother’s favorites. She ran her finger over the gold writing, spelling out evocative names. Aiguilles de Jade. Bouddha Bleu. Dragon de Feu.
“Then what is there to talk about?”
“I know this is difficult,” Marcher started.
“I don’t want your empathy; I want to know what you are doing to find my brother.”
Jac leaned against the door and shut her eyes. She never would have guessed it would be Robbie’s collection of tea that would mak
e his disappearance the most real to her.
“Mademoiselle L’Etoile, I need to talk to you. Just for a moment?”
“Why are you having me followed?”
“We’re protecting you. Not following you. That’s exactly what I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Protecting me from whom?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say.”
“Or won’t say?”
“I’m not at liberty at this point—”
“It’s my brother.” Her voice echoed in the small pantry.
“I am well aware of that. And I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. Believe me—if we had any confirmed information about his whereabouts or well-being, you’d know.”
“Have you at least been able to identify the man who died here?”
“Nothing definitive.”
“You think you know who he was?”
“We’re working on a lead.”
“What the hell does that mean? A lead? Do you know who it is or not? Someone died in our boutique.”
“Jac?” Griffin was outside.
She opened the door.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“We have something, but we’re having a hard time verifying it,” Marcher said.
She didn’t care if she was being rude. Or if she sounded hysterical. “My brother has been missing since Monday night. It’s Friday. Friday. I want to know what you know.”
“I understand this is frustrating, Mademoiselle—”
Jac took a breath. Stared up at the ceiling and the ordinary light fixture. How long had it been there? Forty years? Sixty? A hundred years? It was amazing how some things lasted. Never changed. Others did so quickly. So fast.
“When I know anything that I can tell you, I will. In the meantime, the reason I wanted to talk to you was to ask you to please accept our protection and not go out of your way to avoid us like you and Mr. North did this morning.”
“What kind of danger am I in?”
Instead of making her afraid, Marcher’s warning angered her. She was out of patience.
“We don’t know what incited the original incident. If it was personal . . . a lover’s quarrel . . . a business deal gone bad . . . then no, you’re not.”
She was tired of listening to Marcher.
“But if the intruder was after the pottery shards your brother and Griffin North were working on,” Marcher continued, “then yes, you could be. Very serious danger. As long as your brother is missing, the whereabouts of the pottery are unknown. Whoever wants it might think you know where it is. Or that Robbie hid it on the premises and that if you are incentivized you could help them—or be forced to help them—find the treasure.”
Jac shivered. He’d done it: managed to scare her. Damn him. She wasn’t going to let him distract her. All that mattered now was finding Robbie.
Thirty-nine
11:30 A.M.
Jac hadn’t looked down yet. Waiting for her were miles of inky black tunnels running beneath Paris. World War II bunkers. Chapels dedicated to Satan. The bones of more than six million of her countrymen exhumed from their previous resting places. Fragile galleries mined to the point that sometimes they still collapsed in on themselves. And hopefully, somewhere in the ominous twists and threatening turns: her brother.
But her terror lived on the edge of the tunnel opening. It wasn’t sharp or ragged. There was no threat of ripping her skin or tearing her clothes. But once she put one foot over that edge, she would be in danger of falling into the abyss. Darkness and damp. Unending space. The unknown.
“The steps are fairly wide,” Griffin called up to her. He’d descended first, and was about ten feet down, waiting for her.
Malachai had remained behind. An accident two years ago made climbing impossible, and, besides, they needed someone to be ready in case of an emergency. Cell phones wouldn’t work so far deep in the earth, but the two-way radio system Griffin had bought at the store might.
“Just take it slow, Jac. I’m right here.”
Jac breathed in deeply, inhaling the dry, dead smells. Finally, she peered down. Her helmet illuminated the narrow stone tunnel much better than the single candle had done the night before. Yet now that she could see where she was going, the reality of what was ahead seemed no less daunting.
Griffin was perched on the steps, looking up, encouraging her. Beyond him: darkness. “I’ve got your back,” he said. “Just take the first step.”
“How far down are you?” she asked.
“I’ve counted about forty steps so far. One at a time. Go slow. You’ll be fine.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Each and every step was an edge. An extended and exaggerated phobic situation had the potential to become a full-blown crisis. She’d spent a year in therapy learning the landscape of her own mind. And how to navigate its most treacherous terrain. Jac had learned how to control her fears and panics. Knew all the tricks. But would they work?
Inhale. Smell the scents. Dissect the odors in the air.
Chalk.
One step.
Dirt.
Another step.
After she’d conquered the first dozen steps, Griffin resumed his climb.
“I’ve hit bottom,” Griffin shouted up. His voice echoed and sounded hollow. Almost inhuman.
Jac shivered. Looked down. His lantern illuminated a circular area that didn’t look much bigger than an elevator. She didn’t have a good sense of distance and was surprised how far away he seemed.
“How many steps is it?”
“Seventy-five.”
How many had she done? She hadn’t been counting. Seventy-five seemed impossible.
“You’re already forty steps down,” he called out as if reading her mind.
Thirty-five.
Clay.
Thirty-four.
Dust.
“And it’s pretty muddy down here. Be careful when you step off,” Griffin said when she got to eight.
Wet with sweat, shaking, her heart banging, Jac stepped onto the ground and looked around. The area was five feet across. Everywhere was rock—rough-hewn blocks of gray limestone.
The first thing she did after calming down was to inhale. Closing her eyes, she analyzed the odors, seeking the Fragrance of Loyalty.
Not a trace.
“I think we go through there.” Griffin pointed to a narrow opening.
Jac peered at it. The crevice was only two feet wide and ragged.
“It looks more like a fissure. Are you sure?”
“There aren’t any other exits but up. Let me go first.”
Three seconds later, he called out, “It’s all right. Just be careful. The rock face is rough.”
She followed him through the crack. On the other side was a tunnel, too narrow for them to walk abreast. So Griffin led and Jac followed. Several times they had to twist around and walk with their backs to the wall. Still, rocks on the facing wall grazed their noses.
The silence was absolute and overpowering. Other than hearing Griffin breathing and their footsteps, there was no sound. Jac wasn’t sure she’d ever been anywhere as quiet. But it wasn’t peaceful. The world above them might have come to a standstill and ended, and they wouldn’t know.
After about a hundred yards, they reached two ancient rock steps leading up to a small landing where the ceiling suddenly soared to at least ten feet high. Then another two steps leading down to a continuation of the last tunnel. This one as narrow as the last, but filled with water that looked as if it would reach the middle of her calf. Higher than her boots.
“You game?” Griffin asked.
The water was cold. Her boots squished in the mud. Her jeans wicked up the water and after only a few feet, Jac’s pants were wet to just below the knee. At the end was an archway. Griffin shined his helmet light on the lintel, illuminating handwriting on the wall.
Faded. Hand lettered. It looked as if it had been there for at least fifty years.
“What does it s
ay?” he asked.
As she translated, she read out loud. “The right path is often the most difficult.”
“I wonder if Robbie could have written that and doctored it to look old. Is it his handwriting?”
“No . . . but . . .” She pictured the bottles of essences in the workshop.
“It could be my grandfather’s.”
“So far there haven’t been any offshoots—we’re on a direct path from the inside of your family maze. So if your grandfather did bring Robbie down here, this is the route they took. You okay to keep going?”
“I’m fine.”
“Was your grandfather ever decorated?”
“Decorated?”
“After the war, did the French government honor him?”
“If they did, I never heard about it. He didn’t talk much about his wartime experiences. Other than a few stories he told us about hiding people in these tunnels.”
“So you didn’t realize he was a hero?”
There was a subtext to Griffin’s question, but she didn’t understand it.
“My grandmother used to tell us that he was. But he didn’t like her to mention it. Why?”
“You’re always looking for heroes. I wondered if you knew you grew up with one.”
For a moment, she had a glimmer of understanding: this was something important, but now wasn’t the time to try to figure it out. Ahead of them was an incline. Five steps leading up into a tunnel with a ceiling so low they were forced to crawl on their hands and knees. Luckily they had gloves, or the floor would have ripped the flesh from their palms. After eight feet, the tunnel ended—not with steps but with a stone chute.
“Where does it go?” Jac heard the quaver in her voice.
“There’s no way to know.”
“We can’t go down there.”
“There’s no other option.”
For the first time since Marcher had called her in New York, Jac cursed Robbie.
“Let me go first,” Griffin said as he climbed into the hole.
“I thought that was a foregone conclusion.”
“It’s a little tunnel . . .” His voice was getting fainter as he crawled in deeper. “And then a slide.”
Jac heard a splash.
“Are you all right?” she called.
His voice came from somewhere far away. It was the first time they’d been this far apart since coming underground.
