“No. He wants Abbey.”
Lynn felt the hairs on her arm tingle. “But Abbey left a couple of hours ago, remember?”
“Check on her.” With a gentleness that belied his bulk, he took her hand in his. “Please.”
She nodded. He smiled and wiped the tear from his cheek. This was going to be a long night for the third shift. She didn’t envy them at all.
11
“We do not yield to threats or intimidation,” the voice slid like a glacier through the air. “If you would prefer, I can summon the police to talk to you. If that does not fulfill your dreams, I would be more than happy to hail the SWAT team.”
Well, Martha’s on a roll, Lynn thought, taking pity on whomever it was who pissed her off. Lynn loved watching the little Nazi spar with a rude visitor. She turned the corner into the entrance foyer and saw Martha leaning toward a tall figure, her face crimson with rage.
The figure turned toward her and smiled. Standing at least six feet tall, he sported a mane of thick black hair that hung in curly ringlets to his broad shoulders. He had a strong, well-defined jaw line and a nose that fit his face perfectly. His olive skin showed no blemish, no mark, and no imperfection of any kind. A woolen trench coat hung lazily across his shoulders and a finely tailored suit traced his muscular body. Diamond cufflinks held together the ends of the light blue shirt peeking out from beneath the suit coat. He leaned heavily upon a thick wooden walking stick bejeweled with sparkling gemstones.
Lynn knew immediately that this man was God’s representative on Earth. He must be listened to, respected, revered. There was nothing in his life in which this man did not excel.
He winked at her and smiled, displaying a set of movie star perfect teeth. “Good day, Mademoiselle,” he said in a heavy French accent, bowing slightly.
The man bowed. He spoke French. He is God. He must be obeyed.
“Can I help you?” she managed to mutter.
“NO, YOU CAN’T!” Martha snapped. “I’ve got Mr. Fancy Pants all wrapped up.”
“I wish you no trouble, Madame,” Mr. Fancy Pants said in a voice as smooth and sweet as Vermont maple syrup. “I merely wish to have my questions answered.”
“I know what you wish and I’m telling you No,” Martha snapped back.
Lynn stepped closer to the god. Martha was as immune to his divine aura as she was to human emotions such as politeness, sensitivity and love. Martha was insane. This Frenchman wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Unless asked.
“Martha…”
“Don’t ‘Martha’ me. We don’t release information on our patients, period!” Martha snapped.
“Of course you do not, my fine lady,” the man said calmly. “Nor would I wish you to break any law. I merely asked if I may speak to the professional dealing with my niece Abbey.”
“Abbey?” Lynn asked quickly, before Martha could say anything further.
“Yes, Abbey,” the man said, moving away from the nasty Nazi Martha and closer to Lynn. He smelled of lilacs. Lynn loved lilacs. Lilacs were her favorite flower. “I wish to see her as, alas, I have been out of the country for some time. I wish only to discuss her progress and ensure she is well.” He smiled. Was it her imagination, or did sunlight sparkle off his perfect teeth?
“IF she’s your niece,” Martha spat with disgust, “you’d know who her doctor is!”
“I’m sorry,” Lynn said, “but we can’t disperse any information about patients.”
“Yes,” he said, bowing to her slightly. Lynn could see the tanned scalp underneath the thick black follicles of his hair. “That is as this woman,” he gestured toward Martha, “has told me. The Hippo law.” “HIPPA,” Martha sighed.
“Besides,” Lynn said, staring into his eyes and deciding that these eyes held nothing but sweetness, “we have no information regarding discharged patients.”
Martha hissed an intake of air.
For a second, Lynn thought she saw a dark cloud of anger flash across his face and his smile falter. But she must have hallucinated, for he instantly took her hand and with a quick kiss, brushed it across his lips.
“Many thank yous, milady,” he crooned. Then with a flurry, he set his bowler atop his head and hobbled out the door, his cane grasped in his perfectly manicured hand.
“You’re going to hell,” Martha spat after Mr. Most Wonderful Eyes closed the door behind him. “I think you just broke three HIPPA regulations.”
Lynn ignored her. She was sure telling that a patient had been discharged was not a violation of HIPPA regulations. Then a sad thought came to her.
“He never told me his name,” she sighed.
“Robert,” Martha snapped, “Robert Something—French-sounding.”
“Ah!” Lynn smiled, “He is French.”
“Yeah,” Martha grunted, “big whoop-dee-doo.”
Lynn smiled at Martha and headed down the carpeted hallway towards her office. The sunlight streaming through the windows cast a warm, welcoming glow on the austere mansion, providing a much needed air of comfort. Robert. Bob. Robbie. Rob. All of these contractions seemed to dull the otherwise royal aura of the regal name and Lynn found herself wondering why any man would ever allow such a proper name to be shortened into something so…simplistic.
She grabbed the handle of her office door and pushed and smacked headlong into the heavy wood. Of course she locked it, what was she thinking? She always locked her door. She smiled to herself and fished her keys out of her back pocket, wondering all the while if the Frenchman would like her decor.
12
Robert stood at the edge of The Meadows’ parking lot and flagged down his driver. It irritated him that the fool would park so far away from the front door when he gave precise instructions where to await his return. Didn’t the dolt realize that Robert would emerge from this forlorn structure at its main entrance and not hundreds of yards away? Robert sighed in disgust and shifted his weight from leg to leg, broadcasting his disappointment and wondering where the man’s sense had gone.
Servants were so hard to train that he often wondered why he bothered to try and educate them on his unique needs. Perhaps he should learn how to do these menial tasks himself rather than rely on the Doctor to choose his support staff. This practice of hiring locals to work for him may be useful in avoiding direct contact with authorities, but it required much effort and patience on his part.
And patience was a precious commodity these days.
As the black sedan rolled steadily towards him, Robert analyzed his plan once more, scouring it for flaws and risks. He knew Abbey would be at the Bastille by now. Where else would those harpies take her? Leave it to Eleanor, the witch, to gather the girl into the fold of the Guild earlier than expected. Eleanor was clever. Damn her. Perhaps he should forget this ill-fated game of Cloak and Dagger and merely saunter to the front door of the Bastille and demand the shrews take him to see Abbey. Does he not have the right to see her? Does he not have the right to access the Tapestry? He has the same rights as the Guild of Women, just like every other Immortal. But, no, he dare not do this because of Abbey. Because of what Abbey may have told the witches about him; because of what she may have remembered.
He shifted his weight again and rubbed his scalp vigorously. Damn her! If only he knew what the silly girl did or did not remember; if only he knew what she did or did not tell the witches; if only he knew what she did or did not reveal to the Guild! This one unanswered question, this one tiny doubt, is all that kept him from storming onto the grounds of the mansion, taking the girl and disappearing into the Tapestry. What to do now? Abbey must be his or die. Simple enough. He’d killed thousands of people before Abbey; what’s one more? God knows he had enough reasons to kill any of the damned witches of the Guild. Eleanor could be defeated. Did she think the Bastille was impenetrable? Did the witch really believe the fortress’s defenses would stop him from getting to the girl or the Tapestry? Had Eleanor become so confounded by age, power or wealth that she no longer realized how fra
gile her life was? The women of the Guild could die; he proved that time and time again by murdering the witches himself.
The limo floated along the curb until the back door came to rest a good meter to his right. Couldn’t the sod see where Robert stood? Why must he always make adjustments for another’s incompetence? Joshua lowered the volume of “HEY, YOU, GET OFF OF MY CLOUD.”
Robert closed his eyes and controlled his anger. He could not kill this young man. Yet. He waited until the oaf got out of the car and began walking towards the rear of the vehicle before yanking the rear door open. He threw himself into the back, dispensed with the useless cane— not even the ‘cripple’ façade had solicited sympathy from that ice queen of a secretary—and slammed the door closed just as the fool reached for it.
“Where to, boss?” Joshua asked after climbing into the driver’s seat.
Robert sighed. If he drove past the Bastille tonight, he risked tipping his hand before the time was right. But if he waited, it was likely the wenches would conceive some plan to whisk Abbey away before Robert could get to her. Which would it be? Damn. If only he had arrived at The Meadows earlier today, he might have been able to get to the girl before the women. He should have known Eleanor would… “Boss?” the voice floated from the front seat.
“I have asked you repeatedly not to refer to me by that moniker,” Robert snapped.
The young man flashed a smile into the rear view mirror, his perfectly straight white teeth glimmering in the fading light. He winked, nodded and shoved the dark glasses over his eyes. He flicked a button on the CD and music boomed from the speakers. “I WAS BORN…”
Robert shook his head and ground his teeth together. “To the penthouse, please,” he muttered.
“Right-e-o, boss!” the driver chirped and pressed a button on the dashboard.
As the dark glass partition slid between the driver and himself, Robert sighed. Yes, he would definitely kill this man. Eventually.
13
“I, Abbey said, staring out the window of the limo, believe there is a woman running alongside the car,”
“That would be Boo,” Ruth smiled, as her hands flitted over her needlepoint.
“She’s blue,” Abbey said.
Ruth laughed loudly. “Boo does have a fondness for blue!”
“And she’s naked.”
“Abbey, dear, your Aunt Boo has a few…idiosyncrasies,” Eleanor muttered from beneath closed eyelids. “One learns to adapt.”
Less than an hour ago, the trio had loaded themselves into the limo and sat in uncomfortable silence as the car meandered around the curves of the road leading away from The Meadows and towards the Bastille. Ruth chatted nonstop about the weather, gluten-free snacks, cloud formations, and the benefits of baking with honey; through it all, Abbey nodded patiently. She desperately wanted to talk to Eleanor about the brass toy airplane and the cryptic message written on its side, but felt it rude to change the topic. After spending only minutes on the freeway, the limo exited onto a side road that paralleled the river.
Turning off the road onto a smaller drive, the limo cruised through thickly wooded countryside on a smooth, freshly paved road with PRIVATE DRIVE signs every few hundred feet. It was then that Abbey turned to look out the opposite side of the car and noticed the naked blue figure running alongside. As the limo passed her, the blue woman locked eyes with Abbey. The look lasted only a moment before the woman turned and disappeared into the woods.
“I know this place,” Abbey declared, gazing at the countryside.
“Yes!” Ruth squealed. “Yes. What do you remember?”
Try as she might, Abbey caught only pieces of the mental visions: walking along the water, laughing at the sky, a long, straight stretch of road. She shook her head.
“Let me know when you remember something more substantial,” Ruth cooed and returned to her needlepoint.
“Ah! We have arrived,” Eleanor said, pulling herself upright in the seat. The limo sat in front of two huge iron gates and mounted inside were the largest stone pylons Abbey had ever seen. Behind the gates, Abbey saw turrets standing high above the treetops.
The driver punched a code into the keypad and the gates opened, allowing the limo onto a wide stone driveway flanked by a high, sturdy-looking fence to the left of the vehicle. To the right was a huge rectangular stone building with eight turrets spaced along its outside walls. The land around the structure was perfectly manicured, with stone pathways, patches of flowers, and small iron benches under large shade trees. Abbey turned her attention to the immediate right and stared at a drawbridge that doubled as a front walkway leading to two enormous wooden doors.
“Welcome to the Bastille,” said Eleanor.
“Not the REAL Bastille,” Ruth laughed. “That’s in France.”
Eleanor looked to Abbey. “How much of this do you remember, dear?” Abbey shook her head. “The construction of our Bastille took over two years, and has been in the Emerson family since its completion in the 1700’s.
“The Bastille sits on five of our one thousand acres. The five acres of the grounds are protected by the fence you see as well as an assortment of monitoring devices.”
“Why the security?” Abbey asked, gawking at the flags posted on top of the turrets: USA, France, Canada, Ireland, England, one she did not recognize.
“We live in dangerous times, do we not?” Eleanor answered.
“You live here, my love,” Ruth added, patting Abbey’s hand. “You will remember. I’m sure of it.”
The limo pulled to a stop in front of the drawbridge. In a flash, hands opened the car doors and Eleanor stepped out, followed by Ruth.
Abbey followed the two aunts while a thin man appeared out of nowhere to haul her bag from the trunk. His dark hair was parted in the middle and lay expertly to either side of the part. His long, thin face ended with a pointed chin and his ears were too small for his head. As he passed the three women with the bag, Eleanor turned to Abbey.
“You remember Fred, my dear?” Eleanor said, nudging Abbey towards the man.
“Good evening, Abbey.” His crisp pronunciation crept over his perfectly aligned white teeth that appeared whiter against his tanned skin.
“Hello,” she responded, staring into eyes that sparkled in the afternoon sun. A faint air of recognition fluttered through her. She knew him, she was sure of it, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember.
Suddenly, it struck her that he had one brown eye and one blue.
“Good afternoon, Fred,” Ruth cooed. “How fares the Bastille?”
Fred grinned. “Tomyris has left the dogs to their own devices in the east wing,” he said calmly. “They seem to have discovered the joys of… how shall I say? They discovered the joys of dirty lingerie.”
“Wonderful,” Eleanor’s sarcasm seeped into the air. “Just what I wanted to see—Tomyris’ worn panties. Goodness knows where they’ve been.”
“Perhaps they raided the panty drawer in order to rinse the delicates,” Ruth smiled.
“If only the dogs were that useful.” Eleanor turned to Fred. “Is it safe to assume the garments in question are still lying about?”
Fred laughed. “The way I see it, there are some things a man doesn’t need to acquaint himself with.”
“Unless, of course, he had a hand in their disposal?” Eleanor grinned.
“This way, dear,” Ruth muttered, grabbing Abbey by the elbow and guiding her into the mansion. “There’s something you must see.”
Abbey turned and waved to Fred as she followed Aunt Ruth, her gut churning. This man was with her when she sank beneath the waves and the darkness dragged her into the depths. As she watched, he waved to her, nodded and disappeared from view as Ruth pulled her into the Bastille.
The foyer of the mansion spread out before her with dazzling brilliance. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling, spilling its colorful arcs across a floor of white Italian tile. The sparsely decorated walls held a huge mirror framed in gold abov
e a table opposite the double door entrance. To her left, a fire crackled in a stone fireplace along the wall of the sitting room filled with vintage Victorian furniture. To her right, a dark mahogany door sporting a brass knocker in the shape of a gargoyle took up half the wall. In front of her, next to the mirror, an arched doorway led to the remainder of the mansion.
“Ah, you are all here,” Eleanor said as several women rushed into the foyer.
“Of course!” sighed the thin black woman wearing a brightly colored, flowing robe and several gold necklaces.
“Boo is out,” barked the olive-skinned woman with chiseled features, dark, penetrating eyes and full, sensuous lips. Abbey guessed her to be Italian. “Imagine—Boo stalking the woods. Perhaps she’ll return with something she’s strangled with her bare hands.”
“Oh, dear, I hope not.” Ruth shook her head. “I have no other recipes for crow. Although I suppose I could mix the bird into a stuffing.” “Yes, I know all about Boo,” Eleanor muttered under her breath. “She will be along momentarily.”
“Abbey, you must be dead-tired after your trek from town.” The third one in the group, a middle-eastern woman, with smooth, dark skin, wore a tank top that revealed muscled arms decorated with primitive tattoos. Woven throughout her long black hair were ostrich feathers and colored beads. Peeking out from her hip pocket was an iPod. Four Salukis sat at her heels, looking to her with anticipation. “Would you like something to eat? Ruth can whip you up something. Cornish hen?
A cake? Baked Alaskan?”
“Oatmeal bars!” Ruth piped up enthusiastically. “With figs!”
“Abbey, do you remember any names, or do we have the Mickey Mouse roll call again?” the middle-eastern woman asked, ignoring the oatmeal bars Ruth held out.
Abbey nodded, “Of course, Aunt Tom.” She hugged the petite woman fiercely as the dogs groaned in disapproval. She nodded to the ebony-skinned woman in the bright colors, “Aunt Zen, and Aunt Liv.” She smiled to the Italian woman with the chiseled features. “It is only my distant memories that fail me.”
Guild Of Immortal Women Page 5
