by Alex Archer
“What about the bullet holes in the old man’s SUV?”
“A lover’s quarrel?”
Frowning, Annja said, “Me? And that old man? Please.”
Richelieu laughed. “Perhaps it was over business. Perhaps you were both shooting at game and hit the truck instead.”
“No.”
“Your report here could be just to falsify an insurance claim.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“But you are on the show with the woman with the…problematic apparel.”
Terrific, Annja thought. Maybe poltergeists could get chased away from historic manors, but she’d be haunted by Kristie Chatham’s bodacious ta-tas forever.
“I have never had a problem with my apparel,” Annja pointed out.
“I have made a note of that, as well.”
Annja reached into her pack and took out her digital camera. She switched it on and brought up the pictures she’d shot inside the cave. In spite of the darkness, the images had turned out well.
“This is La Bête,” Annja said.
Taking the camera, Richelieu consulted the images, punching through them one by one. He handed the camera back. “Anyone with Photoshop could make these.”
“And take the time to put them on a camera?” Annja couldn’t believe it.
“It would,” the inspector said as inoffensively as he could, “make your story seem more legitimate. When The Blair Witch Project appeared in theaters, many people believed the video footage was part of an actual paranormal investigation. And Orson Welles anchoring The War of the Worlds in news reports on the radio in 1938 was also deliberate, causing mass hysteria throughout your country. Media people know best how to present anything they wish to.”
“Those are real pictures,” Annja stated.
“If you insist.”
Angrily, Annja put the camera away. “Who is Lesauvage?”
“A figment of your overactive imagination,” Richelieu said.
Without a word, Annja got up to leave.
“Or…” Richelieu let the word dangle like a fishing lure.
Annja waited. Mysteries always kept her hanging well past the point she should leave.
“Or he’s a man named Corvin Lesauvage,” Richelieu said. “If it is this man, he’s very dangerous. He’s a known criminal, though that’s never been successfully proved. Witnesses have a tendency to…disappear. Likewise, so do past business associates.”
“Can you help me with him?”
“Can you offer me any proof that he’s truly after you, Miss Creed?”
Annja thought for a moment. “There was a man who was knocked unconscious in an alley earlier this morning. In the downtown area.”
More interested now, Richelieu leaned forward. “Do you know something about that?”
Ignoring the question, Annja asked, “Did he work for Corvin Lesauvage?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then I suggest you ask him.”
Richelieu frowned. “We can’t.”
“Why not?”
“He was killed. Less than an hour after we took him into custody.”
Annja thought about that. Evidently there was something at stake here that she didn’t know about. “Did Lesauvage do it?”
“We don’t know who did it.”
Meaning you don’t know if it was done by an inmate or a police officer, Annja thought.
“There was a local boy with me this morning,” Annja said. “His name is Avery Moreau. I hired him to set up my trip, arrange for things.”
Richelieu nodded. “I know Avery. He’s a sad case.”
“Why?”
“His father died quite suddenly a few weeks ago.”
“I don’t understand,” Annja said.
“His father was shot to death.”
“By Lesauvage?” Annja asked, thinking maybe the men had been after Avery more than her.
“No,” Richelieu said. “By me.”
Annja didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing. She wondered if perhaps Richelieu was warning her.
“Gerard Moreau, Avery’s father, was a small-time burglar,” Richelieu said. “He’d been in and out of jail for years. That is a matter of record and was covered in the media. It was only a matter of time before we put him away for good or a homeowner shot him. As it happened, I shot him while investigating the report of a burglary. He hadn’t made it out of the house and came at me with a weapon.” The inspector leaned back in his chair. “Needless to say, Avery Moreau has been less than cooperative.”
Thinking about things for a moment, Annja said, “Let’s say for a moment that you believe me about the chase down the mountain.”
Richelieu smiled. “Let’s.”
“Why would Lesauvage recover the bodies of the dead men?”
“To avoid being implicated.”
“Which is what I said.”
“You did. It’s a conclusion that fits the facts as you present them. We’re entertaining that for the moment.”
“Why would Lesauvage risk sending men after me in the first place?”
“You know, Miss Creed,” Richelieu said with a smile, “as I read your reports and listened to you now, I have asked myself that several times. I’m open to your suggestion.”
Annja had no idea what was going on. The weight of the charm rested heavily in her pocket. She hadn’t told the inspector about it. If she had, he would have taken it away. Countries were funny about things that might be national treasures.
“I don’t know,” Annja finally said. “But I intend to find out.”
OUT IN THE MAIN ROOM, Roux was playing poker with some policemen. He looked up as Annja stepped from the inspector’s office.
Annja walked past him.
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but I’m afraid I have to go now,” Roux said as he gathered the pile of money he’d won. He winked at the policemen and fell into step with Annja. “Are we going somewhere?”
“No.”
“Humph,” Roux said. “Our friend the inspector didn’t believe your story?”
“Someone removed the bodies,” she said. “The quake closed the cave again.”
“Pity. It would have been an exciting episode for your show.”
She whirled on him. “You know about Chasing History’s Monsters?”
“I must confess,” Roux admitted, “I’m something of a fan, I’m afraid. Not quite as stimulating as Survivor, but well worth the investment of time. I particularly like…I can’t remember her name. The girl with the clothing problems.” He smiled a little.
“You would,” Annja said, disgusted.
Look at the fire in her, Roux thought. Simply amazing.
“I’m a man of simple pleasures,” Roux said.
“Mr. Roux,” Inspector Richelieu called out.
Roux turned to face the man. “Yes, Inspector?”
“Would you like to make a statement?”
Grinning, Roux shook his head. “No. Thank you.” When he turned around, he discovered that Annja had left him. She was making her way out the door. He hurried to catch up.
Night had fallen while they were inside the police station. Shadows draped the streets.
“You’ll have a hard time finding a cab at this time of night,” Roux said.
She ignored him, arms folded over her breasts and facing the street.
“Probably,” Roux went on, “walking back to wherever you’re staying wouldn’t be the wisest thing you could do.”
She still didn’t respond.
“I could give you a ride,” Roux suggested. More than anything, he wanted a look at the metal charm she had found in the cave. If it was what he thought it was, his long search might at last be over. “I at least owe you that after what we’ve been through.”
She looked at him then. “You didn’t try to tell them about the men who chased us.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I knew they wouldn’t listen.”
She continued to glare at him.
“Corvin Lesauvage,” Roux said, “is a very connected man in this area. A very dangerous man.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Over dinner,” Roux countered. “I know a little bistro not far from here that has some of the best wines you could hope for.”
She looked at him askance.
“You won’t regret it,” Roux said.
8
The bistro did carry a very fine selection of wines. Roux insisted on their sampling a variety during dinner. The meal was superb. Annja devoured filet mignon, steamed vegetables, baked potatoes smothered in cheese, salads and rolls as big as her fist and so fresh from the oven they almost burned her fingers.
She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so she didn’t strive for modesty. She ate with gusto, and Roux complimented her on her appetite.
As it turned out, Roux didn’t know much about Corvin Lesauvage. All he had was a collection of vague rumors. Lesauvage was a murderer several times over. He ran drugs. He peddled archaeological forgeries. If an illegal dollar was made in the Lozère area, ten percent of it belonged to Corvin Lesauvage because he brokered the deal, allowed it to take place or kept quiet about it.
The bistro was quiet and dark. French love songs played softly in the background. A wall of trickling water backlit by aquamarine lights kept the shadows at bay. The wait staff proved almost undetectable.
Warmed by the wine, exhausted by her exertions, Annja found herself relaxing perhaps a little more than she should have. But her curiosity about Roux was rampant.
“Are you French?” she asked after they had finished discovering how little he knew about Lesauvage.
“As French as can be,” Roux promised. He refilled her glass, then his own.
“Yet you speak Latin fluently.”
Roux gestured magnanimously. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“No. What do you do, Mr. Roux?”
“Please,” he said, turning up a hand, “just call me Roux. It’s a name that’s suited me long enough.”
“The question’s still on the table,” Annja pointed out.
“So it is.” He sipped his wine. “Truthfully? I do whatever pleases me. If fortune smiles on me, there’s a reason to get up in the morning. If I’m truly blessed, there are several reasons.”
“Then you must be independently wealthy,” Annja said, half in jest.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Very. I’ve had plenty of time to amass a fortune. It’s not hard if you live long enough and don’t try to be greedy.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Paris.” Roux smiled. “I’ve always loved Paris. Even after it’s gotten as gaudy and overpopulated and dirty as it has. You open the window in the morning there, you can almost feel the magic in the air.”
“How did you make your fortune?”
“Slowly. Investments, mostly. I’ve been very lucky where investments are concerned. I’ve always been able to take the long view, I suppose.”
Annja eyed him over her glass. “How old are you?”
“Far, far older than I look, I assure you.” His blue eyes twinkled merrily.
Santa Claus should have eyes like that, Annja couldn’t help thinking.
“You are quite aggressive in your investigative approach,” he said gently.
“I’ve been accused of that before.” Annja leaned forward, studying him. “I’ve made my peace with it. As an archaeologist, you’re trained to ask questions. Of the situation. Of the people around you. Of yourself.”
“I see.”
“What were you doing up in the mountains this afternoon?”
“Taking a constitutional.”
Annja smiled. Despite the abrasive nature the old man brought out in her, there was something about him that she liked. He was as openly secretive as the nuns at the orphanage where she’d grown up.
“I don’t believe you,” she told him.
“I take no offense,” he told her. “I wouldn’t believe me, either.”
“You were looking for something.”
Roux shrugged.
“But you’re not going to tell me what it is,” Annja said.
“Let me ask you something.” Roux leaned in close to her and spoke conspiratorially. “You found something in that cave this afternoon, didn’t you?”
Annja picked at a bit of leftover bread and used the time to think. “I found La Bête.”
“A creature that you believe was once La Bête.”
“I showed you the pictures.”
“I saw it, too,” Roux reminded her.
“You don’t believe it was La Bête?” Annja asked.
“Perhaps.” Roux lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “The light was uncertain. Things were happening very quickly in there.”
“What do you think it was?”
“A fabrication, perhaps.”
“It was real.” Annja had no doubt about that.
“There’s something else I’m interested in,” the old man replied. “Something you haven’t told me. I saw you in that cave. You had something in your hand.”
“A human skull,” she replied.
“That isn’t all.”
The charm was still in Annja’s pocket. She’d had it out only once. That was back in the police station bathroom. She’d been afraid the police were going to take charm away from her so she’d made a rubbing of both sides in her journal.
“I saw you with something else in your hand,” he said. “Something shiny. Something metallic. It looked old.” He paused. “If you found it in the cave, I would think it was very old.”
“Not when compared to the Mesozoic period.”
Roux laughed. The sound was easy and pleasant.
Annja found herself laughing with him, but thought it was as much because of the wine as of the humor in the situation. She didn’t trust him. She was certain his presence in the mountains was no accident.
“Touché,” he replied. He sipped more wine. “Still, you have me intrigued, Miss Creed.”
She looked at him. “I don’t trust you. But don’t take that personally. I don’t trust most people.”
“In your current state of affairs, with a criminal figure pursuing you for some unknown, nefarious reason, I wouldn’t be the trusting sort, either.”
“I was taught by the best to be slightly paranoid.”
Roux lifted his eyebrows. “The Central Intelligence Agency?”
“Worse than that,” Annja said. “Catholic nuns.”
Roux grinned. “Ah, that explains it.”
“The paranoia?”
“The fact that you don’t come bursting out of your shirts on the television program.” Roux looked at her appraisingly. “You’re certainly equipped.”
Annja stared at him. “Are you coming on to me?”
“Would it be appropriate?”
“No.”
Roux tapped the table with his hand. “Then that settles it. I was not coming on to you. It’s the wine, the candlelight in your hair and the sparkle in those marvelous green eyes. A moment in a beautiful restaurant after a delightful repast.”
“I think,” Annja said, “that you probably hit on anything that has a heartbeat and stays in one place long enough.”
Leaning back in his chair, Roux laughed uproariously. He drew the unwelcome attention of several other diners. Finally, he regained control of himself. “I do like you, Miss Creed. I find you…refreshing.”
Annja sipped her wine and considered her options. So far, the origins of the charm had stumped her. She looked at the old man. “I’m going to trust you. A little.”
“In what capacity?”
“Something professional.”
Anticipation gleamed in his bright blue eyes. “Whatever you found in the cave?”
“Yes. How experienced are you in antiquities?”
Roux shrugged. “I’ve made more than a few fortunes dabbling in such luxuries. There are a great many forgeries out the
re, you know.”
Annja did know. She had dealt with several of them. In addition to everything else she did, she also consulted on museum acquisitions and for private buyers. Her certificate of authenticity marked many of them.
“This isn’t a forgery.” She took the piece of metal from her pocket and placed it on the table between them.
A look of pleasant surprise filled Roux’s face. “You didn’t give it to the inspector?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t possess an archaeologist’s mind-set.”
“I see.” Roux gestured to the medallion. “May I?”
“As long as I can watch you, sure.” Annja leaned in and watched carefully.
“You carried this unprotected in your pocket?” His voice carried recrimination.
“I wasn’t able to properly store it.”
“Perhaps something in your backpack.”
“Perhaps the police could have gone through my things.”
“Yes. Of course.” Roux pushed the medallion around, studying the image stamped onto it.
As he touched the charm, the fiery vision that had filled Annja’s head during the earthquake returned to her in full Technicolor.
“Are you all right?” He was looking at her.
“Yes,” she said, though she didn’t honestly know.
“Do you know what this is?” Roux asked.
“A talisman of some sort. Probably for good luck.” Annja described how she had found it tied around the dead man’s neck.
“Not very lucky,” Roux said.
“He killed the Beast of Gévaudan.”
“Even if this nameless warrior had received the glory due him, fame is a poor consolation prize.”
“I don’t think he was interested in prizes.”
“You believe he was slaying a monster.”
“Yes,” Annja replied. Despite her experience disproving myths, she had always believed in slaying monsters.
“Do you know what this symbol is?” Roux asked.
Moving the flickering candle flame closer to the charm, Annja shook her head. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Nor have I.” Roux reached into his pocket and took out a Leatherman Multitool. He held the charm in his fingers and aimed the point at the grimy buildup surrounding the image of the wolf and the mountain.
“Wait a minute,” Annja said.
