Haunted Echoes

by Cindy Dees

  René murmured, “If you climb the wall behind me, you’ll be in another alley. Turn right at the end of it and left at the next intersection, and the Maubert Metro stop will be in front of you.”

  The thief grinned. Old habits died hard. No cat burglar worth his salt went to sleep at night without an escape route in place. Not even decrepit, out-of-business René.

  “Thanks, my friend. I owe you one.” He flipped his rucksack into the Dumpster, then turned and jumped for the wall. His fingers caught the top lip of the eight-foot wall and he used his toes to climb the rough brick surface. His rubber soles caught easily on the mortar joints, and he straddled the wall in a matter of seconds.

  As he swung his leg over the wall, René called after him, “Bring me a case of gin, and we’ll call it square!”

  With a nod, he slid down the wall.

  Just as his face disappeared behind the bricks, he glimpsed a pair of big, dark shadows rounding the corner of René’s alley and advancing. He swore violently under his breath. He released his handhold and landed softly, bending his knees deeply to absorb the noise of his landing.

  And into that moment of silence before he pivoted and took off, he heard another faint noise. A thick, liquid gurgling. The sort of sound an old man might make if fingers wrapped around his throat, choking him.

  Holy Mother of God. He turned then and ran like he’d never run before.

  I looked up sharply as an abrupt cry sounded outside my window. It sounded like a woman half screaming. Montrose lurched to his feet and moved to the window, peering outside. The man was nearly as jumpy as I was. The sound came again, this time rising into an unmistakably feline yowl. I let out a relieved breath. It was just an alley cat in heat. My guest moved once again to the sofa and sat down.

  “Okay, start talking,” I said grimly.

  “As you know, this has been a strange year. It started with that bizarre earthquake here in Paris a few months back. Elise Villecourt was the first—and only—person to propose that the earthquake was not natural in its cause.”

  “Meaning what?” I asked in alarm. How in the world did someone manufacture an earthquake from unnatural causes?

  He shrugged. “I’ll explain in a moment. But suffice it to say that Monsieur Dupont had her claim investigated and found reason to believe she was correct.”

  What in the heck had I stepped into the middle of?

  Montrose continued. “Soon after the quake, Madame Villecourt suggested to my boss that another form of attack from the same source was likely. This time, she anticipated that it might involve the draining of electrical power from the French power supply—”

  I interrupted, “The TGV. There was a big blackout in central France this morning.”

  He nodded. “That is only the latest of a number of inexplicable blackouts we’ve experienced since Madame Villecourt made her prediction.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about other power failures.”

  He pursed his lips. “It was deemed alarmist for the press to report on the blackouts. There was no need to panic the populace over a phantom threat to the French power grid.”

  “Which is to say, Dupont put the kibosh on news coverage of the electricity problems.”

  Montrose frowned at my comment and opened his mouth, undoubtedly to defend his boss, but I cut him off.

  “Except there really is a threat to the power grid, isn’t there? And whoever’s trying to kill Elise is mixed up in it. No, wait. They’re trying to kill her to shut her up, aren’t they? She knows something about these power outages the killers don’t want to become public. What is it she knows?” I demanded.

  Montrose sighed. “She has suggested a possible source for the power outages.”

  When he didn’t continue I said, “And that is?”

  He looked me square in the eye and said the last thing I ever expected to hear come out of his bureaucratic mouth. “Magic.”

  I stared. Gave a laughing snort of disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “You’re telling me the president of France believes the French power grid is under attack from magic? What sort of magic, pray tell?”

  Montrose winced. “That is exactly how I reacted when I first heard about it, too. And to answer your question, I suppose earth magic would be the best way to describe it. The theory goes that a net of energy covers the surface of the earth. Some people say it comes from the Earth’s magnetic field, others believe it’s tied to deposits of certain ores underground. Some say the lines are created by cosmic energy of some kind being collected by the Earth and stored like a battery, and others believe they represent the Earth’s chi. Take your pick.”

  At about that point, I realized I was staring. I blinked a couple times while he continued.

  “Regardless of what they are or where they come from, there is a measurable network of areas with increased energy readings that spans the Earth’s surface. The threads of that net are called ley lines, and the knots where the ley lines intersect are called nodes. Large nodes where many ley lines come together are referred to as nexus points. Are you with me so far?”

  I nodded, speechless.

  He continued crisply. “With proper…sensitivity to such things…mankind has been able to sense these lines of power and their intersections. Not surprisingly, great religious and ceremonial sites around the world sit upon ley lines and their intersections. Notre Dame Cathedral here in Paris sits on a large nexus point, I’m told. Stonehenge, Angkor Wat in Vietnam, the Forbidden City in China, Machu Picchu, the Temple Mount, they all sit atop of some of the largest nexus points on the planet.”

  “And what does all this have to do with earthquakes and power outages?” I asked.

  “The Paris earthquake was caused by someone attempting to manipulate a ley line running underneath the city.”

  “May I compliment you on managing to say that with a straight face?” I commented dryly.

  “Actually, I saw proof with my own eyes that this is the case. I must warn you that what I am about to tell you is highly classified information. Were you to leak it to anyone, you may rest assured that you would be thrown into the deepest, darkest dungeon we could find and the key thrown away.”

  His eyes twinkled when he said that, but I got the distinct impression he wasn’t kidding, either.

  He continued in a hushed tone. “We have positive proof that the Paris earthquake was created by a scientist. He used a machine—a pulse bomb—to send a burst of energy down a ley line. That’s what triggered the Paris earthquake. He was apprehended and his machine seized while attempting to cause another—larger—earthquake.”

  “How much larger?” I asked cautiously.

  He nodded as if to confirm my suspicion. “Much larger.”

  “Then why aren’t you talking to him? He’s the scientist, after all.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Of course. The guy who jumped off Notre Dame Cathedral after Catrina chased him out of the Black Madonna exhibit last month. I recalled her saying something about the deceased being a geologist. “And what does all of this have to do with the power grid?”

  He glanced around furtively and leaned in close to me, his voice even lower. “We suspect that someone else knew about sending power down the ley lines. Now they’re trying to activate the ley lines by some other method. A method that requires enormous amounts of electricity.”

  “Why are you telling all this to me? I’m an art historian you don’t know from Adam.” I added flippantly, “For all you know, I might get a wild hair to go out and create my own earthquake machine for fun.”

  That garnered a little huff of exasperation out of him. “I know this sounds…bizarre. But I assure you, I am not crazy and what I am telling you is the God’s honest truth. At any rate, Madame Villecourt first suggested that another possible way to power up the ley lines would involve channeling electricity through them. And, soon after she did so, the attempts upon her life sta
rted.”

  I asked in alarm, “You mean there have been several?”

  He blinked. “Oh, yes. There have been a half-dozen attacks. But her luck—it is uncanny. It is almost as if the gods are looking out for her.”

  “What do you want me to do about the power grid?”

  He shrugged. “Find out who is trying to kill Elise, and we believe you will find who is using the ley lines. As soon as we know who they are, we will apprehend them. Before they knock out the electricity to us all.”

  Suddenly, I felt trapped in a bad episode of The Twilight Zone. “So I’m supposed to track down a bunch of magic-using, ley-line manipulating, would-be murderers for you and save the entire French power grid?”

  Montrose responded wryly, “Actually, much more than just the power grid is at stake. The French economy depends heavily upon electricity, and the safety and livelihood of the French people depend upon the economy. So, for simplicity’s sake, let us just say the fate of France rests in your hands.”

  I absorbed that one for long moments in silence. And then I said the only thing that came to mind. “Gee. Isn’t that special?”

  Chapter 7

  I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when my dreams that night landed me back in that stone-walled Renaissance bedchamber from my previous dream.

  It was night this time and colder than sin. A thick pall of smoke hung from the ceiling, probably from the giant fireplace and a sluggish blaze that looked to be putting out little, if any, heat. The red velvet bed throw was in a heap on the floor, and furs were piled high on the short, wide bed. I started as the pile heaved.

  I looked more closely and made out a man lying on his back. Not a bad-looking guy. Faintly like Robert Fraser with dark hair and dark, intense eyes. But then I spied a pale, female form rising up above him, sitting back on her haunches. She reached down with her hand, and the guy groaned with what sounded like discomfort. He gasped something about being allowed to finish, but she repeated whatever she’d done before, and he groaned again. Demanding woman. Definitely making this guy suffer a little.

  Finally, she swung a leg over him and sat astride him. Didn’t take a lot of imagination to figure out what was going on there. An almost animal energy enveloped the lovers. It was arousing in an uncomfortable, voyeuristic sort of way that I didn’t especially like, but couldn’t prevent, either. The sounds and smells of their sex rolled over me, pungent and primitive. The lovers became more urgent, their movements becoming jerky as their bodies slapped together. An image of Robert Fraser and me doing that flickered through my mind and my breath quickened sharply.

  The woman sat up, straddling the man. She bounced up and down ridiculously fast on top of him and he moaned dramatically. Good Lord. Is that what sex really looked like? The guy partially sat up and gave a theatrical shout. He fell back on the bed, flung his arms out wide and broke into a monologue about the transports of ecstacy to which his lover had just lifted him.

  A log broke in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks and shooting up a new burst of flames. In the sudden glow, I got my first good look at the woman. Queen Elizabeth again. No surprise there. The Virgin Queen, eh? Not.

  What truly shocked me was the look on her face as she leaned back, panting. Her features were icy cold fury incarnate. That was one pissed-off woman. The guy must be some sort of dimwit not to be aware of it. But he prattled on about the firmament moving and started into something inane about roses. I wished he’d shut up already. That’s about how Elizabeth looked like she felt, too.

  Finally, the guy squinted up at her. And stopped cold. “What ails you, my rosebud?” he wailed dramatically. “I shall plunge a dagger into my breast if I have displeased you. What can I do—”

  Thankfully, ol’ Liz cut him off, snapping, “Cease and desist! You have done quite enough already.”

  He looked perplexed. And alarmed.

  She climbed off him and snagged a fur robe absently as she crawled down from the high bed. She strode over to the fireplace naked, dragging the throw behind her. She ran to the bony side, her shoulders narrow and her hips unattractively wide. Her breasts were pancake shaped, her skin snow-white but sprinkled liberally with unfortunate freckles. And her armpits were hairy. Definitely too much information for me. I’d never look at a painting of her the same way again.

  Elizabeth planted herself squarely in front of the fire and turned to face her lover. “What is different about me?” she demanded.

  The poor guy looked panicked. Didn’t know the right answer to that one, did he? “You—you—” he stammered. But then he gathered himself. “You are more beautiful than ever. The stars shine in your—”

  “Shut up,” Elizabeth snapped. “I am increasing.”

  “Increasing?” her lover repeated stupidly.

  “Can you not see it, you fool? I am with child.”

  Now that she mentioned it, she did have a bit of a belly forming. That distinctive swell low in the abdomen that can mean only one thing.

  The guy reared back in horror, all but climbing the headboard. “It cannot be! We took every precaution! The sheep’s intestine sheaths—”

  “Did not work. My lady-in-waiting says I am at least three months along.”

  “What shall you do?” the man gasped.

  Elizabeth’s face went hard and closed. I was right there with her. The jerk hadn’t said, “What shall we do?”

  With great interest, I turned to see what she had to say on the matter. She wrapped the fur about her and stared into the fire for a long time. Meanwhile, the scumball crept out of the bed behind her and dressed in total silence.

  “Fleeing the scene of your crime, are you, Winchester?” Elizabeth asked coldly.

  The guy looked about ready to puke. “I thought to give you time to ponder what you will do.”

  “I shall not lop your head off if that is what you fear,” Elizabeth retorted. “I will not make an orphan of my child. At least, not without provocation,” she added direly.

  Winchester halted his inching progress toward a large tapestry and the secret passage I assumed must be hidden behind it. He blurted, “Then what will you do?”

  She flung off the fur and leaned toward the fire, pulling out a stick of burning wood. She carried it over to the big desk across the room and lit a tall candle. Finally, she answered bitterly, “I shall abase myself as I vowed never to do again in this lifetime. I must write a letter.”

  “To whom?”

  My question exactly. I watched Elizabeth intently as she sat down, naked, and pulled a piece of parchment out of a drawer. She sharpened a quill with quick, angry strokes of a small knife. She looked like she wished that feather she was carving up so violently was her lover’s private parts. Eventually, she looked up at Winchester and bit out, “I shall write to the pope. Offer him a deal. I will allow the Catholic faith to be practiced freely in England if he will recognize this child as the heir to my throne.”

  Winchester’s jaw dropped. “But the pope has steadfastly declared you a bastard all these years. And your parents were wedded. Why would he reverse course now and recognize this child when we are not—”

  The guy stopped speaking abruptly, as if he’d just realized the life-threatening folly of bringing up the illicit nature of his relationship with the queen. A little slow on the uptake, he was.

  Elizabeth glared at him from the desk. “Leave,” she ordered imperiously.

  At least he wasn’t dumb enough to disobey that command. He skedaddled, slipping behind the tapestry and disappearing.

  The queen’s shoulders slumped. I thought she might cry, but she didn’t. Strong woman. After a moment, she lifted her head, staring straight ahead at the statue on the desk before her. “Damn you!” she burst out. “Why didn’t you tell me this was the other part of the gift?”

  What gift? I tried to ask her, but instead, the dream evaporated….

  And I was sitting up, my mouth trying to speak, staring at the walls of my own bedroom. What
was up with these dreams of mine? They were like nothing I’d ever had before. More like visions of some kind. And speaking of visions, I gave a quick glance around my room. Whew. No sign of the ghostly woman from my bathroom mirror. I flopped back down but had trouble going back to sleep. Elizabeth’s anguished cry kept echoing in my head. What gift?

  I knew exactly where I had to go when I woke the next morning. To see Elise. When I stepped out of the elevator at the hospital, the desk directly in front of me was crowded with what looked like some sort of morning staff meeting breaking up. I inquired after Madame Villecourt, and a doctor separated himself from the crowd right away.

  “Who are you?” he asked me in a borderline rude tone.

  Every now and then I really love having an Interpol badge, even though I usually feel like a complete fraud for flashing it. I pulled it out now, and the good doctor thawed considerably.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  I followed him through a set of double doors into a much quieter ward and was pleased to see that I had to show identification, sign in, get patted down and have my purse searched by a gendarme before I was allowed to see Elise. A nurse told me she was asleep, but gestured me to come along, anyway. Apparently, it was time to wake Elise to check her vital signs.

  On the way down the hall, the nurse commented, “Ah, to have inherited your grandmother’s genes. She is in spectacular health for a woman of eighty-eight.”

  I was distracted enough by the nurse mistaking Elise for my grandmother that I almost missed the eighty-eight bit. Good grief! Eighty-eight? And to think I’d guessed she was sixtyish when I met her!

  We stepped into Elise’s private room. She was awake, albeit groggy. Her face lit up when she caught sight of me, though. I could swear those were tears of gratitude glistening in her eyes.