by Gregg Loomis
Lang held out a hand. "Name's Lang Reilly."
The black man glared at the hand as though it held something offensive. "Name's whatever I say it is, an' don' you forgit it."
Lang had always heard there was a "boss" for every cell, and he guessed he'd just met this one's.
The other black man, somewhat smaller than the other and clearly older, took Lang's hand. "Mine's Johnson, Eddie Johnson. Don' study Leroy there too much. He jus' come in an hour or two ago. Me an' Wilbur," he indicated the white man, "we shared this here room for a coupla months."
Wilbur was small, with the face and eyes of a rodent. Juglike ears added to the illusion. He sported a reddish bruise under one eye, and Lang could see dried blood on one lip along with swelling. He guessed someone had given Wilbur a bad morning.
Lang had a candidate.
"Honky," Leroy growled, pointing. ''You were sittin' on my bed."
"My bed, actually," Wilbur said before being cowed by a glare from Leroy.
Lang looked the big black straight in the eyes, an act he had heard amounted to a challenge in prison. He spoke gently, a smile flickering around his lips. ''You been here just a few hours longer than I have, friend. Doesn't seem you have much in the way of seniority."
If there was going to be trouble, Lang wanted it now, not sometime when his back was turned or he was asleep.
"Don' matter how long I been here, white boy," Leroy rumbled. "I be the meanest muther here, I make th' rules."
As if by unspoken signal, Wilbur and Eddie Johnson bounded to the farthest point in the cell, the upper bunk. If Lang had had doubts about what was going to happen, their anxious faces confirmed it.
Had he not anticipated it, Leroy's swing could have taken Lang's head off. Instead, Lang ducked to his right, keeping equal weight on both feet. As he had learned so many years ago, not even a trained prizefighter can deliver a roundhouse blow without shifting his balance dangerously when he puts his weight behind his punch. Before Leroy could recover, Lang pivoted on his left foot so that all his poundage was on his right to give force to a stroke with cupped fingers, swung upward immediately below his opponent's rib cage, an impact calculated to temporarily collapse the lung in addition to a jolt of paralyzing pain.
Leroy hit the floor like a side of beef dropped from its meat hook, writhing as he tried to suck in air and expel it with a low moan at the same time.
Lang was vaguely aware that the constant racket from outside the cell had increased, a sound that would soon summon the guards. Lang wanted this finished right now.
Standing above the man on the floor, Lang bent his knees and dropped, aiming to use his weight combined with gravity to crush the trachea with his shinbones. He was surprised when Leroy rolled away with the quickness of a much smaller man and Lang hit unforgiving concrete.
Both antagonists made it to their feet at the same time.
Lang glanced quickly around the cell. There wasn't room to stay more than a few inches out of his opponent's grasp, and the disparity in their size would make any clinch fatal to Lang.
Warily, he moved from side to side, awaiting Leroy's next attack.
Or, better, the arrival of the guards. Time was on his side now. The roar from those cells who had a view into his was getting deafening. How could -his keepers not hear?
A trickle of blood bubbled on Leroy's lips as he still tried to regain full lung capacity, but there was no disability in his eyes nor question as to his intent as he glared across the few feet that separated the two. Then he bobbed his head as though having made a decision. A hand went inside the jumpsuit and returned with a flash of metal. A knife. No crudely made prison shank, the black man held a stiletto, its long blade reflecting evilly from the overhead lights.
If Leroy had just come in that morning, how the hell would someone have had the time to smuggle him a weapon?
There wasn't time for academic speculation. The large black man held the blade away from his body, cutting edge up. Crouched in a stance that enabled movement in any direction, his eyes searched Lang's, waiting, for the first flicker that would indicate what his intended victim was going to do. Unlike a gun, success with a knife depends on reaction to an opponent's move. Aggressive slashing and jabbing is more likely to lead to a struggle for the weapon than the intended result.
In other words, Lang realized, he was facing a professional. Seconds expanded indefinitely as Lang felt a trickle of icy sweat course down the side of his face. Neither man wanted to make the first move.
Fine with Lang. Sooner or later, a guard would show up and disarm Leroy.
With the Atlanta Department of Corrections, it was likely to be later.
If ever.
Leroy must have realized the same thing. He began a slow shift from side to side, an attempt to force Lang-to commit himself. Instead, Lang shot a glance toward the bunk, bending knees as though to move. Leroy shifted his weight, not a lunge but a subtle move that would require perhaps a quarter of a second to return to a direction neutral stance.
It was enough.
Lang threw himself toward the wall opposite the bunk. Rolling as he hit the floor, his fingers caught the edge of one of the mattresses, wrapping it around his body like a jelly roll.
As Leroy struck, knife aimed at Lang's midsection, Lang unwound the padding, leaving nothing but cotton and stuffing to take the impact of the steel. Lang jerked the remaining end of the mattress, snatching both blade and attacker's hand upward, for an instant exposing the entire lower body.
In the fraction of a second before Leroy could recover, Lang put his entire soul, body, and weight into a kick to the other man's left knee. He was rewarded with the sound of crunching patella and tearing tendon, followed by a scream of pain that drowned out the noise of the cell block. The knife was a comet of light as it spun through the air.
Lang had it in his hand before Leroy could grasp his shattered joint. The larger man-lay on his side, embracing what was left of his knee. Once certain Leroy was no longer a threat, Lang propped the knife up on the floor, leaning against the bunk, before stamping his foot down on it. The steel snapped in half.
Lang was stuffing both pieces into Leroy's pocketless prison suit when he looked up to see a guard working the lock of the cell's door. Behind him three others stood, truncheons in hand.
"What's going on here?" demanded the man with the keys in hand.
"Leroy here was demonstrating the lotus position and seems to have twisted his knee somehow," Lang said. "I'm afraid he might have hurt himself."
The guard didn't even bother expressing skepticism. "Yeah, sure. Fighting gets you time in isolation," he said, pushing Lang against the wall while one of his companions twisted Lang's arms behind his back so the first could snap on the cuffs. ''You'll have plenty of time to think things-over."
Two of the guards marched Lang toward the elevator while a third used the radio on his belt to call for a stretcher for Leroy.
Lang had no idea how long 'he had been in the eight-by-eight cell. Here the door was solid steel and there was no window, so night and day were the same. His stomach's complaints told him he 'had not eaten in a long time.
When he heard footsteps stop outside his cell, he expected to see a food tray slide through the door's slot. Instead, there was the snick of a bolt being drawn and the door swung back. Standing in front of it was Detective Rouse.
Lang rolled off the single cot and stood. "What a pleasure, Detective, to see you again today. I would invite you in, but as you can see, I'm a little short of places for company to sit."
Rouse glared back before snapping at the guard at his side, "G'wan, unlock that door." To Lang he said, "N'mine the smart-assin', jus' come on out. You're bein' turned loose." Lang could not suppress a sudden intake of breath. ''And to whom do l owe my most sincere thanks?"
"The Frankfurt, Germany, Police, Mr. Reilly. You gotta be the luckiest man alive. We e-mailed 'em we had you, and they e-mailed us back th' man you assaulted-"
&nbs
p; ''Allegedly assaulted," Lang corrected as he stepped out of the cell.
"Yeah, yeah." To describe Rouse as annoyed would be like describing Death Valley in July as warm. "The Germans couldn't find the guy. Seems he gave them a false address."
Why wasn't Lang surprised? ''And the cop who supposedly was a witness?"
Rouse took Lang by the elbow, steering him toward the elevators. "Germans got their problems jus' like we got ours. Citizen doesn't have a beef, why go to the trouble? Not like either us or them got a shortage of work to do."
At the elevator bank, Rouse pushed the Down button.
"Oh yeah, Frankfurt police asked what I could do to see 'bout the cost of repairs to two cars replacin' two others."
The door hissed open and Lang, Rouse, and the guard stepped inside.
"So," Lang asked, "what did you tell 'em you could do?"
"Not more than ask politely, Mr. Reilly. I figger that's a civil matter, an' I don' even want to hear how you tore up four police cars."
The elevator came to a stop on the floor Lang recognized as the location of booking. "Tell 'em to send me a bill, Detective. I'll see that it gets paid." He left Rouse staring in disbelief as he went to get the return of his personal property.
He was leaning on the counter that divided the room, counting his cash and inspecting the items that had been returned to him, when he caught the eye of the woman on the other side. Blond hair from a cheap bottle, she was exhibiting middle-age spread rampant. Her rump was fighting what might be a winning battle against the seams of her uniform pants. Buttons on her blouse strained against breasts of Wagnerian proportions.
"One of my cellmates, guy name of Leroy, got hurt a few hours ago. Can you tell me if he's okay?" She eyed him with the suspicion of one in a business where the customer is always wrong. Lang gave her his most engaging smile. "He was just booked in this morning."
She moved to a point across the counter, running a hand around the edge of frizzy hair. "Y'remember the cell number?"
Lang gave it to her and she moved to a computer, where she began to slowly click the keyboard.
"What'd you say his name was?"
"I only got his first-Leroy."
She shook her head, an effect of a lion shaking a scruffy mane. ''Ain' no Leroy nobody in that cell. Fact is, ain ' no Leroy been booked in today." She gave him a smile, a glimpse of tobacco-yellowed teeth. "But then, the day ain' over." Lang felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. "You sure?" She nodded, again with leonine effect. "I make mistakes, but this ain' one of 'em."
Lang knew the answer, but he had to ask. "If no such person was booked in here today, how'd he get in the same cell I was?"
She shook her head. "Ast the head jailer. I jus' work here."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Atlanta, Georgia
Manuel's Tavern
The next evening
Lang and Francis found a booth, scarred with fraternity symbols, names, and dates clumsily carved into wood long yellowed by a half-century of human touch. Lang had not expected the food to improve in his absence. He was not disappointed. He also was not disappointed that the place was noisy, cluttered with five decades of political memorabilia, and filled with Emory grad students.
He felt he had come home.
"What's good?" he had asked a waiter in a T-shirt, soiled apron, jeans, and sneakers.
"The beer. Anything else, an' you better try McDonald's."
Same straight line, same punch line.
"I don't suppose the salmon is fresh," Francis asked.
"Father, I ain't lyin' to a priest," the young man said. "If Darwin's right, that fish been outta water long enough to grow legs." Both Lang and Francis ordered burgers, the most difficult thing on the menu to screw up.
Francis passed a plastic basket of fries, its paper liner translucent with grease. "Cuius est divisio, alterius est electio." One divides; the other selects.
Lang dumped about half on his plate, glumly noting that those on the bottom were well charred. "I should have chosen the half that weren't burned to ashes."
Francis regarded the red in the center of the burger he had ordered well done. "Neither of us come here for the food."
"I didn't come as a penance, either," Lang growled.
"No," Francis agreed, "but where else in Atlanta can we eat, drink, and try to unscramble that inscription without the waiter trying to turn the table?"
Like European establishments, a single beer would entitle the customer to remain at the table no matter how many people were waiting. Manuel Maloof, the original proprietor, had never believed in rushing his patrons through pitchers of beer, meals, or anything else.
Dinner, such as it was, was eaten with little conversation. Neither man wanted to be the first to mention the absence of Gurt, who had insisted on joining them here several times. Twice Lang glanced up from his meal, half expecting to see her returning from the restroom.
Finally, he shoved the plate away, half the burger remaining, and passed a copy of the Montsegur inscription to Francis. "Here are the actual words. See what you can make out of them."
Francis also had no problem leaving the rest of his meal uneaten. Gurt had apparently been at his elbow, too. He was relieved not to have to continue the charade of two old friends dining together as though nothing had changed.
He fished in a pocket, producing a pair of glasses, which he meticulously fastened around his ears. "First, tell me a little about the Emperor Julian-specifically, why he'd have an inscription carved on a wall in France."
Lang reached out to pick a fry from his plate, more to have something to do with his hands than renewed interest. "Like I said, last pagan emperor of Rome, hated the Christian religion, which had become acceptable, thought it dissed Roman culture. Before becoming emperor, he was governor of that part of Gaul."
Francis nodded, looking at Lang rather than the paper on the table before him. "Coincidence the carving was at the last stand of the Cathars?"
"Don't think so." Lang reached for another fry, thought better of it, and returned his hands to his lap. ''As you know, the Cathars were heretics, the object of, what, the Fourth Crusade?"
Francis nodded. "Thirteenth century, 1208, current events to you, but yeah. The Cathars questioned, if not denied, Christ's human birth or death, held him to be an angelic figure. They didn't particularly care where they worshiped, so a cave would have done fine, particularly one they could fortify. Innocent III, the Pope, got Simon de Montfort, father of the one in English history, to besiege the place for almost four years."
Lang leaned forward, his mind fastening on a single object. ''And the Merovingian kings?"
"My, but you are wandering far afield from ancient history tonight. Now you've jumped back to the fifth to seventh centuries. The kings of that dynasty ruled southwestern France, claimed they-were both the physical and spiritual heirs of Christ since His family fled there from what's now Palestine after the crucifixion. A couple of interesting characteristics: They were friendly to Jews, unlike any other European monarchs of that time, and believed their hair was the source of their strength."
"Like Sampson."
"Interestingly, yes. Sampson was a Nazarite, just as many people think Christ was. Jesus, the Nazarite, mistranslated to 'Jesus of Nazareth.' As for the Merovingians, unsubstantiated rumors still surface occasionally of both lateral and lineal descendants."
"Rumors the Church finds discomforting," Lang interjected. Francis's eyebrows rose as a smile crept across his face. "Food for the apostate mind. Like yours."
It was an old subject, one the two friends had debated often but one that served no real purpose tonight, save one.
"Let's agree that the Languedoc area of France seems to have spawned more than its share of heretics, religious wars, and legends concerning Christ."
"No argument about that."
Lang was eyeing the french fries again when the waiter picked his plate up. "Done?"
"
Lang nodded. ''Yeah, thanks."
The young man surveyed the amount of food left on each plate. "Told you guys you should consider McDonald's."
"Veritas nihil veretur nisi abscondi, " Francis said.
"It's not the truth I fear, it's the tip," the waiter said.
Where else but at Manuel's?
Lang watched the retreating back of their server. "So where were we?"
"Somewhere in the turbulent history of the Languedoc."
"Oh yeah. I think the place, the main room at Montsegur, was a library, maybe a repository for early Christian writings the Cathars somehow had managed to salvage, maybe even something the survivors of Christ's family brought with them. Something Christian, anyway, since it drew Julian's attention. In addition to hating Christians, he was a prankster. He would have loved to embarrass the early Church in some way. Next, let's speculate the Cathars found this library or whatever it was, made a church out of it."
"And a fortress," Francis interrupted. "What you say makes sense. When Montsegur was besieged, the Cathars finally surrendered on the basis they wouldn't have to come down from the place for another couple of days. Perhaps time to secrete whatever they had, like the library."
"The library Hitler would have loved to possess," Lang said, signaling for a refill of the pitcher of beer. ''You know he had a passion for the supernatural or religious. Apparently, Skorzeny found something, truckloads of something."
The same waiter substituted a full pitcher for the empty one.
Francis filled his glass and stretched out into the corner of the booth, putting his feet up on the bench. "Okay, so much for the why of what you're looking for. Let's take a look at this inscription. I make it to be something like 'The Emperor Julian accuses-' "
"Accusatem is a noun, not a verb," Lang pointed out, making no effort to conceal his glee at his friend's mistake.
"Knew that-just wanted to see if you're on your toes. Problem is, we don't really know if 'we're dealing with a verb or noun. The ending's missing."
"It's in the wrong place for the verb."
