by Ann Benson
Seeing the poster, I understood even better. It depicted a grotesque warty boar dripping with hideous slime, too purple to be normal blood, but something the artist probably wanted you to imagine as bestial blood. Upon this boar’s back was a warrior-being in ornate, dark armor—the whole effect was intriguingly medieval. He had a short sword raised up and was holding the boar by the mane—it had a hairy ruff around its neck, almost like a lion might. The sword’s angle and position made me think that this knight or warrior was going to kill the beast while he was still riding on its back. He would slay the demon, but in the process he would have to take a fall, maybe lose his own life. The compelling image disturbed me, but my eyes kept wanting to examine all the tiny details the artist had put in, the jewels on the sword hilt, the fancy impressed decorations on the armor, the flashing pointed rivets on the fingers of the metal gloves.
But despite all the minute detail everywhere else in the image, when you looked into the slit opening on the front of the helmet, there was no face.
“Hmm,” I said as I stared at the poster.
“Yeah,” Larry’s mother said, almost inaudibly—an odd reaction. But I let it go.
I came away from the Wilder home with a better sense of the kid himself. It’s so hard to put an image together from photographs and descriptions. What I really needed was an Animatronic boy. But hanging out in this kid’s room, sitting on the edge of his bed, seeing the spot where his sneakers would land and his jeans would be tossed, looking at the things he liked to look at, I had come to the conclusion that he was a nice, normal kid, not a Promenade kid. I told his mother I would be in touch if I needed anything more and that I would keep her closely informed of any new developments when they arose. She knew that when really meant if; I could see it on her face as I left. But she was kind enough not to challenge me.
I would not get the same deference in the McKenzie house. My arrival there was delayed by a stop at the café near where Larry had been taken. I pulled into a loading zone and was confronted almost immediately by a frowning waiter, who invited me with obvious annoyance to move my car. My badge and assurances of a reasonably quick departure backed him off.
I walked up and down the sidewalk a couple of times while this waiter watched me impatiently. When I had a feel for the block, I walked right past him into the café and asked for the manager. She came out of the kitchen wearing a white jacket and a soiled apron, on which she wiped her hands before offering one in greeting. I guessed that she was probably the chef as well, maybe even the owner. She said she’d been there on the day of the grab but hadn’t seen anything herself, then told me that the two other potential eyewitnesses were no longer employed at the café, so I’d have to contact them at their homes, if either of them still lived in the same place. She thought at least one of the two still lived in the neighborhood, because she stopped in from time to time and hadn’t mentioned moving.
I thanked her, then went outside and annoyed the anxious waiter even further by smiling right at him and sitting down at one of the outdoor tables. He would actually have to pay attention to me, poor baby. As I did, a car pulled slowly down the street and came to a stop parallel to my own vehicle. The driver motioned to the waiter, who cast a nervous glance my way and shook his head slowly from side to side. The car pulled away slowly and headed down the street. A classic low-key wave-off, because the coast was not clear.
No wonder the little jerk didn’t want anyone, especially a cop, taking up that loading zone. He was waiting for a drug delivery. Probably just for himself; he didn’t look tough enough to be a dealer. I memorized the plate number on the departing vehicle and would pass it along later to someone in narcotics. If he wanted to be annoyed at me, I would be happy to give him a really good reason.
I got the feeling that Marcia McKenzie’s peevishness was her natural state, even beyond her grief, just as Mrs. Wilder’s natural state was to be gracious.
“I don’t know why I have to go through all of this again,” she whined when we finally got settled. Already I felt like an intruder; the house was so perfectly decorated that I felt underqualified to enter it. I could imagine plastic covers on the furniture when no one was going to be visiting for a few days. It scared me to walk across the Oriental rug in the family room; the thing probably cost a couple of months of my salary.
Sadly, this family’s affluence hadn’t protected them. Jared McKenzie’s disappearance had landed on them like a ton of bricks and they were still digging out. People who don’t expect to become crime victims feel angry, frustrated, unsafe, violated, and tremendously confused about how the world could become such a foreign place in one short tick of the clock. Marcia McKenzie was accustomed to complete deference but found herself having to scratch and claw her way through a cumbersome system that automatically defaulted in favor of an anonymous criminal. Everything she’d encountered in the process of trying to pin down some justice was in direct opposition to what she believed about how things ought to be. By rights, the system should have treated her better, but she didn’t have to be so mean to me. There were at least a dozen times over the course of our interview when I just wanted to get up and walk out. If I heard the word disgraceful one more time—it was as if Terry Donnolly and I had been the direct cause of all her misery.
She went on and on. “. . . a deplorable lack of response, a galling failure to acknowledge my family’s needs . . .”
Yes, I understand how you might feel that the ball was dropped while we are reorganizing Detective Donnolly’s cases. But that’s all going to improve now. I had to be careful; if I agreed too heartily, she would have unreasonable expectations, even more unreasonable than she already had. It took me almost an hour to cut through all this anger and get to Jared’s room, and then—a blessing—the phone rang. She left me alone while she went to answer it in a room down the hallway.
She stayed away for a long time and I eventually got tired of standing, so I sat down on the bed, without permission. Unlike Larry Wilder’s room, this room had been worked over by a very anxious mother who needed to maintain some control over a son who was no longer present. There was no better place to start than his private space, which might have been one of their battlegrounds before he disappeared. I was bolder in Jared’s room; I touched things readily, picked them up and turned them over, examined them carefully. Larry Wilder’s room seemed a place of respect, while Jared McKenzie’s was a place of turmoil, tones set by their respective, or in the case of Marcia McKenzie, disrespective, mothers.
I started going through his drawers, expecting to find them neat and orderly. But to my delight, they were messy and boylike. Dried felt-tip pens, small rocks, bent paper clips, chewed pencils, broken shoelaces, trading cards, foreign coins, movie tickets—
And a pencil case, from the gift shop at the La Brea Tar Pits.
thirteen
The horse I was given to ride to Saint-Etienne was a gentle bay, but even so, as the ride progressed I began to dread the morrow, when my legs and flanks would be so stiff that I would barely be able to walk. I had once loved to ride a horse, especially when Etienne took me and our sons out on excursions into the countryside. We would beg four mounts from the groom at Champtocé, who was not supposed to allow it but kindly obliged us, especially when the household was installed at Machecoul and would not know. Michel and young Gilles would often ride out alone, on horses much too big for them, to chase small beasts through the forest or play at falconry with the fledgling that Milord was training to his arm. They often stayed out for hours at a time, worrying not only myself but Jean de Craon, who had so much invested in the success of his grandson that a hair out of place would set him to raging at all those who gave care to the boy. Yet between the lot of us we could not always manage to inflict an escort upon them, for they often snuck out from under our noses.
I could only imagine the rage into which Jean de Craon would fly had he been told what I had yesterday been told about his grandson.
Now, a
s we neared Saint-Etienne, I could not imagine ever having loved this pounding torture. Adding to my physical discomfort was an ill sense of foreboding. There would be no encounter between us and Milord, at least not one that had been planned; we were a small party and unarmed, and his Eminence wanted only to observe the situation from a comfortable distance. We would not make ourselves known unless it became absolutely necessary, but rather we would quietly seek intelligence from witnesses to the taking of the castle. And we would wait, to see what developed. All this his Eminence had arranged to humor me. The night before, after the preparations were complete, Jean de Malestroit had had a small dinner brought to us, which we ate together in the privacy of his chamber. It was a pleasant evening under the circumstances, which soured somewhat when he argued once again that we should not make the journey.
Now I sat on a horse in the light of day, my senses honed to exquisite readiness, a state of mind I rarely knew, for such crafts are not often needed by a woman of God, unless she happens to be Jean d’arc. I stared at the fortress of Saint-Etienne from behind the protective cover of a clump of trees, feeling what I imagined a warrior might feel on the verge of a surprise attack, though no such attack was imminent. I was excited, a bit afraid, imagining glory. I noticed everything: the foot soldiers well-armed and ready who stood around the perimeter of the castle near the ancient church, the mounted troops whose horses shifted under their armored weight. I recognized the Marquis de Ceva—a rank scoundrel if ever one walked the earth.
“Milord is nowhere to be seen. He must be inside the castle yet,” I said to his Eminence.
He nodded gravely but could not cover his smile. My warrior state must have seemed humorous to him. To me it seemed a way to pass the time, for I was growing tired of staring into the distance while soldiers milled about the church entry in apparent confusion.
The sun had risen significantly in the sky. I scandalized the company by removing my veil and shaking out my hair but replaced it quickly when all heads turned in my direction. Jean de Malestroit let a quiet chuckle slip out and then arched his eyebrow. He leaned over and whispered, “You may take some comfort in knowing that a helmet is no less bothersome. You will be wanting your sword soon, I suppose.”
What I wanted was a more accommodating seat—I was forced to shift my position on the horse every few minutes to keep from stiffening up. It was difficult to do so while wearing all that cumbersome drapery. But there was plenty to distract me in the small movements that catch one’s eye when the vision is not keenly focused on one specific thing. Most riveting of all was a cat who could not seem to be banished; he—or she, I could not tell from that distance—would rub up against the legs of the horses and make them whinny, thus annoying their riders. Time and again, the Marquis de Ceva would shoo this pest away with the tip of his sword, but the cat always came back, as cats are wont to do, especially hungry ones.
This little game went on for a while, and then suddenly Milord Gilles himself appeared from the door of the church.
“Eminence,” I whispered.
“I see him,” he said to me.
We all sat at attention and watched as Milord, in his black armor, clanked angrily over wooden planks, brandishing his drawn sword at nothing in particular and everything all at once. He carried his helmet in the other hand and tossed it to one of his men, who caught it tenuously. I wondered, on seeing Milord’s grim look, what price the man would have paid had the helmet been dented by a fall to the ground.
Perhaps Jean le Ferron was proving more defiant than expected. Milord stomped back and forth among his men for a few moments, ranting visibly, a scene all too familiar to me from his childhood. Then the cat got in his way, nearly causing him to topple in his ungainly metal suit; he raised his voice and let loose a string of foul language such as ladies seldom hear, though he had no idea that a lady was present to hear it.
I could have forgiven him that. Men, in particular those of the nobility, are expected to behave in that manner on occasion. But then he did the unforgivable before my disbelieving eyes—he grasped his sword with both hands, and with one clean slice cut the unwanted feline in half.
I have no great love of cats. But neither can I sanction their slaughter. The two parts lay twitching at the feet of the horses as Gilles de Rais’s troops laughed at its misery. What remained of it would be stomped to a pulp before the day was through, of that I was convinced. All I could think of was Lady Marie’s poor little dog, so cruelly hung.
I turned and heaved; the remnants of my breakfast, already churned to a slurry by the ride, now visited their bitterness upon my tongue. Precariously atilt, I clung to the horn of my saddle and spat out the residue as best I could. Jean de Malestroit, his face emotionless, took hold of my arm to keep me in balance. He said nothing, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him nod to Frère Demien, who quickly produced and passed over a flagon.
“Drink,” his Eminence urged gently.
I was expecting water, but it turned out to be wine, of good quality. But its excellence was moot, since I could not bring myself to swallow; I swished the fruity stuff around in my mouth and then spat it out. It could not possibly be sweet enough to cleanse this bitter taste.
Thereafter, Frère Demien took one of our escort and set out—by a circuitous route so as not to be seen—toward the village of Saint-Etienne, which lay off to the west. Jean de Malestroit had charged him with the task of questioning Le Ferron’s parishioners about what had actually happened at the church. We remained behind with our diminished guard and watched the comings and goings outside the castle. When my stomach felt more settled, I brought out the bread and cheese I had stowed in my saddle pack and shared it with those in our entourage, reserving enough for those who had gone out in case they found no hospitality in the village. I had no real appetite myself. I wondered if my desire for food would ever return.
The sun was at the midpoint of its decline when the forayers returned. They slipped through the woods behind us and snuck in quietly from between the trees.
Demien wore a grim look on his face as he emerged from cover. Our tonsured brother in Christ Jean le Ferron had apparently been dragged out of the sanctuary, forced down on his knees in full view of everyone, and beaten with a stout stick.
“His hands and feet were chained,” Frère Demien said. “They say he was then hauled, maimed and bloody, back inside his own church as a prisoner. Some of the witnesses wept as they told me. Some who had seen this unholiness could not bring themselves to speak at all.”
“Outrageous,” his Eminence hissed quietly. “That this property should have been seized in this vile manner. There will be immediate action.”
I could see the anger in his eyes, which rested steadily on the speaker; I have never known a man who paid such close attention to what was being told to him, nor one who could bring what was said forth again with more sting. Knowledge is my weapon, he would often say, since I bear no sword. But much as I admired, even loved the man—improper feelings under the best of circumstances—and agreed that anger was in order, I believed that he was angry for the wrong reason.
“Jean,” I said, very softly. He turned to me quickly on hearing his given name.
“Oui, Guillemette?”
“Do you not find it regrettable, as I do, that when a castle disappears we pursue its purloiner with more vigor than we do the violator of our children?”
He looked away again and grunted noncommittally. My dissatisfaction was immense.
I prayed, as earnestly as my near-heathen conscience would allow, for the soul of Gilles de Rais and asked God to show me that he was not what he seemed to have become—a monster, a fiend, a worshiper of the Dark One himself. I begged God against all logic that we would somehow discover it was all untrue and that Milord, upon whom I’d had a mother’s influence, would be proved blameless. Such an outcome seemed more unlikely with each new revelation about his character. But one thing I knew with surety: Duke Jean cared more for the castles of
his comrades than for the children of the folk who lived in their shadows. And that was a matter deserving of someone’s outrage.
By mid-afternoon we had relaxed our vigilance a bit; there seemed little danger that we would be noticed in our wooded hideaway. Gilles’s men were far too preoccupied with their own business (and with greater mutilation of the cat halves) to even glance in our direction. Our horses, who were far more pleased with boredom than were their riders, made no noise at all. The quiet was stunning, yet no one heard the approach of a man through the woods but I. It was only because I was poking through the contents of my saddle pack and therefore turned slightly backward that I heard the small movement in the brush.
Keeping my wits about me, I finished my business in the bag and turned back around again. Then I feigned a slight swoon, at which point his Eminence leaned toward me and reached out. I took advantage of this closeness to whisper to him.
“A man lies in wait behind us. I could not see him clearly, but I know he is there.”
