by S. T. Boston
“Shushhh,” came a surprisingly soft voice from behind her. “Do not scream, I am here to help.” The voice was unmistakably female. Lucie's head swam with questions; every part of her had expected the attacker's voice to be male. As suddenly as the hand had grabbed her it was gone, and Lucie whipped her body round defensively to try and protect herself from the attack that she felt sure was about to happen. Readying her fists to punch out, she froze. The woman now stood in front of her had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen, and her long blonde hair flowed down over her shoulders before it met with a black, tight fit long sleeve top. Her trousers matched, giving her an almost assassin-like appearance. Before her spinning mind had time to question it any further the swinging, saloon-style door to the kitchen burst open. The coffee-nursing customer came rushing in, a gun clenched firmly in his hand. At that exact point, everything seemed to slow down. Lucie felt the woman's hands pulling her out of the way; her shaky legs could offer no resistance so she just went with it. The deafening sound of gunfire erupted through the small, confined kitchen and somewhere, far off in a world where time was operating at the correct speed, Lucie heard the sound of smashing crockery. As her back hit the wall, sending a selection of stainless steel ladles and spatulas crashing to the floor, Lucie watched as the woman ducked low and removed a pistol from some kind of kit belt around her waist. She moved far quicker than seemed possible, her brilliant blonde hair whipping around her like a shawl. With deadly accuracy she discharged a round. Through wide, frightened eyes she watched blood spray from the customer's neck and splatter a mess of dark red over a bunch of aprons and pinnies that were hung up just behind the door, giving them an odd, abstract art effect. Then time caught up. With an unearthly cry of pain, anguish and surprise the creepy guy went down, hard. Only stopping to split his head open on the corner of a stainless steel workbench as he fell, his upper cheek bone making a sickening CRUNCH as it made contact. He was dead before he hit the tiled floor.
The woman's wide, blue eyes darted about the small kitchen, ready to take on the next threat. In a few very fast seconds she grabbed Lucie by the wrist and pulled her toward the back door which was sat slightly ajar and resting on its latch.
“We need to go, now!” she said urgently without a single hint of stress in her soft voice. Lucie didn't argue, the woman scooped up her phone and keys, which were in danger of becoming soaked in the ever growing pool of thick, sticky red blood that was now creeping like an incoming tide across the floor. Turning she flung the door open, the unusually chilly late September night air hit Lucie's chest like a fist causing the breath to catch in her throat. “Which one is your car?” the woman asked, her eyes scanning the few vehicles that occupied the small parking lot at the rear of the shop.
“Th-the Mini,” gasped Lucie, pointing with her free hand to a slightly grubby red Mini Cooper sat directly in front of them. The woman let go of her wrist and passed her the keys before rushing round to the passenger door. Lucie hit the key fob causing the indicators to bathe the darkened car park in a flash of orange light. Jumping into the driver's seat she gunned the engine.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked, gathering her nerves slightly. She felt as if she already knew the answer but her brain just refused to accept it.
“Oriyanna,” the woman replied smiling, “Lucie?”
“Y-yeah,” she stammered her mind reeling.
“It's nice to finally meet you. Now can you please drive, I don't think that man was alone.”
Chapter 5
Sam Becker adjusted his backside on the hard and unforgiving wooden slats of the cell bed and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub some of the stress and gritty sleepiness away. Blinking his stinging eyes into focus he watched the small clock's second hand tediously ticking away behind the anti-vandal grating that protected the cheap plastic timepiece. It was almost three AM, and the last few hours in custody had been tedious. As the minutes ticked slowly by he grew more and more anxious about the phone call to Lucie that he hadn't managed to make, thanks to his arrest. It seemed that the once almost universal right to a phone call after arrest had been flushed down the pan with the rest of society; these were bleaker and more draconian times. Not surprisingly, Sam hadn't been asked if he wanted a solicitor, and he hadn't bothered bringing the subject up. It was more likely to end in a beating than some helpful legal advice. Laurett's final words also continued to spin round and round in his head. He is here, and he is coming for you! – E-N-O-L-A. Just reciting it in his mind gave Sam the chills, producing small goose-bumps over his arms and causing his fine blonde hairs to stand to attention, like a company of soldiers. He was in desperate need of both food and a drink of water, or better yet, a nice hot, sweet cup of tea. Sam almost chuckled to himself thinking of how easily prisoners and detainees used to get it; he would have even been one of the first to say they had it too easy. Now however he wasn't so sure. Being on the wrong end of the law, especially the law in this fragile new world, was not a good place to be. He'd only been arrested once before. Some guy in a nightclub, back in the old world had singled Sam out as being responsible for hitting on his girlfriend, one shove from the larger-fuled oaf was enough to make the punter wish he'd never picked on the wrong guy. Sam had bust his nose with one punch and well and truly broken his pride. Thankfully after a night locked up in one of London's many cell blocks, Sam was interviewed and released. The case never went any further, the guy had dropped any charges the next day, once the beer had worn off and he saw sense. That night in the cell had been like a five star hotel compared to this.
Following his arrest for burglary, the man with the shiny shoes and two fully armed and uniformed Gendarmes had roughly escorted him off the beach and into the back of an awaiting cell van. The man with the shiny shoes had proceeded to slam the door shut with such force that it reverberated through Sam's whole body, doing nothing to help the fast developing headache that was threatening to ruin his night even more. Then, a few minutes later the shiny shoed man, who Sam now knew as Inspector Ackhart, had returned with a very grim expression on his face. Sam didn't need it spelling out; they had searched the property and found the lifeless body of Mathis Laurett. The Inspector had proceeded to tell Sam what he already knew. The pending burglary charge was gone, replaced instead with a much more serious one of murder! Inspector Ackhart had then proceeded to slam the van's cell door again, this time with even more vigour, as if to really hammer home the point that Sam was well and truly fucked.
The Laurett Chateau was located on the Northern French coast, around fifteen miles from Le Havre. Sam wasn't too sure which police station he'd been taken to. The journey time seemed to be about right for the fifteen mile drive, so he guessed he was in Le Havre, which meant he could easily find travel back to the UK port of Portsmouth, or at the very least the Channel Islands, if only he could escape. Casting his eyes away from the ever ticking clock he examined the small window for what felt like the hundredth time, whist running his tongue over the place on his lip that had been cut by the forceful punch which had sent him reeling into the stones. Of course by now there was no trace that the wound had ever been there, it had healed even before arriving at the cell block. Even after more than two years, his magical healing abilities still mystified him. Musing to himself he played a scene in his mind where he was in court, the French judge handing down a life sentence, and these days life would mean life. He smiled wondering how long they would actually keep him for when they realised he wasn't aging a day. It was fair to say that for Sam, life could mean a very, very long time behind bars. Scrubbing it from his mind he got back to the task in hand, making sure that day in court never had a chance to happen.
Actually breaking out of the cell was going to be impossible; he had about as much chance of tunnelling through the thick stone wall in an Andy Dufraine style escape as he had of getting through the cat-flap sized window. He would need to bide his time. At some point they would collect him for interview. He just hoped
that there would be a moment of weakness that he could exploit, but he doubted it. His mind began to wander once again to Lucie, who by now had no doubt informed Adam that something was wrong. Sam forced the thoughts from his brain; he needed to stay sharp and focused if he were to stand any chance of getting out of this situation.
Leaning back on the bench and feeling the cold stone wall bite through his thin, black Tom Wolf fleece, Sam heard a key being placed into the heavy lock of the cell door. Instantly he sat bolt upright and watched as the cumbersome door swung open, the suited and smartly dressed figure of Inspector Ackhart filling the door frame, silhouetted against the brighter lights of the corridor outside.
“Monsieur Becker,” he began in heavily accented English. “It is time for us to have a chat.” He gestured for Sam to stand, moving to one side the Inspector let a very large uniformed guard into the room. The guard, who obviously couldn't, or just refused to speak English, motioned for him to place his hands out in front.
Great, thought Sam. There goes my chance of an easy escape. The guard secured a new set of cuffs to Sam's wrists. They should have been sore and bruised from his earlier manhandling, but of course they weren't. The guard, who Sam now realised had just one long, almost jet black eyebrow that spanned the length of his forehead, shoved him forward toward the cell door and the waiting inspector.
“This way please,” the inspector said flatly as he led Sam down a rather drab and run-down looking magnolia-painted corridor, lined with a host of battleship-grey cell doors. The majority of the doors were slightly open, indicating that tonight Sam was their sole and star resident. Here and there black scuff marks streaked the tired looking paint, reminders of past struggles with people who'd not been so keen on the idea of being hauled up in a cold stone box for a few hours.
“Don't have power rationing here?” questioned Sam, noticing that the place was awash with electrical lights in the early hours of the morning.
“This is an emergency services building, Monsieur Becker,” Ackhart replied, not looking back. “Unfortunately the French Government also sees fit to turn the power off at one AM, and we have been provided with a backup generator to use when this happens. It would be impossible for us to function effectively without it.” Sam felt like cursing himself for the stupidity of the question. He suspected the same happened back home; however, he wasn't in the habit of spending his spare time locked up in custody on serious charges.
Sam followed as the inspector reached the end of the poorly decorated corridor and turned left, the uniformed, mono-browed guard right behind, so close that Sam could smell his fousty coffee-laced breath. Halfway down this new corridor the inspector swung open a door and waved Sam in. The room was about the same size as his rather pokey cell; Sam was sure at some point in its life the room had been used for such a purpose. Now, however, it housed three chairs and a table, all bolted securely to the floor to prevent unruly prisoners from smashing the place up, like an out of control rock n' roll star in a hotel room. Sat atop the table was a matt black recording device. The uniformed guard beckoned Sam round and forcefully pushed him into one of the chairs before kneeling down and securing his ankles to the chair legs with a pair of oppressive looking manacles.
These guys aren't taking any chances, Sam thought as he felt the now all too familiar sensation of metal restraints against his skin. The guard stood up and backed off toward the door, where Ackhart spoke to him in a flurry of French that Sam had no chance of understanding. Sam watched as the guard nodded his head reluctantly and left the room, closing the door behind with a heavy clunk. Sam could just make out his head peering in through the door, keeping a watchful eye on his superior, just in case Sam was a famous English escape artist as well as a suspected murderer. The inspector crossed the room and slid a reasonably thick manila folder off his chair before sitting down. He placed the folder onto the desk and began idly thumbing through its contents.
“This is one peculiar situation,” he said, stopping at a random page somewhere in the folder and looking at it blankly. “Why would an Englishman be here on French soil in the middle of the night, carrying out an execution style murder on a former member of the French and European Government?” He stopped and glanced up from the folder, catching the uneasy look in Sam's eye. “We Europeans are all supposed to be on the same side, are we not?”
“It's a long story,” answered Sam wearily.
“What I find even more puzzling,” the inspector continued, returning his attention to the folder and thumbing over to a fresh page, “is why I have found reports of four killings, one in your home country and three in the United States, with exactly the same modus operandi.” Sam felt an icy hand clench his stomach. “It took some digging,” he continued. “Sadly the internet and intelligence sharing between forces is not the machine it used to be. But I had to look; random murders or bungled robberies do not end in a victim being poisoned. We are yet to identify the substance in the syringes we found on you but, I suspect, like these reports we will find it to be Pancuronium. Am I correct?”
“I'll talk to you, inspector,” replied Sam, a little unsure of what he would actually tell him, “but first I'd like a glass of water and a phone call.”
“As you may have noticed, monsieur, the way we do things now is somewhat different to how it used to be. I will not permit you a phone call on the grounds that you are being investigated for a serious offence and I feel that allowing you to call your wife could lead to vital evidence being lost. This rule has never changed.” Sam nodded his head slowly. Although he didn't like it, he could see things from the inspector's point of view. “I am willing, though,” he continued, “to offer you a drink, if you promise to tell me what all this is about. I suspect that in a few hours' time this case will be taken off me by Interpol or one of our more serious crime investigation teams. It's likely, though, that you will be in court for a plea to be entered in the morning, the next day at the latest. Help me to help you, monsieur.” Sam nodded his head, not quite sure whether to tell the inspector the truth. He wasn't sure if he could come up with a feasible cover story in the next few minutes. He suspected, though, that the actual truth would land him securely in the local nuthouse. “Do we have a deal?” The inspector raised his salt and pepper greying eyebrows that matched his neatly cropped hair. Sam studied him for a moment, trying not to look too closely at his bulbous red nose. He looked like a drinker, or a man who'd once been in love with the bottle.
“We – have a deal,” replied Sam, a little reluctantly. “Although if you believe what I'm about to tell you, I may have to question your own sanity,” added Sam with a wan smile.
“Intriguing,” muttered Ackhart as he pushed a small red button positioned at seat height on the wall next to him. The mono-browed guard instantly burst into the room, as if expecting to find his superior officer in some kind of difficulty. He looked almost disappointed to see Sam still sat, securely fastened to his chair. “Can we get Monsieur Becker a glass of water please, Claude?” he asked in English, obviously for the benefit of Sam. Claude nodded his head and slipped out of the room, still looking a little dejected. Sam noticed that he'd left the door ajar; had he not been manacled to the seat he might have taken a chance and tried to escape. After all, once you're facing a murder charge there wasn't much you could do to make the situation worse. In less than a minute Claude was back, a brimmed plastic cup of water clenched in his strong hand. He set it down in front of Sam, causing some of the liquid to slop onto the tatty-looking wood veneered table. Clasping the vessel in both hands, thanks to his cuffs, Sam drained the glass in two long swallows. The water was far from cold and had a nasty metallic aftertaste. Beggars can't be choosers, he thought as he set the cup down and wiped his mouth with his hand, being careful not to scrape the edge of the cuff against his lips.
“So – monsieur,” began Ackhart, “I held up my end of the deal, now it's time for you to hold up yours.”
“Like I said, if you believe what I'm about t
o tell you I fear I may have to question your sanity.”
“Stop messing around,” spat the inspector, his voice sounding more than a little agitated. “I have been in the police for twenty years, the last fifteen of those I have spent dealing with all manner of serious crimes. I have had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing some of the darkest depths of human depravity. I'm more than sure that whatever it is you have to say won't shock me in the least!”
“Are you a religious man?” asked Sam, feeling his heart rate increase.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Because if you are, it will make what I'm about to tell you even harder for you to believe. So, I will ask again. Are you a religious man?” Sam resisted the urge to start chewing the skin under his bottom lip, and focused on staying calm and trying to sound in control.
“Not that I see it as relevant, but yes, well, I was. Events of late have made me,” he paused and ran a hand through his greying hair, “question my faith, you could say. But I still hold some hope that there is someone looking out for us. I still don't see how this relates?”
Behind the stern and frustrated expression that Sam could see on Ackhart's face there was something else. Intrigue. “God and the devil are real,” said Sam, sounding deadly serious. “Although they are far more tangible than you could ever imagine.” Sam watched the inspector's tanned and slightly weather worn complexion crease in a mixture of frustration and anger.
