Pinot Noir

by Lorraine Evanoff

  T H I R T Y – T H R E E

  January 12, 2002

  “Where are we going?” Louise asked.

  “Just follow the signs toward Brussels,” Father Gregory said.

  Louise gunned the accelerator, glimpsing her rearview mirror to check on the girls. Annabel was incredibly calm and poised. She comforted Evelyne who rested her head on Annabel’s shoulder. Evelyne was not just sucking her thumb. She had crossed her index finger over her thumb, fitting both into her mouth.

  “Why didn’t Ferdinande and André report Evelyne to the police?”

  “They had no idea she was there. Neither did I. Arnaud was very private. He never allowed anyone to enter that wing of the château. I have been stationed here tracking his movements.”

  “On whose orders?”

  “You’ll see very shortly.”

  A half-hour later, Louise pulled into the Sonian Forest and arrived at a fourteenth century monastery. She parked, and they led the girls through the front entrance where a nun met them.

  “Welcome, children.” Her demeanor calmed the girls as she led them down a hallway to the nuns’ quarters. Louise and Father Gregory followed.

  “They will be safe here,” Father Gregory said. “Let’s get them situated, then we can meet with the others and discuss our plan.” Louise was too confused to argue. They arrived at a dormitory where several sisters welcomed the girls. Louise knew they were finally safe and turned to leave, but Annabel gently took her hand.

  “Thank you,” Annabel said. She hugged Louise and Evelyne came over to hug Louise too.

  “You are safe now,” Louise said reassuringly.

  They left and Father Gregory led Louise down the cloister to the other end of the abbey.

  “How long have you been working for Interpol?” Louise asked wanting to know if he worked with Jean-Philippe.

  “God sent us here on a very important mission,” Father Gregory said cryptically. “We could not turn away from our obligation.” With that he opened the antediluvian door, and they entered the expansive meeting room of the chapter-house. Around the long table, about two dozen monks, seated and standing, were in intense discussions. Everyone stopped when Louise entered. A familiar face rose from the table to greet her.

  “Hi Louise,” Michael said.

  “Michael?” Louise was in a state of confusion. “How did you get here?”

  “Brothers, please welcome our guest, Louise Moscow,” Michael announced. Those seated stood, and all bowed their heads to greet Louise. Some approached to shake her hand. They were gracious and seemed enthusiastic to meet her. One monk was particularly overwhelmed and enveloped her in his cloaked arms.

  “It is an honor to meet you finally,” Father Timothy said. “Please forgive me. I’m a hugger.”

  “The honor is mine,” Louise said awkwardly. “Thank you for taking in those poor girls.”

  “Mission accomplished,” Father Gregory said. “But there is much more that needs to be done.”

  “Which is why we have gathered here.” The authoritative but familiar voice startled Louise.

  The monks parted like the Red Sea to reveal the source. In a kind of Hitchcockian optical illusion, the room seemed to widen then narrow as Louise focused her eyes on what she thought must have been a hallucination.

  “It’s wonderful to see you, Louise,” Jean-Philippe said, rising from his chair. Dressed in full Roman cassock, he had blended in with all the other monks until that moment. Now, he stood out like a god among men. Louise remained frozen, confused.

  She made her way through the monks to the head of the table until she was face to face with Jean-Philippe. She raised a hand, Jean-Philippe didn’t flinch. She gently touched his cheek.

  “It’s really you,” Louise said.

  Jean-Philippe opened his arms as though to say, yes, it’s me. The other monks funneled out of the room, with only Michael and Father Gregory remaining.

  This feels like a dream,” Louise said, staring at Jean-Philippe.

  “It’s no dream,” Jean-Philippe said. “You found me.” She leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her. “I knew you could do it, Lulu.” He stood back to look at her. “I like your hair.” Then he felt her biceps. “And you’re so musclé.”

  “And you. Of all places to find you, this was the last place I would have considered. Are you really a priest?”

  “Yes, it’s official,” he replied, pulling a chair out for her. Please, let’s sit down.” He sat at an angle from her and took her hand. “I had to go undercover.” He indicated his cassock. “This allowed me anonymity, and the Fathers of Mercy took me in. Adapting to this cloistered lifestyle came very naturally.”

  “As much as I hate to admit it,” Louise said resignedly, tears welling in her eyes, “this holy life suits you. This allows you to continue to work for Interpol along with Father Gregory?”

  “Precisely. We have been investigating the ring behind all these disappearances of young women in Europe for many years.”

  Michael chimed in. “Louise, your investigation uncovered clues leading to the same chateau that Father Gregory had infiltrated. But your approach tied together more missing links.”

  “Yes, it looks like the Burgundy serial killers are connected to the Brussels serial killers,” Louise said. “It’s a truly evil ring.”

  Jean-Philippe elaborated. “This network seeks out the most depraved souls and feeds their sickness. They provide young women to corrupt elite at a high price. In exchange, these sadistic serial killers get to keep the girls that are deemed beneath the wealthy clients’ standards.”

  “Thanks to Charlie, I acquired video evidence and I was also able to tie up some lose ends in Patrick’s investigation. Both should be enough evidence to re-open the Almasi murder case.”

  “Yes, Michael told me.” Jean-Philippe said.

  “As usual, you have gone above and beyond expectations,” Michael added. “But this is a long game, Louise.”

  “That’s correct,” Jean-Philippe said. “We have been working together while you have been in hiding. This network is so secretive that it has taken many years to infiltrate. Just tracking down the organization behind the Maltese Falcon trade and finally planting Father Gregory at the château took three years. After tonight our cover will have been compromised, but two girls have been saved. The death of Arnaud will only create a vacuum that will soon be filled with another corrupt soul. We will pick up where we left off in a long-drawn-out war with only incremental victories.”

  Louise remembered Matthieu’ words, the caves. “Actually, I think we can do better than that. We have to talk with Matthieu as soon as possible.”

  “The patient will make a full recovery,” the doctor said. Louise, Jean-Philippe and Michael followed him to Matthieu’s hospital room, which was guarded by a police officer. “You can visit with him briefly, but then he will need his rest.” The doctor left and they closed the door.

  “Tu as bonne mine,” Louise said, taking Matthieu’s hand.

  “Merci,” Matthieu replied, the color and a smile coming back to his face. “It’s good to see you, Louise.”

  “This is FBI agent, Michael Fuentes, and you know who Jean-Philippe is,” Louise said. “I told them you could help us.”

  Matthieu explained that he had been doing his own investigating of Arnaud and the crime ring ever since Jo’s murder and the blackmail. “After they killed Jo and threatened my family,” Matthieu said, “I had no choice but to keep paying them from the vineyard profits. But it couldn’t go on forever, so I had to take matters into my own hands. For months I followed Arnaud, tracking his movements. When you turned up at our vineyard, I knew there was more to you than you let on. When I realized that you were going to Belgium, I followed you. Imagine my horror when you led me to Arnaud. I confronted him and he told me he knew who you were because of the background check the bank did for your loan.”

  “So, you were there to rescue me?”

  “Yes, of
course. These people are evil.”

  “After you were shot, you mentioned the caves,” Louise said. “What did you mean by that?”

  “Just a few months ago, Arnaud’s trail led me to secret caves. That is where they hold their terrible…meetings.” Matthieu became upset and his heart monitor spiked.

  The nurse opened the door. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, so he can rest.”

  Louise leaned over Matthieu and asked, “Can you tell us where the caves are?”

  “Impossible,” Matthieu said. “The only way is to show you.”

  The gurgle of underground mineral springs seemed to taunt the nubile beauty whose whimpers could be heard in a bizarre orchestration that echoed in the caverns. Lying on a massive granite slab, only a small swath of cloth provided the girl the slightest modesty. A man dressed in a Celtic Gora cloak, the hood concealing his visage, held a large primitive artifact resembling a snake above his head and chanted in ancient Gaelic.

  “That could be the mythical ex voto. It is said to be in the shape of a phallus,” Matthieu whispered to Louise. The doctor had released him after a week recovering in hospital and he had led them to these caves. “The serpent represents the cyclic nature of life due to the annual shedding of its skin. It was important to the Druids and is depicted on much Celtic jewelry. Druid’s were also known as ‘Adders’ and it’s possible that the story of St. Patrick ridding Ireland of snakes refers to the Druids.” They stood in the obscurity of the vast cave network, surrounded by the French version of a SWAT team waiting silently to raid the ring’s secret ritual.

  “That is a common misconception,” said Gérard de la Varende, also present. “The notion that the long-sought relic considered the holy grail of healing is a phallus is misinformed. The custom of the phallus is a remnant of the Catholic Church fertility cult in classical antiquity from Isernia in Southern Italy. The true Celtic holy grail ex voto of healing is a symbol of female fertility.”

  His words gave Matthieu an epiphany. “That makes sense!” The group shifted in silent unison as Matthieu’s relatively loud whisper threatened their concealment. The ritual chanting ceased, and the cave fell silent as the gathering listened for intruders. After a moment they resumed the ceremony.

  Matthieu explained his outburst. “Every sacred Celtic shrine in Burgundy celebrates female fertility and all the relics are to the Goddess Diana. The ex voto of healing is not a phallus. It is a vulva.”

  “That’s correct,” Gérard agreed. “The Sheela-na-gig.”

  “Yes!” Matthieu said. “The female fertility figure, carved in stone, stands with an open mouth, her legs wide apart, holding open her vagina. The vulva is the main door, the mysterious divide between life and nonlife. There were many found near the holy wells in Ireland.”

  Louise interrupted him. “While it’s refreshing to hear men so comfortable discussing the vagina, may I remind you that we are here to thwart a murderous cult?”

  Suddenly a strange noise shook the caverns. It sounded like a large siphon followed by gurgling water. They watched from the obscurity as another man wearing a Gora cloak thrust a large wooden lever downward causing searing steam to engulf the sacrificial altar. The girl screamed as the vapors threatened to scald her. Several other cloaked men joined the chant as the master of ceremonies placed a heavy gold torq around the neck of an elderly man seated upon an ornate throne embedded with precious stones.

  “That’s the source of the mysterious sounds in my château,” Gérard realized aloud. “This whole time it was these clandestine gatherings beneath the Château du Chastenay. Perceval tried to lead me here several times, but I never wanted to venture into this densely overgrown part of the forest.”

  “Perceval?” Michael asked.

  “Gérard’s dog,” Louise replied. The sound of the water gurgled louder.

  Matthieu cut in. “After following Arnaud, he finally led me here, where I have been secretly observing their rituals. If they knew I had found it, they would certainly have killed me. It is a gruesome practice. I only saw this ritual once before, with every pump of the well, the heat increases, and the steam eventually burns the girl alive. That is why I followed you to Belgium. I knew you were dealing with dangerous people. During my archeological research, I had only read of this ancient sacrificial Dis Pater ritual, but never imagined it would still be in use.”

  Stupefied by Matthieu’s choice of words, Louise repeated what the bartender Jules had said. “Dis Pater’s goals lurk behind countless lies and deceptions!”

  “Exactly!” Matthieu said. “In fact, this cult has taken the name of Dis Pater precisely for that reason. They have mastered the art of deception, remaining in constant state of flux, morphing, disappearing and reappearing where least expected.

  “They call themselves Dis Pater?” Louise asked.

  “Yes,” Matthieu confirmed. The Order of Dis Pater.”

  Dis pater means Father Wealth,” Louise added.

  “Yes, they use this symbolism in their rituals,” Matthieu said. “That gold torq, and the gems on that throne, are very symbolic of the Dis Pater underworld. The ritual serves more as an initiation than any kind of actual healing. But these gatherings represent large sums of money to the crime ring from desperate wealthy souls. The caves are so secret the individuals gain access only wearing a blindfold and partake in what they believe are healing rituals. That was Todd Mayer’s fatal mistake. Trying to impress his boss, Mayer made the reckless decision to invite Almasi to these secret caves for treatments. He was able to convince Almasi using the connection to gemstones. But as soon as Almasi realized the situation he was doomed. They threatened Almasi at the Bilderberg conference last year. But he was too ethical and would not play along, so they had no leverage against him. They had to do away with him.”

  “They must have been keeping this place a secret for hundreds of years,” Gérard said. “It is the perfect secret hideaway.”

  “That also explains why you have had to fight so hard to keep the château,” Louise said. “This place is on your land and is worth a fortune to the crime ring.” The sound of the siphon resumed, and the girl screamed.

  “Not anymore,” Jean-Philippe said. “We have these vermin surrounded and this place is about to be fumigated.”

  The signal was given by Jean-Philippe, who no longer wore his cassock and was now on a different mission. He and Father Gregory, both in street clothes, watched alongside Michael as a squad of French Gendarmerie descended upon and then quickly overpowered the unsuspecting criminals.

  The passenger door of a black sedan opened, and George Moscow stepped out. The driver, a beefy security guard in a dark suit and government-issued sunglasses, opened the back door. He held out his hand for Mary Moscow, who descended the vehicle and looked around in a daze. George put a protective arm around her shoulder and led her past the blinking lights of the squad cars and gendarmes placing people in custody. Mary couldn’t take her eyes off a stunning teenaged woman sitting inside the open back doors of an ambulance. A medic placed a warm blanket over her shivering bare shoulders and examined her for visible injuries. The girl looked up and locked eyes with Mary, a mirror image of her older self.

  Mary pulled George closer as he coaxed her forward through the thick forest to the entrance of the cave network. The dawn was just piercing the darkness of the witching hour. The security guard carried a torch to light their way into the tunnel. Louise held a lantern and greeted her mom with a reassuring hug.

  “I know this is difficult, mom,” Louise said. “But Dad and I are right here with you.”

  It had been Louise’s idea. After saving the girls from the Maltese Falcon sex ring, she had called her father, George Moscow, and told him a version of what Mary had told her that December night, which seemed like three years ago instead of just three weeks. In 1962 when Mary was 20 years old and doing an internship as a simultaneous translator in Dijon, she had been captured by a sadistic ring that sounded too similar to the Dis Pater
ring to be a coincidence. George agreed that they needed Mary’s testimony as a witness and therefore they would need her to go identify the caves.

  Back in the present, Mary still could not articulate her feelings. Coming face to face with her worst nightmare, after all those years of working to forget it, had her head spinning. She stood silently in the obscurity of the cave, closed her eyes and crossed herself. Louise had seen it many times throughout her life, Mary’s inner-strength pose.

  Suddenly Mary opened her eyes like she had seen a ghost.

  “What is it, Mary?” George asked.

  Mary breathed in deeply then froze. Then she coughed convulsively.

  “Relax, mom. Take a deep breath.”

  But Mary waved her off, nodding her head up and down. “This is the place,” Mary managed to choke out. “I can smell it.” Her blue eyes were now filled with resolve. She grabbed the lamp from Louise and forged ahead into the dark chasm, their shadows playing against the walls, like shadows of the past. As Louise and the others followed, eventually the light from all sources allowed those shadows to fade.

  Louise looked at her dad. “She’s going to be okay.”

  “I should say so,” George said, allowing an expression of relief to cross his face. But then his inner cop emerged. “Let’s get her testimony before she – like she always does – starts forgiving and forgetting.”

  E P I L O G U E

  January 15, 2002

  Jean-Philippe looked out of place walking down the Avenue Princesse Grace in Monte Carlo dressed in full cassock, black Saturno hat, sunglasses, and carrying a rosary in one hand with a large crucifix in the other. Women gazed and men nodded respectfully.

  “The idea of going undercover is to not attract attention,” Louise said.

  “The things of God are hidden in plain sight,” Jean-Philippe said, paraphrasing Proverbs.

  “Do you have a bible passage for everything?”