by Cindy Dees
Robert shrugged, his expression grim. “Don’t count on it. Have you looked at yourself?”
I glanced down and realized that I was covered in mud. And so was Robert. Why this should pose a problem in our leaving the building, I failed to see. But then the elevator door opened and we stepped out right into the lobby of the hospital. Wide glass exit doors stood right in front of us.
“You! Stop!” a voice barked behind us.
I lurched, fearing big Italian men. But instead, it was a security guard, already coming around from behind his desk.
“Run for it,” Robert muttered to me.
We bolted for the door.
“You, cataphiles! Come back here. You’re under arrest—”
I tried to stop to explain to the guy that (a) he had no authority to arrest anyone as a mere security guard, and (b) I had an Interpol badge in my pocket and had been in the catacombs on official business, but Robert grabbed me by the upper arm and bodily dragged me out of there. And truth be told, any time the guy laid a hand on me, half my brains fell out my left ear. He grabbed; I ran.
We burst out into the street, and Robert took off running to his right with me still in tow. We stopped a couple blocks later, which was just as well. I was beat after all the hiking we’d already done. The night wrapped itself around us, a living thing. Or maybe another ghost was just hanging around waiting for us to walk through it. Our surroundings were brightly lit relative to the total blackness of the catacombs, and while the tunnels had felt heavy and dead, out here, the night felt positively vibrant. Vibrant with threats maybe, but still better than below.
“Now where?” I panted. “We can’t go back to my place. The Italians obviously know where I live. That must be how they picked up our trail earlier.”
“I know a place. At least I used to. Let’s see if it’s still there.”
Thankfully, his destination wasn’t far away. But it wasn’t the most savory of places, either. It was a Catholic mission serving homeless men, tucked in the shadow of a good-sized church. Not the same dimensions as Notre Dame, but a hulking pile of stone, nonetheless.
“Uhh, Robert, the sign says no women allowed. Not to mention I’m not Catholic.”
He chuckled. “We’ve got to work on this tendency of yours to follow rules.”
While I opened my mouth to protest, he dragged me inside, anyway, effectively silencing me before I could speak. The mission looked like a shabby apartment building at first glance. But then Robert led me off to the right, through a set of heavy double doors and into the main sanctuary of the church itself.
The cavernous space was lined with carved wood and stone statuary that spoke of great age. Candles flickered ineffectually against the darkness, lending it a distinctly medieval air. But it felt safe. Blessedly removed from the night we’d just stepped out of, with its thefts and ghosts and Italian thugs. This was an eternal haven out of place and time.
I jumped as sound abruptly burst forth around us. A giant bell rang once overhead, deep and gonglike. It had barely stopped echoing through the space above us when another sound rolled forth—a deep, nasal, haunting song of men singing. In Latin.
“Gregorian chant,” Robert murmured.
The prayer rose and fell as I spotted the row of hoods kneeling up front. It felt to me like an invasion of privacy to be standing there in the wee hours of the morning listening to their worship. It struck me that for a thousand years or more, monks just like these had been getting up at this ungodly hour of the night to pray. That same sense of displacement out of time exploded in me again, making me want to ask not where was I, but when was I? I felt like a bridge between the past and present, one foot planted in each of two far-apart times and the rest of me stretched out thin between them.
It was that damned ghost and her wild dreams. For surely she was responsible for those, too.
The chant reached deep inside me, echoing of dark centuries past, of mystery and pain and ecstasy, of a time when faith was the only rock society rested upon, when kingdoms rose and fell in the name of religion, and men died by the thousands trying to force each other to worship their respective gods. I guess in that respect, times haven’t changed so much after all.
The silence was as sudden as the bell that had called for the nocturn prayers. Their late-night prayer over, the row of monks rose without sound and turned to file out of the church. They seemed to ignore our bedraggled presence at the back of the nave, although it was hard to tell with their faces completely hidden by those deep hoods.
But then one of them broke off from the others. He gestured toward a wall of doors with carved wooden grills, his oversized sackcloth sleeve hanging from a pale, bony arm. For a moment I reared back in alarm at the skeletal apparition of that white hand protruding from the walking, faceless robe. I guess the overall horror of the catacombs still lingered with me a bit.
“Come on,” Robert whispered, tugging at my sleeve.
The row of monks turned away from us and headed for a side door, and we headed to the opposite wall and those wooden, phone-booth doors. Robert pulled me inside one of the tiny booths with him. And I mean tiny. We barely had room to stand side by side, and there was nowhere to put our elbows that didn’t involve poking each other. Not that I was complaining, mind you. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be crammed into a tiny space with a hunky guy you have the hots for and are trying to figure out ways to get your hands on?
I whispered, because it seemed the right thing to do inside a confessional cohabited by a man and a woman with gigantic sexual energy flares zinging between them—“Now what?”
He grinned, and I about nibbled his ear because it was six inches from my mouth. “Now, we wait.”
Great. More waiting. “Who are we waiting for this time?”
“An old friend. He usually takes the night shift here. At least he did the last time I was here. Let’s just hope he’s still alive.”
“He who?”
“Father Bertrand. He took me on as a project a few years back. He’s actually the guy who convinced me to turn myself in to the police.”
“You turned yourself in?” Wow. That put quite a good-guy spin on his cooperation with the authorities over the past few years. It had been voluntary. My disquiet over his felonious past subsided significantly.
“Yeah,” he muttered, “but don’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want to wreck my street rep.”
“Shucks. Who’d have guessed such a do-gooder lurked under all that black leather?”
That earned me an adorable scowl that I suddenly found myself not taking the least bit seriously.
“Doin’ good now, are we?” a voice said from behind me in a thick Irish brogue. “Then how might ye be explainin’ bringin’ a person of a female persuasion with ye into my confessional?”
While a door closed beside us, Robert sat down on the wooden bench and startled me by pulling me down into his lap. As I absorbed the sensation of his hard thighs beneath mine, his arm wrapped around my waist, his lovely scent filling my nostrils, Robert’s eyes lit up with genuine pleasure. “Father Bertrand. How are you, you old fart?”
“Still preachin’ the word of God to shameful sinners like you.”
“It’s good to hear your voice again.”
And indeed the priest was mostly just a voice in here. I could barely make out the fellow’s bald, liver-spotted pate through the carved grillwork between us. But then, I supposed that was the point of it being a confessional. People were more likely to spill their guts to an impersonal wall than to a frowning priest.
“The way I hear it, you’re back in the soup,” the priest said sternly. “Am I going to have to drag ye by the ear to the police again?”
“Nope. I brought the police with me this time. Father Bertrand, meet Ana Reisner.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Of Interpol.”
“Ye don’t say!” the little man exclaimed. “Why hasn’t she arrested yer sorry arse, then?”
Robert gave me a perplexed look. “
Why would she do that?”
“Why because of the statue ye stole.”
“What do you mean, they got away?”
“They slipped away from us in the catacombs, sir. They had help. Several of the men in Fraser’s old gang laid false trails for him and the girl.”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses. I want that statue, dammit!”
“We got one of Fraser’s buddies. He should be able to tell us where it is and what they plan to do with it.”
That gave the client pause. Eventually he said more calmly, “Make him sing. Do whatever it takes. I want to know everything about Fraser and the woman.”
“What do you want us to do with him after we’re done?”
“Kill him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then capture the pesky old bastard who caused this whole mess in the first place!”
Chapter 11
“W hat statue? I didn’t steal any statue!” Robert exclaimed.
“Why sure you did. I got a phone call just this afternoon asking after ye.”
“Who was it?” I demanded, as offended as Robert that someone would wrongly accuse him of theft. My brain registered vaguely that the protective ire in my breast hinted at deeper feelings than mere lust for my companion. But at the moment, I was more interested in knowing who was flinging around false accusations about Robert. “What did they say?”
The priest peered in my direction. “Well now, lassie, it t’were a higher-up official in the Church if ye must know. Said he’d received word from the Papal Seat itself that an old and valuable relic had been stolen by an acquaintance of mine. Asked me if I’d seen ye recently. And good thing I hadn’t, or I’d have turned ye in, young man!”
Robert leaned forward, gripping the grill until his knuckles turned white. “As God is my witness, Bertrand, I didn’t steal anything. I swear. It’s a lie.”
“Now why would someone lie about something like that?”
“I have no idea,” Robert bit out. “I’m being framed. But then, that’s easy to do since I’m a criminal already.”
I piped up, “He’s telling the truth. The statue was stolen on Saturday here in Paris, and he didn’t enter France until Sunday afternoon.”
“So ye know which statue the man was referring to, do ye? Then the two of ye are involved in the theft in some way? Shame on ye, young lady, being an Interpol agent and all. Here I was, hopin’ ye’d rehabilitated the lad.”
I rolled my eyes at Robert, who said, “What was the name of the man who called you about me?”
“Now that you mention it, I don’t think he ever said.”
“Where was he calling from?”
“Italy, for sure. My caller ID said it were an unknown caller from Vatican City.”
I frowned as alarm bells clanged wildly in my head. Someone had called from the Vatican to frame Robert? What in the world for? The statue he was researching wasn’t even Christian, according to Catrina Dauvergne. The Black Madonna cult was a goddess worship group that rejected the male centered doctrine of the Catholic Church.
This development just so couldn’t be good. Particularly given where we were slated to head tomorrow. Did we dare continue with the trip or should we cancel it? I desperately needed to research ley lines and try to figure out their connection to the French power outages. And the only lead I had was the directive from Elise to go to the Vatican archives. But I also had no desire whatsoever to walk into a trap. Certainty broke over me that on this one, I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t.
“Did you tell anyone else about this phone call?” I asked in sudden alarm.
“Of course, lassie. I would never disobey an order from the Holy See itself.” He crossed himself as he said the words.
Robert closed his eyes for a frustrated second. I’m sure I was having the exact same thought he was. The priest was delaying us while one of his colleagues called the Vatican contact to let them know we were here. Or worse, the monks might have even called the police.
I had confidence we’d be able to talk our way out of criminal charges without any trouble, but we seriously didn’t need the hassle right now. Time was of the essence in my investigation, not only to stop the power outages, but also to save Elise’s life. The deeper I got into this insane situation, the more convinced I became that it was entirely possible that an ancient statue with supernatural powers had been keeping her alive. And Robert had possibly even more reason than I to want to avoid the police, particularly under circumstances where he was accused of an art theft.
I stood up as Robert opened the door beside us and said, “Thank you for everything, Father Bertrand. You’ve been more helpful than you could possibly imagine.”
“Wait, son. What about your confession? Ye’ve yet to give it me.”
Yup, stalling us.
Robert replied gently, “You should know by now that I’m neither Catholic nor the repentant type.”
Surprisingly enough, the old man’s tone of voice changed to one of true regret. “I’m sorry, my boy. But orders are orders. I’m bound by oath to obey them.” Then he added sotto voce, “Go out through the sanctuary. Just as you reach the altar, you’ll see a small door on your left. It takes you out the west side of the building. The others won’t be looking for you in that direction.”
Robert and I tumbled out of the tiny booth. Did we dare follow the priest’s directions, or was he leading us straight into the arms of the police? Robert made the decision for us, grabbing my hand and racing with me through the sanctuary and toward the altar.
We burst outside into the cold and darkness once more. And were alone. Father Bertrand hadn’t betrayed us after all.
And again, we were thrust out into the night and all its dangers. I was getting really tired of this. Actually, I was just getting really tired. We’d been walking forever, my feet were sore, my eyes gritty, and I wanted nothing more than to lay my head down and pass out for a few hours.
“We’ve got two choices,” Robert murmured. “We can go so grungy no one will find us, or we can go so high-class we can buy our anonymity.”
“Given the way we look right now, we’d better opt for grunge.”
Robert grinned ruefully at me and we took off running. Again.
This time we stopped at what could marginally be called a hotel. Flophouse would be a more accurate description. The North African–looking proprietor spoke barely a word of French and was grumpy at being woken up by our banging continuously on the little bell on the counter until he came out of the back. When Robert argued over the cost of the room, I elbowed him. I was too damned tired for such shenanigans.
Under his breath in English, Robert murmured, “He’ll remember us more if we don’t try to stiff him.”
I subsided. He was the thief after all. He knew this Paris a lot better than I did.
The door closed behind us into a bare but thankfully reasonably clean room. Uh-oh. With one narrow bed in it. “You did ask for a double bed, didn’t you?” I asked.
Robert rolled his eyes at the iron bed that had a mattress I could see sagging in the middle from here. “Yeah, I did. You take it. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“If I couldn’t see that line of ants marching across the floor from here, I might let you do that,” I replied, “but no way are you sleeping with those critters. We’re adults. We can sleep in the same bed.”
Robert’s mouth tilted up wryly. “I’m in no condition to threaten your virtue right now, anyway. I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.”
We used washcloths and the room’s sink to scrub off the worst of the grime, then crawled into the bed back-to-back, both set our wristwatch alarms for 6:30 a.m., only a scant few hours away, and crashed. After all, we still had a plane to catch.
The sound of a door closing woke Elise not long after sunrise if the fresh, bright light streaming in her window was any indication. Someone had just slipped out of her room. Who? Nobody’d woken her up to take any more infernal vita
l signs. A nurse maybe, peeking in to check on her? Except they knew to leave her alone and let her sleep until a decent hour, which this most certainly didn’t qualify as yet.
“Charles?” she called out.
The night bodyguard stepped into the room immediately. “Madame?”
“Who was just in here?”
“That would be me. I was delivering those flowers for you. A man brought them by and said they were for you.” He gestured at a tall vase filled with a stunning display of several dozen lilies.
Madonna lilies to be precise. Elise lurched upright. “Who was he?”
“He did not give his name, Madame. He merely said he’s an old admirer of yours.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“Three minutes or so, I guess.”
She swore under her breath and threw the covers back. “Help me over to the window.” Thankfully, she wore her own nightgown and not one of those open-backed, naked-rear things. Heaven only knew the state of her posterior right now. She winced to think what the sudden old age had done to it.
The guard supported her elbow and steadied her solicitously as she made her way over to the window. It looked down over the front entrance of the hospital. If she were lucky, maybe she might catch a glimpse of her secret admirer. “Point out the man who brought me the flowers if you see him,” she told the guard.
He looked around below. “I don’t see him—wait. There he is. Just coming outside.”
Elise craned her head to look down on the main entrance and the gray-haired man just emerging from the building. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place the face. She had the feeling she’d known him as a much younger man, and age had smeared his features until they were unrecognizable to her now. Of course, it didn’t help that her own memory was failing at an alarming rate. Perhaps her least favorite side effect of the rapid aging her body was undergoing.
He was a handsome gentleman. Patrician. Tall, trim. Expensively dressed. Gray hair and aquiline nose. Carried himself like a European. He stepped toward the curb, and then all of a sudden, another man stepped up beside her admirer. This man was a good thirty years younger, big and burly. He took the older man by the arm and all but lifted him over to a black sedan that was just pulling up. The vehicle was big and plush, with blacked-out windows, the kind of car exclusive limousine services use for their clients who don’t wish to be conspicuous.
