INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL

by Richard B. Schwartz

  Five minutes later they were back on the road. “It’ll only be another hour or so,” Tom said. Diana just smiled.

  “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I made contact back there.”

  “In the toilet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Men . . .”

  “Where else would you propose we make contact?”

  “Nowhere. It’s just so . . . fifties.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s our favorite decade.”

  She smiled. “Was it the man you were expecting?”

  “Yes. His name is Walt McNeice. He and Chris Dietrich were in the service together. Afterwards he went into the FBI and Chris enrolled in the police academy.”

  “I thought the FBI was only supposed to do its thing inside our borders.”

  “He’s on special assignment.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the Chief requested him. He wanted someone he knew and could trust.”

  “Were they in combat together?”

  “Yes. McNeise carried Dietrich over three miles to an unofficial installation in some dusty mountains. His leg was pointing in three or four different directions at the time. McNeise helped save the leg and also kept him from bleeding to death.”

  “That would take considerable strength as well as knowledge and determination.”

  “The Chief said he could vouch for him, especially if we got into something tight.”

  “Did he say why the Secret Service guy was following us?”

  “Not really. He speculated that the case could be bigger than any of us are aware of. He also said that paranoia levels are always high in Washington and that our request for doctored passports could simply have tripped a signal that brought an automatic response.”

  “Shouldn’t it have been an FBI agent who gave you the papers, with this guy intervening later? And unexpectedly?”

  “Yes, but perhaps the agencies were simply cooperating in a bona fide spirit of openness. Or maybe the FBI guy had to go to his son’s soccer game that day.”

  “Or maybe McNeise is holding something back.”

  “Maybe that too. We’re still not at the point of total interdepartmental unity and integration.”

  “Better then that I took him out. If they don’t have their act together we have to be ready to fend for ourselves.”

  “You’re right,” Tom said.

  “Thanks,” Diana said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hotel de Cro-Magnon, Les Eyzies de Tayac

  Monday, 7:55 p.m.

  “How was that recently-departed goose’s liver?” Diana asked, towelling off her hair and combing it into place. “I noticed that you made short work of it. Most of the things around it too.”

  She was playing her part as wife or girlfriend. He was surprised that she did it with so little effort.

  “It was fantastic and I wasn’t surprised, since this is the best place on earth for it. How was all that goat cheese and lettuce and asparagus?” He was talking about food but he was thinking about the smell of her hair and the scent of soap on her arms and legs.

  “Great.”

  “I was reading the desk brochure when you were in the shower. They built the hotel in the late nineteenth century for British tourists. After they discovered the remains of Cro-Magnon man in his rock shelter (just on the other end of the hotel, by the way, right by where we parked) the rich and famous from the other side of the channel made regular pilgrimages here. When you’re finished there you should look at the pictures of them with their little maps, walking sticks, long dresses, and heavy wool suits. That may be why the place looks like an English country inn with the pastels and the chintz and the flowers everywhere—to make them feel at home.”

  “But with French food. It’s perfect.”

  “Yes. I have to keep reminding myself that there are probably people around us who would like to cut our visit short.”

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “Next door, to the right.” He gestured with his thumb.

  “I still haven’t seen him.”

  “Good. You’re not supposed to.”

  “Is anyone with him?”

  “Two locals and one assistant.”

  “And they’re . . .”

  “One on our other side, one above us and one below us.”

  “And when did you learn this?”

  “Right after we finished that thing with the white nectarines and sorbet but before we started on the coffee and cognac.”

  “Meeting in the men’s room again?”

  “Think of it as our special place.”

  “What time do we leave tomorrow?”

  “When I checked the website for the cave it said that they open at 10:00. I thought we’d leave at 8:45. I told Walt where we’re going.”

  “He didn’t know before?”

  “He knew that we were here to look at ice-age cave art and that some of the art was somehow connected with the death of your brother. I didn’t say anything else. I know him a little now and I think I can trust him but I don’t know the people with him.”

  “Tom . . .” She was opening the twin bed that paralleled his.

  “What?”

  “Dinner was nice. I enjoyed it, even if we were forcing the smiles and worrying about who might be watching or listening.”

  “I did too,” he said.

  “The investigator remains alive, as does the sister.” The voice was sharp, the tone abrupt.

  “Yes, we know that.”

  “You assured me that these problems would be eliminated.”

  “I take full responsibility for that; we did the best that we could.”

  “I would be a little less ready to admit your incompetence if I were you. Incompetence can lead to results that you might find quite unpleasant.”

  “I understand. Rest assured that we will find them. We have already tracked the two of them to London. They were scheduled to fly to Edinburgh together, but substitutes were sent in their place. The government is clearly involved.”

  “The government is irrelevant. If their agents are in our way we will simply remove them. Where have they gone from London?”

  “We haven’t determined that yet. We will.”

  “Could they have learned about Tenedos?”

  “No. At this point it wouldn’t be anything to them but a word.”

  “They couldn’t know about our other activities yet, so they must be in France. The brother must have left something, something you failed to find. If they discover what has happened there they will quickly learn of Tenedos. That cannot happen yet. The timing is very important. The connections between the events must be plausible, not suspicious. Do you understand?”

  “I will go there tomorrow myself.”

  “Eliminate them at once by whatever means necessary. They are getting too close. They should never have been permitted to leave the country.”

  “They will not return to it.”

  “See that they don’t. Where are you now?”

  “In a hotel at Heathrow airport.”

  “And you will fly to Bordeaux tomorrow?”

  “Yes.

  “And then you will drive directly to Cahors?”

  “Yes, and then to Les Eyzies. They will be dead tomorrow evening.”

  She said good night as he turned on his side, his head against the edge of the twin bed, watching the moonlight filter through the vines beyond the window. He had left the shutters open and the light pulled up a succession of distant memories—images of European villages in cloudy moonlight. Remakes of old Universal horror pictures. Villages with vampires and werewolves, dusky skies painted on soundstage plywood, looming above toy
cities with steeples and cobblestones, timbered walls and dark, crooked alleyways. Everything old and magic and frightening. Grave robbers with rusty shovels and picks, ragged clothes and hungry dogs, making their way across the looming sky with leaves blowing over their shoes and nightbirds calling in the distance.

  And all of it unreal, straight from the imaginations of the German expressionists to the sets of Universal City and on to the local theatres of his father’s day, with cartoon carnivals, previews, newsreels and a second, 70 minute feature. Europe for Americans: quaint and small, with village clockmakers, bakers, and jewelers, woodworkers, toymakers, and tailors. And just down the road, just beyond the torches and pitchforks of the villagers, there, on the hill, on the edge of the forest, castles with histories of monstrous evil.

  Every Saturday his grandparents dropped off his father at noon at the local theatre and picked him up at four. On horror-movie days, he said, he left his bedroom door open so that he could hear his parents’ voices, see the light from the living room find its way to the back of the house and down the hall, linking him to them.

  At 7:45 the next morning there was a knock at the door. An accented voice said, “Service.” Diana looked at Tom. He opened his luggage, slipped out a lead-lined box, and removed a large automatic. She looked at him, waiting for his signal. He motioned her behind him and opened the door without speaking. Then he opened it wider.

  A man entered with a white jacket with black tie and gold epaulets. He was carrying a tray with coffee, cream, croissants, and preserves. Tom closed the door behind him and the man put the tray on the table. “Diana Bennett,” Tom said, “Walt McNeise.”

  “How do you do,” she said. “We weren’t expecting you.” She tightened the belt on her robe and pulled the lapels close.

  “I know. I had to see you. They’ve closed the cave. It’s been closed for three days.”

  “What do you mean?” Tom asked.

  “I had one of my people drive down this morning, just to take a look. They’ve closed it. No visitors allowed. We got people from the government out of bed. The official word is that this happens all the time. Lascaux has been closed for over fifty years. The Chauvet Cave—the one they found in the 90’s—is never going to be opened to the public. If you want to see it you have to either buy a book or go to their website.”

  “The cave at Pech-Merle has been open since 1924,” Diana said. “My brother is dead and now, suddenly, it’s closed. I don’t believe in coincidences like that.”

  McNeise’s expression didn’t change.

  “We’ve got to get in there,” Tom said.

  “I know,” McNeise answered. “We’re working on it. The cave is controlled by the Culture Ministry. We have to work through the National Heritage Department. That’s what it is in English anyway. Have you ever tried to work with a French bureaucracy when their culture is at stake?”

  “I think we helped save some of France’s culture in the 1940’s,” Tom said. “We’re not here to do any harm to their culture or to their cave.”

  “The harm’s already done, Tom. It’s green disease. That’s what they call it. Too many tourists, too much carbon dioxide, too much heat from the cave lights, too much pollen carried in from the outside. When the moss forms, the paintings and drawings are destroyed. It happened to Lascaux. They don’t want it to happen to Pech-Merle.”

  “I’m with Diana, Walt. This is too coincidental.”

  “Like I said, we’re doing what we can, but this is serious, Tom. They’ve closed the grounds, the food service, the museum, everything. This is one of the greatest caves in Europe. The paintings inside are 20,000 years old. They can’t jeopardize it further. They already have the makings of a major scandal. They’re trying to keep it quiet but we found out that right after they discovered the green disease the director took his own life.”

  “He what?” Tom said.

  “He poisoned himself. He couldn’t stand to see the cave die on his watch.”

  Tom looked at Diana, then back at McNeise. “We’re leaving in ten minutes, Walt.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Grotte du Pech-Merle

  Tuesday, 9:20 a.m.

  Driving southwest from Les Eyzies the 70 kilometers slipped by quickly until they reached the Lot and the rock formations above it. The curls of limestone formed low arches over the highway, cut away by the river hundreds of thousands of years before. Buses filled with disgruntled tourists inched their way along the road, dodging the overhanging rock while leaving enough room for cars and vans in the opposite lane to pass. As the road turned away from the river and into the woods above, the warning signs began. Tom drove past them. A hundred yards ahead he could see the chains stretched across the road. He pulled off the asphalt and eased into the grass and trees.

  “I just thought of something,” he said. “Whoever we’re up against has a vicious sense of humor—having a man surrounded by the food from Dordogne-Périgord poison himself.”

  “He knew something that they wanted to die with him,” Diana said.

  On the other side of the chain there was an open stretch of road nearly two hundred yards in length. To the right of a slight bend they saw the heavy equipment: bulldozers, generators, flatbeds, cranes, all of it parked in a straight line, ready to be hauled away. On the back of an open truck there was a large fan in a steel frame. The wires projecting from the back of it were withered and bent.

  “The ventilation system for the cave,” Diana said. “They probably checked it and then rebuilt it immediately to stop the spread of the moss.”

  “Let’s have a closer look,” Tom said. There was no one in the area as they walked along the road. The only sign of life was a workman’s cap and a single abandoned shoe. Tom lifted the cap with the end of a pen. No obvious blood stains on it. He poked at the shoe. It looked as if something had been chewing on its edges.

  When they came into the parking lot across from the museum, just above the entrance to the cave, they heard voices. Tom put his finger to his lips and they slowly worked their way down the slope and through the trees.

  He saw McNeise standing with four uniformed Frenchmen and a younger man with a flashlight. He looked like a tour guide. All of the men seemed agitated. As Tom and Diana walked out of the trees one of the uniforms approached them, extending his upright palms and telling them that they would have to leave. McNeise said something to him in French and the man stopped gesturing. He looked frustrated and confused.

  McNeise took Tom and Diana aside. “They’re ready to lose it,” he said. “First the green disease and now the death of the director.”

  “They believe it was suicide?” Tom asked.

  “Yes. I haven’t said anything that might change their minds.”

  “How long ago was the green disease noticed?”

  “A little over a week, I think. An Englishman saw it first. The security chief told me that the director immediately called in a crew to spray the walls with antibiotics and formol and to check the ventilation system. They worked through the night spraying solution and making repairs.”

  “Can we go inside?”

  “Give me some time on that. A full delegation from the Culture Ministry is arriving at noon and they’re nervous about letting anyone else in first.”

  “They let all the repairmen in,” Tom said.

  “I know, but they had to do that.”

  “Tell them we only need a few minutes.”

  Diana put up her hand. “Tell them my brother was a famous artist and that he died studying the Chevaux Ponctués. Tell them his name.”

  McNeise’s expression said that he thought this was a long shot but he told them that he’d try it. He told Tom and Diana to stay where they were and walked back over to the Frenchmen. As he spoke to them they each turned and looked at her. The senior officer stepped aside and walked toward them. She could hear h
is leather-soled shoes on the gravel, see him bracing his chest and preparing to speak. His nameplate read Cossard. He presented himself and told her, in slow, halting English, of his great respect for her brother. He told her he had seen his paintings in Paris, in Rome, and in Madrid. Then he kissed her hand.

  She looked toward the entrance to the cave. “Pour dix minutes?” she asked.

  “Certainement,” he answered, his head cocked and bowed.

  He summoned the man with the flashlight and they hurried toward the wooden structure enclosing the entrance.

  When the heavy oak doors were opened they felt the cold air rush against their faces. The guide turned on the light in the passageway to the cave and they started their way down into the earth. “There are two main chambers,” McNeise said. “The one on the right is small; it has some bear bones and artifacts. The main chamber is to the left. That’s the one with the paintings.”

  As they entered the cave they could feel air currents and they sensed that they were in a natural corridor. The guide turned on the first bank of lights and they saw the stone wall before them and the path to the ossuaire on the right. “This way,” the guide said, in a heavy accent. He led them to the left along a path into the main chamber. “The Frise Noire,” he said, indicating the paintings of the mammoths off in the distance. They stared at them, struck by the very fact of their presence as well as the skill in their execution. Tom’s eyes were wandering, taking in as much of the cave as he could through the light and shadows.

  “My god,” he suddenly said, “look.”

  To the right, thirty or forty yards below them, were the horses.

  “The Chevaux Ponctués we see last,” the guide said.

  The route of the tour began with the mammoths and then wound around to the rear of the chamber, near the original entrance to the cave, past the cave pearls and what were claimed to be ice-age human footprints. The real tour ended at the frieze of the horses and then a few anticlimactic minutes in the ossuaire before ascending back to the surface. The drama of it was clear. You saw the high point at the beginning of the show but you had to wait until the end to see it at close range, to study it, to absorb it. It loomed there in the distance, teasing and inviting.