by Darren Swart
All eyes were riveted on him. He opened his palm to reveal a small object wrapped in cloth and tied like a bundle. Carefully, he untied the string to reveal another gem. Its primitive facets sparkled, like lightning in the dim light.
Excitedly, Franz exclaimed, “I think it’s a diamond! May I have a closer look?” His stubby hand pushed forward.
Marty slowly placed it into his hand. Franz reached into his pocket and removed a jeweler’s eye piece. As he examined the stone, he murmured, “It’s incredible… just incredible.”
Marty shivered. The room felt cold now. He could see his breath. He noticed the door was still open and the old man was gone. While the others were engrossed in the stone, Marty strode over to close the door. As he reached the door, he stuck his head outside to see if the old man had stepped out. He felt it, before he saw it. The steel blade pressed against the side of his neck. A familiar voice was more chilling than the cold steel pressed against his flesh, “Hullo, Mate. Let’s take a walk, shall we?” McPherson stood there in the dark, hard and unyielding, unfazed like he had never been injured.
Chapter 30
The short hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Something’s wrong. Her head snapped around. “Marty?”
The old man stood stoically, leaning in the doorway. Gillian moved toward him like a panther. He neither moved, nor changed his expression. Her eyes narrowed, suspiciously.
“Where is our friend?”
He shrugged his shoulders, noncommittally.
Her eyes narrowed to slits, as she barked, “Franz!”
Her tone tore him away from the stone. Irritated, he responded, “What?”
“I don’t see Marty, I don’t speak French and I don’t trust the old goober here. Get over here and make with the language, so we can figure out if there’s a problem.”
He sighed and walked over to the pair. “Honestly, my dear, I’m sure the boy is quite fine. Where could he have gone? He was right here just a moment ago.” He smiled wanly at the old man. “Where did the young man go?”
The old man simply pointed to the stone arch leading out of the church. Franz stepped outside and caught the glint of the small dagger in the door frame, a lock of strawberry blonde hair caught firmly under the tip. He snatched the blade so quickly that he almost cut himself, while the strands of hair drifted away in the wind. Deftly, he slid the knife up his sleeve before Gillian could exit behind him. Gillian stared at Franz. Even in the dim light, he seemed paler than before.
Franz asked the old man again, “Which way did they go?”
The old man pointed to the gate. Gillian nudged Franz. “Where is he?”
Franz injected an octave of bravado in his tone. “Have no fear. We will find him, my dear. I promise.”
Digger stepped outside. Gillian looked at him, expectantly. He looked more serious than usual. “What’s up, guys?”
Franz worded their situation carefully. “It would appear that our Mr. Wood has gone missing. I’m afraid we don’t have an explanation.”
Gillian raised an eyebrow. “So why are we standing here? Let’s go find him.”
Franz eyed her somberly for a moment. “Gillian, we have what we came for. Our first priority is to get this jewel into the right hands.”
She stared at him, as though someone had just kicked her in the stomach. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you suggesting that we leave without him?”
“I don’t see how we have a choice. We don’t know where he’s gone or why. We can’t simply wander around in the dark, calling out his name. We must stick with the objective and try to figure this out later.”
Gillian looked around. “I say we get the old man and beat it out of him.”
“No, my dear. We can’t simply beat it out of him. I’m not sure he would tell us, if he could. He appears to be mute.”
Gillian squinted, as she looked around. The old man had disappeared again. “Trust me. I can get it out of him.”
Franz suddenly appreciated that this must be what it’s like to be a lion tamer; constantly trying to keep the wild instincts in check. He changed his tactic to placate her. “Maybe he just needed some time to think and wandered off? We’ll walk back to the car and wait. If he’s not there, we’ll get a room here tonight and look for him in the morning. I’m sure he’s fine.”
Gillian realized she might be overreacting, given the circumstances. Franz was not aware of her relationship. She needed to keep it that way. Gillian eyed him severely, but said nothing more. As much as she hated to admit it, Franz was right. They simply couldn’t wander around the dark trying to find him. She braced herself to fight the sinking feeling that something was terribly wrong. She would have to remain focused on finding another way.
Digger chimed in, optimistically. “Maybe he’s already waiting for us at the car?”
Franz looked relieved. “Yes. Let’s go back to the car and see if he’s there.”
They walked into the night, leaving the church door open and the light on. As they walked through the arch, the door silently swung shut and the room went dark.
****
It was a modest inn on the edge of town. Franz beat on the door until a bleary-eyed night clerk opened the door for them. They were fortunate. There were three adjoining rooms available. Digger noticed that there were no other cars in the lot, except for theirs. They were the only ones here. The night clerk fumbled about, half-awake. He was clearly not used to having visitors this late. He wobbled a bit, as he removed ancient keys from the slots behind him. Irritably, he asked, “How many nights?”
Franz smiled, amiably. “One night.”
The clerk made no attempt to hide his rolling eyes. As they were turning to leave, Gillian decided to ask the clerk a question that was needling her. She stopped. “Excuse me.”
The clerk raised an eyebrow. “Oui, Mademoiselle?”
“Is it possible to have the caretaker open the chapel after visiting hours?”
In reasonable English, he replied, “No Mademoiselle. Never.”
She skillfully lied. “But we saw an old man earlier. Does he live near the chapel?”
The clerk eyed her, suspiciously. “This man, what did he look like?”
“He was a short man, balding with gray hair. He wore a gray wool overcoat with a lot of patches.”
The clerk’s eyes widened and the color in his face drained. “That man you describe sounds like Monsieur Reisebeau, the former caretaker. Seeing him is not possible.”
“But why?” she asked, innocently.
“He was murdered fifteen years ago. His body was found outside the church. It was very tragic, very upsetting. An American visited him the night he died. The American was never found by the police.”
Gillian made a noncommittal nod. “My mistake then. Thank you.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle.”
Gillian watched the clerk’s hands shake violently, as he pulled a bottle of wine from under the counter. He cupped a chipped glass with both hands, as he gulped greedily at the dark red liquid. His shaking was calmed only marginally, as he poured another before they reached the door.
Deep contours of the form in the bed lay strangely still. On first glance, the bed was occupied but was also as cold and empty as the heart of the killer. Gillian sat quietly in a chair in the corner of a dark room. Her heart was no longer empty. Now, it was simply torn in two. Her knees were tightly tucked under her chin, as she watched the door. She couldn’t decide which unsettled her more; the fact that Marty was missing right from under their noses, or that, a ghost had orchestrated the whole thing. Despite the warmth of the room, she shivered. The gentle tap on door made her start. She gracefully unfolded from her chair and, with unusual abandon, flung open the door. She began with “Marty?” and stopped before she could finish.
Digger looked a little startled. Sheepishly he asked, “May I come in?”
Wordlessly, she stepped away from the door, walked back over to her chair and tucked her knees
against her chin. He looked at her, earnestly. “We need to take a shower.”
She didn’t move from the chair. “I don’t have one.”
He looked around. “Oh…”
Even in the dim light, she could see the uneasiness in Digger’s eyes.
Quietly, she asked, “What’s up?”
“Franz wasn’t entirely truthful with us.”
She eyed him warily in the dim light. “Why do you say that?”
“I watched him from a window in the church. He palmed a knife when he walked outside. And he dropped this…” He held up the small locket of hair.
She reached over and tugged the chain on a tarnished lamp with a Tiffany shade. He heard her in a breath as she saw the lock of hair. It was Marty’s.
She looked up. “Franz was with us. He couldn’t have taken Marty, himself.”
Digger summed up the courage to voice his suspicion. “Who do we know that loves to use knives?”
She looked at him aghast. “That’s not possible. He’s got to be laid up in a hospital somewhere. I got off a clean shot on him. Besides, how could he have found us?”
Digger’s eyes were serious. “More importantly, why did Franz lie?”
Digger gravely continued, “There’s only one way to get to the bottom of this. And I think you know what that means.”
Her eyes narrowed. They were both thinking it. Quietly, she said, “Go to your room. I’ll let you know when to come out.”
He swallowed hard and nodded. She stood, as Digger was getting ready to leave. He studied her for a moment before pulling her to him in a hug. “We’re going to find Marty. I promise.”
She fought back the tears and hugged him in return. It was the first time she had looked to anyone for comfort. “This has turned into such a mess,” she whispered.
He held her at arms-length, so he could look her in the eye. He tried to look encouraging. “We’re connected, the three of us. That can’t be broken. We’re going to find him.”
She blinked and wiped the tears from her eyes. She gave Digger a choked out laugh through the tears. “Funny. That’s what Marty said when the Frenchman kidnapped you.”
Digger smiled. “Then it must be true.”
She laughed through the tears. “It must be.”
She took a deep breath and steeled herself. She was no good to Marty, if she fell apart on him. She set her jaw and wiped her eyes. She resolved herself to find him. A different Gillian looked Digger in the eye and said, “So, let’s get this party started.”
Digger smiled. “That’s my girl.” He knew she would never give up and he pitied anyone that got in her way.
She pulled his face toward her and kissed him gently on the forehead. “Thanks.”
He snapped his fingers and swiveled his hips. “Ain’t nothin’ but a thang, gurl-friend.”
She laughed, as she wiped away the tears. “I think you’ve been hanging out with the Sistas a little too long.”
As he went out the door, he grinned. “What-ever do you mean?”
Smiling, she eased the door closed behind him. It appeared that Franz had some real explaining to do.
Chapter 31
Marty couldn’t believe he was on another airplane so soon. This one was almost identical to the one he had come to France on. The only difference seemed to be the crew, and his traveling companion. He had really thought that McPherson was dead. And yet, there he sat across from him, virtually unscathed. He toyed with the idea that he had a twin? Had he not loathed him so completely, he probably would have asked how it was possible. As it was, he sat in silent loathing, perplexed.
The drive from Rennes le Chateau to Carcassonne had been short and uncomfortable. McPherson had taken no chances. He’d handcuffed him and stuffed him in the trunk of a long black BMW. It was very plush, but no matter how nice, it was still the trunk. Now, he shifted uncomfortably in the white leather seat of the plane. He looked at McPherson and held his cuffed wrists. “Hey, be a pal. Where am I going to go?”
McPherson sneered at him. “Not likely, Mate.”
Marty realized that he had little hope of escaping. His decided that his only hope was to try to reach out to Gillian to let her know he was okay. He could hope for little more. He didn’t know where he was going. Their flight attendant was a robust young man who looked like a cage fighter—not a flight attendant. In a thick German accent he asked, “Would you care for some food or drink, Sir?”
He looked for a second to see if he was serious.
“Sure. Some Coke would be nice. Just make sure it has a straw.”
Marty looked across at McPherson who wore a smug little smile.
The flight attendant asked Marty, “Would you care for some hors d’oeuvres?”
Marty’s eyebrows rose, as he looked at the young man. “No thanks, I seem to be a bit tied up at the moment.”
The young attendant’s poker face never changed. “Very good, Sir.” He marched back to the galley.
Marty was trying to decide if the young man was really that thick when he arrived with the Coke in a glass with a straw. He held the drink and the straw up for Marty to comfortably drink from it. Evidently, this was a full service kidnapping. The upgrade was nice. Marty wondered if it extended to the toilet facilities, as well. He decided not to push it.
The flight seemed incredibly short. No sooner had Marty finished his Coke when they were landing. Under a blanket of darkness, the airplane gently touched down and eased into a private terminal. Tiny beads of rain peppered the windows, as they moved within sight of the small cubic bunker-like building. Marty strained to read the sign through the cold misty rain Willkommen nach Innsbruck. Austria, home of the Winter Olympics, he thought. He’d always wanted to come here. It seemed a bit anti-climatic at the moment. McPherson nudged him from behind. “Keep moving Mate.”
As they hurried across the tarmac toward a sleek black helicopter twenty yards away, he could just make out the warmly-lit block wall of the terminal building. It was almost invisible in the night, except for the glowing running lights. McPherson pushed him again to keep pace, as the door to the Agusta Westland opened for them on cue . They were not even seated when the whine of the motors began its slow moan, powering up. The pair of blonde pilots looked like twins, as they chatted through the preflight checklist. From what little Marty could see of them, they looked a lot like the pilots on the Gulfstream. There must be some cookie cutter approach to choosing pilots in the organization?
The interior was not what he would have thought. He had always envisioned helicopters as having metal bench seats and a metal floor like a military aircraft. He sat back on his cuffed wrists in a cushy bucket seat, while McPherson strapped him in. The seat was almost as nice as his recliner in his small apartment in North Carolina. The thoughts of his old life made him smile, wryly. McPherson noticed the smile. However slight, he leered back. “If you’re thinking that your chums are going to bail you out again, forget it. They’ll probably be dead before you touch down.”
Marty regarded him, coldly. “What would you know about chums Dick?”
McPherson snorted, but didn’t respond to the question. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for his friends. It seemed odd. He couldn’t remember the last time he had prayed. It felt strangely comforting. The pilots were oblivious to their passengers. It was only when they were preparing to lift off that one of them glanced back to ensure that everyone was buckled in. He said nothing, but returned his attention to the cockpit when he was confident that they were secured. Within minutes, they were airborne again, heading away from the lights of the city below.
As they flew, the storm intensified. Torrents of wind and rain battered the tiny craft mercilessly. Marty felt the helicopter lurch and then his stomach. The pilots fought the tempestuous gusts. Strangely, they seemed unaffected by any of it and joked, laughing while they battled the aircraft. The helicopter made a sudden drop. Marty felt the strain of the seatbelt against him. It held him snugly in place
and kept him from beaning himself on the bulkhead. An uneasy feeling washed over him: if they were to crash, he would die with handcuffs on. It was not the least bit comforting. Their flight time was a mere twenty minutes which felt like twenty hours. As they landed, the winds began to calm—if not the rain. On their descent, Marty could make out the enormous spires through the mist and rain. The spires were reminiscent of a Disney creation; or perhaps it was vice versa. They passed a series of buttresses and stone orifices that channeled the rain, waterfalls of rainwater made it appear as though structure were draining. Even in the mist and dim light, it was an impressive medieval castle. As the rotors became silent, all they could hear was the whistle of a cold north wind cutting across the firs surrounding the estate. It was Marty’s first whiff of an Alpine forest.
McPherson unbuckled him and spoke for the first time since they had been airborne. “’Ere’s where we get off, Mate.” He put a secure hand under Marty’s arm and guided him toward a pair of massive wood doors. Even in the dim night, the structure was striking. Hidden lights cast a golden glow through the now-misting rain along the base of the structure. Long shadows in the dim light made it look massive and unending. Tall arched windows were unrivaled by any church he had ever seen. As they moved toward the massive carved doors, they silently opened massive hinges. As they entered the vestibule, the doors appeared minute in comparison. With the touch of a button, a tuxedoed-doorman closed the doors behind them.
