In Brightest Day, In Darkest Night...
A Gabriel Knight Mystery
Chapter 4
"And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The hand that held the steel;
For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal."
-- Oscar Wilde
******************************
Torches flickered, casting bloody shadows on the night black walls. She was tied to a post in the center, nearly unconscious with fatigue and hunger. Anger and fear warred to keep her tired mind awake. The sounds of fighting in the outer hall had roused her. Now the silence was even worse than before.
Behind her, an ominous shadow bulked into being, and she turned her head to look. A stifled scream of terror fought its way past her palsied lips at the death that confronted her; let it be quick, she prayed desperately.
And then a running figure erupted into the dark hall; an armored man bearing the strangest weapon she had ever seen. It seemed to be a sword, except that the blade was fiery and shone like the sun. Head swimming, she barely heard him shout a challenge; run, she wanted to scream, save yourself! but the words would not come. The warrior stepped forward, nimbly avoiding the mighty sweeps of the Dragon's tail, and dodging the fearsome jaws as they sought to savage him. The sword in his hands swept fiercely forward, slicing the dark air like lightning to plunge into the heart of the Beast. An eldritch shriek drowned out every other sound and reality seemed to crumble around it. She fainted.
When she awoke, she was lying on the clean, sweet grass under a starlit sky. Someone was bathing her face with a wet cloth. It was the same man, the one with the sword; she would have recognised that lithe, armored form anywhere. His face was still obscured by the helmet he wore. When he turned toward her, she reached out to raise the visor that hid his features...
Grace woke up, her hand stretched out before her; she dropped it in confusion when she realised she was still in bed. What was that all about? she wondered. And who was that man? She felt as though she knew him...
******************************
*Friday, 20 June*
An hour later, the three of them were walking across the town square. Gabriel was still yawning. A cup of coffee was definitely in order.
They walked across the cobbled street to a cafe that bore the sign "Chez Jacques" in scarlet letters. Finding a table, they were greeted by a short, thin, balding man in an apron.
"Bonjour! Salut, Michael, ca va?" he asked cheerfully in a beautiful deep voice that belied his diminutive size, placing menu cards before them.
"Bonjour," chorused Michael and Grace. "Ouais, Jacques, ca va. Et toi?" Michael continued pleasantly. Gabriel was slower off the mark. Lifting a bleary and uncomprehending eye to look at the card, he put it down.
"Do you have any coffee?" he asked. Then, realising that this was a French restaurant, he tried again, "Uh, un cafe, s'il vous..."
He needn't have bothered. "Was that a New Orleans accent? Y'all aren't from around here, are ya?"
"Sure, I'm from New Orleans," Gabriel agreed, surprised.
"Why, the world is round, and it do spin! Welcome to Chez Jacques! So good to hear a voice from home! I'm Jacques Boudreaux, formerly of New Orleans, now of Gisors, at your service, mon ami!"
"Glad to know you. I'm Gabriel Knight, this is Grace Nakimura..."
"Gabriel Knight? The famous writer? I'm a big fan, cher! Loved 'The Voodoo Murders' -- never thought I'd get to meet the author! What a pleasure!" he said, pumping Gabriel's hand. Noticing Grace, he did a comical double take. "Fujitsu?"
Grace rolled her eyes. "No, I'm Grace. Fujitsu is a figment of this guy's over-heated imagination, Monsieur Boudreaux," she said, as Gabriel suppressed a chuckle. She was always irritated by mentions of Blake Backlash's faithful assistant.
"But what an imagination, eh? Please, call me Jacques. Everyone does. So, y'all visiting with Michael here? Any friend of the big guy's a friend of mine, I always say! What'll it be?"
They ordered breakfast, and he hurried off into the kitchen. When he returned, he was accompanied by a plump, smiling lady who carried a coffee pot and an array of dishes that smelled very good indeed.
"So, what brings a famous author all the way out here?" Jacques asked, after introducing his wife, Marthe.
"Actually, I'm here to do some research for my next book,' Gabriel explained.
The little man looked very grave and shook his head. "Oh, the slasher murders. Ve-ry nasty, bad ju-ju, cher."
"Bad ju-ju?" queried Grace.
"Yeah, something very wrong. Not natural." He crossed himself. "Y'all better be careful."
Gabriel leaned forward. "Sure, that sounds like good advice. What do you know about the murders?"
"What everybody knows, cher; four murders. They say you shouldn't walk out of town after dark. That's where he takes 'em. Cuts 'em up, so I hear."
"Can you tell me about the victims?"
"I don't know that much; they were tourists, not from around here, 'cept for Vladimir Tornenkov. He was a local, God rest him. Killed last Saturday. Very sad."
"Tornenkov? He was a pianist, right?"
"Oh yeah, very famous. He was supposed to play at the Festival at Avignon next month. He and his partner: Monsieur Lucien Laroche. Poor guy. Half the year, the two of them used to stay right here in town. Very close, they were. Hey Michael, didn't you know Vladimir?"
"Not really, Jacques. You know I travel a lot, and when I'm home, I don't get to town that often..."
"Where was Tornenkov's body found? Do you know?" Gabriel interrupted.
"Oh sure." He leaned forward confidentially. "It was my friend Jules Rustin who found the body. Terrible, just terrible. It was over on the north-west edge of town, right next to the Blanchard place."
"You think your friend Jules Rustin would mind if I asked him some questions?" Gabriel asked, noting down the names and places..
"No problem. I'll talk to him. You'll find him at the bakery. Works there."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
"For you, cher, anything! Now y'all come to me if y'all need any help at all, y'hear?"
"I'll keep that in mind."
They decided to split up. Gabriel wanted a look at the scene of the last murder. Grace said she needed to call Gerde, and look up some stuff. Michael went off to talk to the local authorities about the case.
******************************
Gabriel ducked under the tape that surrounded the site where the last body had been found. The marks in the ground were faint, and only a chalk outline indicated where the body had been lying. Noticing a dark patch in the grass further down, he walked over to examine it.
"Hmm. Something heavy was lying here. It's flattened the grass around here. No blood, though. Wait a minute," he said, bending down to retrieve a small unidentifiable lump that lay on the edge of the flattened area. He looked carefully at it, then sniffed at it. It smelled sweet, but vaguely repulsive. "Maybe it's some sort of incense?" he wondered. "Better hang on to it."
He walked back to the chalk outline. "Not much blood; wonder if they cleaned up?" He looked around again. "It's quiet here, but the farm's not far away. If there was a struggle, or the victim cried out, I'll bet the Blanchards would have heard."
He had a sudden, disorienting vision: of the place he stood in, shrouded in darkness. A dark figure plunged a knife into a silent, unmoving body...
He started, coming back to the waking world with a shudder.
Deciding there was not much more he could learn there, he walked back to the town. Sauntering into the town square, he headed straight for the bakery. It was a small shop, redolent with the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread.
"Never knew anybody made this many different kinds of bread," he thought, looking at the fully stocked shelves. "Excuse me", he said to the middle aged man behind the counter. "Do you speak English?"
"Yes, a little."
"My name's Gabriel Knight, and I'm looking for Monsieur Jules Rustin?"
"I am he. Ah, you are the American writer Jacques called me about. What can I do for you?"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you some questions about Tornenkov's murder. I understand you found the body?"
"Yes, a terrible tragedy. I was walking back from the Blanchard farm on Sunday morning; Saturdays, I play chess with Michel Blanchard; I spent the night there. I was walking down, and there was the body. Horrible."
"You spent Saturday night at the Blanchard's? Did you hear anything unusual during the night? Any disturbance?"
"No! That was, how you say, bizarre. And there are dogs; they would make the noise, yes? But no! They are quiet. Also, sound carries in the country, non? The police were asking how we could have heard nothing. But there was nothing to hear!"
"When you found the body: could you describe it?"
"At first I didn't know who it was; the face was so badly cut. And there was a big hole here," he gestured towards his chest.
"In the chest?"
"Oui, the chest. I could not look any more, you understand. I go for help!"
"Naturally. Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that was unusual about the scene?"
"Ah, ouais, there was something. I cannot be sure; but there was an -- odour. Like perfume, but not the same. When I came back with the police, it was gone."
"Thank you. You've been very helpful."
"De rien. Enjoy your stay in Gisors."
As he walked back toward Chez Jacques, a voice hailed him. "Gabriel!"
He turned to see Michael, accompanied by a studious-looking, bespectacled man in a dark suit, hurrying across the square toward him.
"Gabriel, I'd like you to meet Commissaire Jean Claud Dernaud. He has very kindly agreed to discuss his case with us."
The Commissaire shook hands with Gabriel, while glancing wryly at Michael. "Only what's in the public domain. I'm not at liberty to discuss anything that's under investigation. If it weren't for Monsieur Gerard's recommendation, I would not have agreed to this."
"Comm. Dernaud is a former student of Father Jean's," Michael explained. "While he used to teach Chemistry at the University."
"Thanks for agreeing to talk to us, Commissaire." Gabriel contrasted the scholarly looking man before him with his old friend Mosely and the belligerent Kommissar Leber. Not his idea of a cop. Kinda young, too.
"Well, I'm on my lunch break now, so perhaps we could do this at Chez Jacques?"
Seated in a quiet corner, Gabriel prepared to tape his session with the Commissaire.
"I hear the first three victims were tourists?"
"Yes, one Italian, one Portuguese; the third was French, from Paris. They were all apparently interested in Gisors. Not unusual. The rumours of treasure make this a popular spot for people interested in that sort of thing."
"And the fourth was a local."
"Vladimir Tornenkov was something of a celebrity, actually. He was especially well known for his speciality concerts with his friend Lucien Laroche: the violinist. I've heard them on several occasions. Brilliant. He was at a dinner party at Laroche's place that night. God knows why he went out that late. He told his friends he was going straight to bed. Bed was next door, in the adjoining apartment."
"Maybe he didn't go of his own free will?"
"His footsteps led up almost to the place where the body was found. No signs of anyone else at the scene. No signs of a struggle."
"What about the others?"
"The same. They seemed to have walked straight to their deaths."
"And they've all been killed on weekends? Outside the town?"
"That is correct. The first two late on Friday, the last two late on Saturday. Four consecutive weekends." He stared broodingly at his plate. "I'm going to catch this murderer if it's the last thing I do."
"You think there'll be more murders?"
"I'm sure of it. This bast**d is not going to stop till we catch him."
"Today's Friday."
"I know. I've trebled the patrols around the town."
"About Tornenkov: how do you explain the fact that the Blanchards heard nothing?"
"I can't. I don't understand it either." His eyes narrowed. "You've been asking questions around here."
"Just trying to find out what I can..."
"Mr.Knight, I respect Jean Gerard enormously, but not even for his sake will I allow anyone to play the vigilante in my jurisdiction. You say you are here to research a book. Very well. But if you find anything that the police should know, I expect you to come to me. Immediately. Do we understand each other?"
Gabriel nodded. "I understand. Thanks for your time."
"I will be in my office at all times. This is my card."
"Thanks. I'll be in touch."
The Commissaire got up, leaving some money on the table. He nodded to Michael and left.
"Well. Kinda touchy, isn't he?"
Michael raised an ironic eyebrow. "Don't underestimate him because he looks like a school teacher. He has a h*ll of a reputation. Broke a major drug ring in Paris a year ago."
"What's he doing in a little town like this?"
"Apparently he stepped on the wrong toes; some very senior people in the ministry."
Gabriel whistled. "Straight arrow cop, crooked politician, huh?"
"The old, old story." Michael agreed. "Plus, he's originally from around these parts anyway."
"Glad he's in our corner, then."
Wonder what Grace is doing? thought Gabriel.
******************************
Waiting for someone to answer the phone at the other end of the number she had dialed, Grace frowned at the painting on the wall across from her -- "Les Bergers d'Arcadie".
"Schloss Ritter," Gerde answered.
"Gerde, it's Grace."
"I'm so glad you called!"
"What's up?"
"I don't know how to explain. I dreamed of Wolfgang last night, I think he was trying to tell me something. It was as though he was standing in front of me, but I couldn't hear him..." Her voice broke.
"Gerde? Are you all right?" Grace asked sympathetically. It had taken Gerde a long time to get over the heartbreak of Wolfgang's death.
"Yes, I'm fine. Grace, I found the notes you wanted; I sent them to the St.Clair address."
"Thanks. I think it might turn out to be really important."
"And there's something else. Mrs. Smith called from Pennsylvania. She said it was urgent that you call her back. She sounded very worried."
"Mrs. Smith? Wow, I haven't heard from her since that Christmas card she sent us! OK, I'll call her. Thanks again."
"No trouble. And Grace? Please take care. Both of you."
"I will. Don't worry."
Grace smiled at the memory of the Smiths. Nice couple, if a little spaced-out. But they had proved to be true friends during the crisis with Gabriel a year ago.
Wondering what time it was in Pennsylvania, she dialed the number.
The phone at the other end was picked up on the third ring.
"Hello?" A male voice enquired.
"Is that the Smith residence? I'm trying to reach Mrs. Smith."
An excited female voice made itself heard in the background. "Emil? Is that Grace?"
"Why, yes, I believe it is. How are you.." he began, but was interrupted. Mrs. Smith's voice rang down the phone line at top volume. Grace winced, holding the phone a little further away from her ear.
"Grace! Is that you, sugar pie? I've been so worried! You know, I knew there was something wrong, the cards have been falling so strangely! I'm so glad you called at last!"
"Uh, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?" Grace asked.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you dear," the plump 'demonologist' shrilled. "I saw danger ahead. For you and your nice young man. And I said to myself, I've simply got to warn them!"
"You mean Gabriel? Mrs. Smith, I've told you, Gabriel isn't 'my' young man..."
"Yes, dear," the occultist said indulgently. "But as I was saying, I saw danger. Demons, dear! Something very powerful; you must be careful! The entity that's threatening you is very old, possessed with evil. I did a tarot reading, and the cards were full of warnings! And Gabriel's reading: the most significant card that kept coming up was the Fool!"
"Why am I not surprised?" Grace muttered dryly.
"No dear, you don't understand! The Fool signifies great energy: it means there's a quest of some kind, something he has to accomplish!"
"And your reading, dear;", the plump 'demonologist' continued, "There's going to be an important choice coming up for you. You must think it through very carefully. Your decision will affect a lot of futures!"
"That's not much help; could you give me something more specific?"
"I told you, dear, I just read the cards. I don't control the message!" She paused. Her voice lowered. "There's something else: tell Gabriel that he musn't falter. When faced with darkness, the truth will light his path. That's very important."
"The truth will light his path. OK, I'll tell him." Not that he was going to take it to heart, she thought derisively. The expedient lie, that was Gabriel's forte.
"Thanks again, Mrs. Smith. I'll call you later."
"You do that, punkin. And try and eat a little more. You're so thin!"
Mrs. Smith and my mom, Grace thought. Maybe it's a conspiracy?
Well, I'd better get down to that research, she told herself. Demons? There's one for the book!
The St.Clair library was extremely well equipped. Grace started on a leather bound volume titled 'Snake cults: the Worship of the Serpent through the ages', and quickly became absorbed.
******************************
Gabriel studied the abstracted face of the man opposite him; trying to understand the edgy nervousness he always felt in his presence.
"Michael?" he finally blurted, calling the other man's attention away from the pencil sketch he was executing. When an enquiring gaze turned toward him, Gabriel found that he had lost track of what he wanted to say.
"What's it like?" he finally asked. "Being..." he hesitated over a suitable choice of words.
"The Champion of Light?" Michael finished for him, smiling with self deprecating humour. "The pay's terrible, and the working hours are worse."
Gabriel felt irritation return. It must have shown in his face, because Michael's expression sobered, losing the amusement. In his turn, he scrutinised Gabriel's face carefully.
"You really want to know." He drew a deep breath, and stared up at the sky. "It should be glorious, right? It does have its moments. Sometimes, it's the most amazing feeling. Stretch out your hand, and feel the lightning dance at your command. Walking on air, breathing water!" He fell silent.
"You pray for those moments." His eyes, when they turned back to meet Gabriel's, were dark haunted pools, turning inward. "But often -- it's an ache and an emptiness. The worst part is the loneliness. It tears you. Always the fear, the doubts: will it be this time? will you fail? die alone? And no one will ever, ever truly understand."
In that moment, Gabriel Knight, Schattenjager, reluctant hero, began to comprehend the shape of his fate, in the tormented eyes of a stranger.
"Why do it?" he managed at last, harshly, but without animosity, seeking to understand. His own mind was a seething maelstorm. No words would express the hundred shades of meaning in that single question.
The answer, when it came, was terrifying in its simplicity. "If we don't, no one will."
Gabriel looked away, unable to bear it. "I can't," he said tightly.
"You will." Michael pointed out at the street, at a group of children running down the pavement. "You'll do it for them." He swung his arm to indicate the handful of patrons lingering over a late lunch at Chez Jacques. "For them. And all the others like them who'll never know you, never understand."
He looked back at Gabriel. The afternoon shadows slanted across the table, cutting Michael's face in half, leaving the dark eyes gleaming out of a mask. He looked like Batman. "Because we can't not do it," he said softly. "It's what we were born for, you and I."
He stood up abruptly, breaking the mood. "I'll see you later, at the house." Gabriel was conscious of relief. Too much had passed between them in those few words. Empathy was disconcerting, and at the moment, uncomfortable.
He glanced at the sketch that was left behind on the table. It was a symphony of careless lines that conjured up a desolate landscape. A deserted field. Sparse trees stood like ghostly sentinels under a bleak sky. In the foreground, a single animate figure crouched, its contours human, but a suggestion of vague bestiality in the primeval threat of its posture.
He studied it in silence, recalling his disturbing vision of murder in the countryside.
"Gabriel!" Grace called, crossing the street to join him at his table. Jacques waved, but the lunch-time crowd was keeping him too busy to come over at once.
"Hey there, beautiful," he greeted her, forcing a casual smile. "What's up?"
******************************
"...and there's a strong tradition that possession by a demon leads to an extended life-span as well as bestowing occult powers."
"Something like Voudoun, huh?" Gabriel said thoughtfully, recalling his experiences in New Orleans.
"Similar, but while possession by Voudoun spirits occurred only temporarily, the European cult follows a different practice. Apparently, once a worshipper submits to possession, the demonic entity can only be cast out by specific rituals. In the Cult of the Serpent, the exorcism would also include the destruction of some sort of physical 'focus'; an object that lets the demon exist in our world."
"What sort of object?"
Grace shrugged. "It could be anything: a book, a jewel; in one case, it was a mirror! Anyway, the point is, as long as the object is safe, the possession continues. If it's destroyed, then the demon is banished, and all the effects of the possession immediately follow; the long life, the youth, the beauty, the strength, or whatever other 'gifts' the possessed human has been enjoying."
"So that's it; everything we know about the Lesser Ritual?"
"It's all I've found so far. I'll keep looking. I did find out that there's going to be a memorial service for Vladimir Tornenkov this evening; at the town hall. It's probably worth checking out."
"I think you're right. I'd like to talk to some of his friends. Gracie, I've been thinking. If Michael is right, and these murders are really part of the Greater Ritual of the Serpent, it has to have started with animal sacrifices, right?"
"That's what the book said." Grace agreed.
"And, there should have been a voluntary self-sacrifice by one of the worshippers."
"Yeah, that was the sequence."
"So, maybe we should check out any disappearances, or mysterious deaths that occurred before the slasher killings started. Also any missing livestock, that sort of thing."
"You're right! Why didn't I think of that?" Grace exclaimed.
"That's why I'm the crime writer, remember?" Gabriel snickered. "I think I'll pay Commissaire Dernaud a visit."
******************************
The Commissaire's office was like its occupant, neat, bright, orderly. With plenty of hard edges. Including the uncomfortable chair that Gabriel occupied gingerly.
"...so, I was wondering if you could help me out with your missing persons records."
Dernaud stared back at him with disconcerting impassivity. "I've been doing some checking on you, Mr.Knight. Your first book, that was based on a real case, was it not?"
"Loosely," Gabriel admitted, wondering where this was leading.
"And the second: you offered a very interesting solution to the mysterious zoo wolf killings in Munich. Killings that in fact, stopped equally mysteriously, without the perpetrators being found."
Gabriel thought it would be prudent not to respond. After a moment, Dernaud continued. "I spoke to Kommissar Leber, who investigated that case. He had a number of interesting things to say about you."
"Good things, I hope," Gabriel smiled nervously.
"Why don't you tell me why you are suddenly interested in missing persons, Mr. Knight?" The blue eyes that stared penetratingly out from behind the glasses were hard and intelligent.
Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Clearly, this man would not be as easy to deal with as Mosely or Leber. "I'm working on a theory: that these might be cult related killings. If that's the case, there might be some earlier deaths that haven't come to light. Within the last month or so, maybe?"
"Interesting. Continue, please. Why should you believe these murders are cult related?"
"Uh, call it a hunch." That didn't seem to go down very well. "All right, how about this: if I'm right, all the victims would have had one thing in common. The hearts and the eyes would have been removed."
Dernaud's gaze sharpened with interest. "That is something you could not have found out about in the papers. Perhaps you do know something." He assessed Gabriel carefully. "Very well, Mr. Knight, I'll take a chance on this."
He pressed the buzzer on the table. A young woman peered into the room. He said something to her rapidly in French. She disappeared and came back in a short time with a file.
"Merci, Helene." He opened the file and passed a photograph across to Gabriel.
"Christian Lemaitre. The third victim." The photo showed a blond man with prominent teeth and bad skin.
"He was supposedly here on vacation. I find that hard to believe. He was what you Americans would call a small time operator, drugs, stolen goods, that sort of thing. Barely one step ahead of the Paris police force. Until about a year ago, that is. Then our Christian seemed to have a change of fortune. He bought a new car, an expensive one. Set his girlfriend up in a posh flat. Even bought her a diamond brooch. He apparently told her that he had 'hit the big league'. No more shady deals on street corners. She claims to have seen him with vast amounts of cocaine, which he said were for his special new friends."
Gabriel shook his head, puzzled. "What was he doing down here?"
"That's what I asked myself. I might have dismissed it as unimportant, if it were not for one thing."
Dernaud pulled out another photograph, and passed it across. This one showed a heavily built man, with mediterranean features, dark hair and eyes, and an imposing Roman nose.
"Cesar Capelli. A year ago, I arrested both his brothers in Paris. They were involved in a major drug operation there. Cesar managed to escape our net. No proof. And then, nearly four weeks ago, he turned up here, at Gisors. I had a little chat with him. He was confident, almost insolent. He had nothing to do with drugs, he said. He had found a higher meaning in life. The mundane little affairs of this world did not interest him any more." Dernaud grinned ironically.
"Even if I had been inclined to believe him, his behaviour would not have justified it. He met our little Christian thrice, secretly; oh, not here, where I could see them, of course. They met at a little hotel in Chaumont-en-Vexin: that's a small town west of here. A day after their last meeting, Cesar disappeared. Seemingly off the face of the earth. We lost all track of him."
"Really. How interesting," Gabriel said slowly, with narrowed eyes.
"That's what I thought. I would have asked our little Parisian dealer some questions, but alas! He's beyond answering them now, poor bast**d." He retrieved the photographs and put them back in the file. "I wouldn't wish that sort of death on anyone, even a miserable rat like him."
Gabriel hesitated. Then he plunged in. "Uh, Commissaire, there might be something else. Do you know if there have been any cases of stolen livestock? Or any sort of animals at all?"
"Animals? There are usually a few cases of straying pets, or stolen poultry, mostly, in the countryside. Is this significant?"
"It could be. Would you mind asking some of your people to check?"
"All right, I will. Now perhaps you will tell me everything you know about this cult angle you're investigating." He was very firm about it.
"Well, I know this going to sound weird, but there's this obscure Cult, they call it the Cult of the Serpent..." Gabriel gave him a brief and suitably edited history of the Cult, from the information Grace had put together that afternoon.
Dernaud was looking very thoughtful by the end of the recital. "I think I'll borrow this book you mentioned." He grimaced. "I wish I could find a link between Cesar and this town! He must have had a contact! But that is my problem, not yours."
Getting up and extending his hand, he made it plain the conversation was over. "You've been quite helpful, Mr.Knight. I appreciate it. However, I must caution you: do not attempt any action on your own in this affair. You are dealing with dangerous people here, and I would rather you were not the next victim."
"Who, me? Wouldn't dream of it," Gabriel assured him.
"I'm sure," Dernaud said dryly. "I'll be watching. So don't get any bright ideas."
******************************
Father Jean looked up as Gabriel walked into the living room of the St.Clair house.
"Hello, Gabriel. Back so soon?"
"I've just come from a meeting with your former student: Commissaire Dernaud."
"Ah, Jean Claud. One of my most gifted students. He could have found a job as a research chemist anywhere in Europe. But I think he found academia stifling."
"Seems like a pretty tough cop to me," Gabriel said. Then a thought occurred to him. He pulled out the strange dark brown lump he had found near the murder scene. "Father, do you think you could tell me where I could get this stuff analysed?"
Gerard took the dark crystalline piece from Gabriel and looked closely at it. "Well, unfortunately, I don't have access to a laboratory myself here, but I can give you the name of a former student in Paris who would be glad to help." He glanced shrewdly at the younger man. "I imagine you didn't want to hand it over to Jean Claud right away?"
"Uh, not at the moment. Thank you, Father."
Grace was sitting upstairs in the library, reading a book about the Chateau of Gisors. She didn't notice when Gabriel walked in, and jumped slightly when he spoke.
"Hey there, Gracie. Shouldn't we be heading for that memorial service for Vladimir Tornenkov? It's about time for it to start, right?"
She looked at her watch, startled. "Is it that late? I lost track of time. I was reading this interesting book about the Chateau de Gisors. Here, take a look," she said, holding the book open and passing it across.
'Subterranean secrets?', Gabriel read.
'The castle of Gisors, in the valley of the Epte, is a typical Templar building, from the high perimeter walls to the imposing tower. In 1857, archaeologist Gideon Dubruil alleged that there were immense basements underneath the Chateau, but it was only after the Second World War, when a bombing in the vicinity had exposed part of an underground Merovingian cemetery, that these affirmations found some official support. Dubruil's theories found an earnest believer in Roger Lhomoy, caretaker of the Chateau from 1929.
In 1946 Lhomoy caused a sensation when he asserted to the town council of Gisors that he had discovered a secret entrance to a long basement thirty meters long, nine meters wide, and approximately four and a half meters high, under the tower donjon. Asking for permission to excavate further, he described the chamber. Along its walls, supported by stone crosses, he claimed to have found thirteen statues, which he supposed to be of Christ and the twelve apostles. In addition, lengthwise on the floor, there were nineteen sarcophagi of stone, each two meters long and sixty centimeters wide. The description should have provoked interest, but Lhomoy's statements, strangely enough, found few takers among the city council.
Despite his failure to convince the authorities to excavate, the former caretaker did not give up. In 1952, he succeeded in convincing the administration to allow him to continue digging. The authorization was granted, but only on the condition that a huge deposit be paid: so large a sum that Lhomoy was forced to renounce his ambitions. Thanks to the mediation of Gerard de Sede, who later published the best-selling 'Les Templiers sont parmi nous': 'The Templars are among us', the former caretaker found a chance to tell his story. Nonetheless, the authorities in Gisors still refused to allow excavations, and, in 1962, by order of the then Minister of Culture, Andre Malraux, they sealed the donjon, where Lhomoy's investigations had taken place.
In 1964, after the publication of 'Les Templiers sont parmi nous', Lhomoy tried again to resume his search; some journalists accompanied him along the passage where he claimed the secret entrance to the basement was to be found. They found it closed. Lhomoy explained that, after all the years in between, the door was probably stuck, and would need to be forced, but his claim was not well received. The excavation was shut down, and the case definitively closed.
The Forgotten Crypt.
Did Lhomoy (who died a poor man in 1974) indeed see the crypt, or had he invented the story? Jean Markale, author of 'Gisors et l'enigme des Templiers': 'Gisors and the enigma of the Templars', believed that Lhomoy was a pathetic, obsessed man suffering from delusions, and the local authorities had acted correctly in preventing excavations that would have needlessly compromised the structure and stability of the castle. Gerard de Sede, on the contrary, felt that Lhomoy was the victim of a conspiracy, whose objective was to hide from the eyes of the world a priceless and sacred secret: in the crypt of Gisors, de Sede contended, was no less a treasure than the Holy Grail itself.'
"Pretty wild", Gabriel commented, shutting the book and putting it down. "We'd better get going."
The town hall was packed when Gabriel and Grace got there. Vladimir Tornenkov had apparently been popular in Gisors, judging by the turn out at his memorial service. On the other hand, the number of cars parked outside indicated that quite a few people had come from out of town to pay their respects.
Gabriel entered the hall, and noticed Michael waving. They went over to join him. A middle aged lady was just concluding her speech.
"That's the mayor," Michael whispered.
Then a striking figure stood up from the front row of seats. Tall, slender, he moved with feline grace to the podium. An audible sigh went through the audience.
"Oh, glory!" Grace exclaimed. "What an incredible man!"
Gabriel had to agree. The man standing in front of them was stunning. A magnificent mane of deep red hair crowned classically perfect features. But the face transcended mere beauty. The weight of knowledge sat gracefully on the high brow, and a sensitive, sculpted mouth softened the effect of the straight, austere nose. Most arresting of all, a species of ageless fire lit the deep green eyes from within: the effect was... unforgettable.
"How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning," Michael quoted softly.
"Yes, of course," Grace murmured. It was the face of a fallen angel. Beauty, power, and the knowledge of damnation.
The voice that filled the hall was as wonderful as the appearance of the speaker. Deep and musical, the tones were filled with grief that even Gabriel understood, despite his lack of comprehension of the language. When the brief speech ended, many of the listeners were in tears.
"Who is that?" Gabriel asked, as the speaker moved back to the seats.
"Lucien Laroche," Michael replied. "Tornenkov's best friend and partner. They performed together at concerts all the time. Laroche is a violinist, one of the best."
The ceremony seemed to have ended with Laroche's poignant speech, because everyone began to file out. The mayor and a few people remained, standing around the plaque that had been unveiled in Tornenkov's honour. Laroche was among them.
Michael walked up toward the group, followed by Gabriel and Grace.
"Monsieur St.Clair," the mayor greeted him in subdued tones. "Quel plaisir de vous revoir."
"I wish it could have been in better circumstances," Michael said in English. "My sincere condolences, Monsieur Laroche. A great loss."
"Thank you." Lucien Laroche was even more overwhelming at close range. His charisma was almost a physical thing, drawing attention, male and female, like a magnet. Even in the sombre atmosphere of a wake, he was a compellingly seductive presence.
Holy wow! Grace thought. Oh momma, buy me one of those!
Almost as if he had heard her thoughts, the green eyes swivelled to meet hers. She dropped her own gaze, embarrassed.
"Michael St. Clair, is it not?" Laroche enquired smoothly. His English was excellent. "I'm a great admirer of your work."
"The admiration is mutual," Michael said. "May I present my friends, Gabriel Knight and Grace Nakimura?"
"Mr.Knight," he nodded. "Ms.Nakimura." His eyes were warmly appraising as they moved swiftly over the two of them, lingering briefly on Grace...
"I am honoured to meet two such patrons of the arts," Laroche continued. "You co-produced the lost Wagner Opera when it was first performed at the Wittelsbacher theater, I believe. An immeasurable contribution to the world of music. I'm fascinated by the mystery: how in the world did you manage to find the work after all these years?"
"It's a long story," Grace said lightly.
"The best kind," he responded. "Perhaps you will tell it to me some time?"
"We were very sorry to hear about Monsieur Tornenkov's death," Gabriel cut in, when Grace hesitated over her answer. "It must be difficult for you."
"It is, Mr. Knight. He was my dearest friend."
A beautiful brunette woman moved past them to lay a single white rose at the foot of the plaque. Laroche turned slightly to address her.
"Ah, Claire, cherie. How good of you to come."
She threw him a quick angry look, her face a mask of dislike tinged with fear. "He was my friend, Lucien. Regardless of how I feel about you, Vlad has always been dear to me."
"And must you hate me so much, ma belle? It wasn't always like this...Oh, don't hit me, it would shock our guests," he said, intercepting the slap that she aimed at his face. Holding her wrist, he pulled her to stand unwillingly beside him.
"I would like all of you to meet Claire Desmoulins. One of France's greatest flautists. Vladimir adored her. I still do." The dark haired girl tried to pull away from him, but his grip didn't falter. "Now Claire, let me present Michael St. Clair. I know you love his paintings."
Michael held his hand out politely to the white-faced woman, forcing Laroche to release her imprisoned right wrist. She threw Michael a look of gratitude as he bent over her fingers, and composed herself. Laroche smiled slightly, nodding acknowledgement of Michael's adroitness.
"I am indeed very pleased to meet you, Monsieur. Your 'L'etranger a la plage' is the pride of my collection."
"The pleasure is mine, Mam'selle Desmoulins. May I present my friends, Gabriel Knight and ..."
"Grace Nakimura, of course!" the flautist exclaimed excitedly. "I saw your production of 'Der Fluch des Engelhart' in Munich! Wonderful!"
"It's a wonderful work," Gabriel said. "We were lucky to have the opportunity to be associated with it." In more ways than one, he thought. Wagner's genius had helped redeem him from one of the worst nightmares of his life.
"Well, it was very nice to meet you all," Claire Desmoulins said. Glaring at Laroche, she stepped away from him. "Unfortunately, I cannot stay. Perhaps if you are ever in Paris, you will look me up? Here's my card," she said, handing one to Gabriel. "Au revoir."
"We must be going, too, Monsieur Laroche," Michael interjected, glancing at his watch. "I'm taking Grace out to dinner, Gabriel. Would you like to join us?"
Oh yeah, right, Gabriel thought sourly. I should take you up on that. "No, I think I'll pass, Michael. The two of you go ahead."
He followed slowly as they walked out of the town hall. He fingered his tape recorder absently, lost in his own disgruntled thoughts. So much so that he absently wandered right on to the road, and only came back to himself at the screeching of brakes as a fire engine red sports car pulled to a halt inches from him.
"Espece de connard! J'ai failli te renverser!" an angry female voice spat at him.
"Uh, excuse me?" Gabriel stammered, as a spectacular blond climbed out of the car.
"I said," she promptly translated, "You stupid bastard, I almost ran you over!"
"I'm terribly sorry," Gabriel apologised. "It was my fault. I wasn't looking where I was going." He put on the appealing look that he knew won him female sympathy.
It seemed this particular female was no less susceptible than most. Her eyes softened, especially after she looked properly at him. "I suppose I should make allowances for a visiting foreigner," she said, with a hint of mockery.
"A distinguished visitor, darling," Laroche's voice said from behind them. "Mr. Gabriel Knight is a famous writer and a patron of the arts."
"Lucien!" The blond's face lit up, and she moved to kiss him. It was Laroche who pulled away after a prolonged embrace, and turned to Gabriel with an arm still around her.
"Mr.Knight, the lovely maniac who almost killed you just now is Nicole Barrat. Nico, darling, we cannot have you running over people in this ridiculously profligate fashion. So tasteless. I think you gave Mr.Knight the scare of his life."
"It was my fault," Gabriel repeated. "Worth it, too, since I got to meet you, Mademoiselle Barrat."
"How gallant. You must call me Nicole. 'Gabriel'," she repeated, smiling flirtatiously at him. She gave him a slow once-over and her smile grew. "The Archangel who drove Adam and Eve out of Eden with his flaming sword?"
"That was the other guy," Gabriel said, grinning. "I happen to believe the pen is mightier than the sword; anyway, a pen is easier to lift," he said, flexing his arm with a humorous look at his biceps.
She stepped out of Laroche's encircling arm towards him, and ran a casual hand up and down his arm. "I don't know," she said lazily, looking up at him through her eyelashes. "I think you could handle a sword without too much difficulty."
Gabriel glanced at Laroche, wondering what he was making of his lady friend's provocative behaviour. The violinist was wearing a faintly amused smile, and seemed quite unconcerned.
"So you are a patron of the arts? Does that include dance, Gabriel?" Nicole drew his attention back, fingering the lapel of his jacket idly.
"I'm afraid I'm an amateur," he disclaimed, with a charming smile. "I did co-produce an opera last year..."
"Really? How interesting." Her sultry voice invested the words with meaning beyond their face value.
"Nicole is very a gifted dancer, Mr. Knight. Her interpretation of Salome's 'Dance of the Seven Veils' was featured at the Festival at Avignon last year." Laroche intersposed.
"That's fascinating. I'd love to watch you perform some time, Nicole."
"Hmm. How sweet. And to think I almost ran you down! I think I should make it up to you. Dinner, perhaps?"
Hey, the evening's looking up, Gabriel thought. All right!
"It would be my pleasure, except that I insist on buying *you* dinner."
"Then I pick the restaurant," she said, smiling. "See you later, darling," she waved casually in Laroche's direction.
******************************
'Le Bec Fin' was a quiet and unpretentious restaurant that served only French cuisine. The food was marvellous, the wine sublime. The restful atmosphere and two glasses of an excellent Sancerre had relaxed Grace considerably, and put her in a confiding mood.
"...and he changed his mind about my coming along on this trip, finally. You know, Gabriel can be such a chauvinist; he has a lot of difficulty dealing with strong women. In fact, he's pretty medieval! When I think of all the bimbos he used to hang out with in New Orleans...!" She grimaced at the recollection.
"And it really irritates me when he treats me like some kid running errands for him. There are times I feel he doesn't appreciate me at all!"
"I would appreciate you. Always." Michael said softly.
Startled, Grace looked up to find a very disconcerting expression in the dark eyes that stared into hers. She flushed and found herself stammering like a schoolgirl.
"I didn't mean... I wasn't..."
"Grace." Michael interrupted her confused words. "When this is over, would you consider staying?"
"Here in France?" she blurted.
"With me. In France, or Spain, or wherever you like."
The air was heavy with everything he had left unspoken. But then, Grace thought wildly, he doesn't need words. How is it that I understand him so well, when I only met him a couple of days ago? After two years, Gabriel is still a mystery to me in so many ways, but with Michael...
"No strings, Grace. I know you need time to... I won't rush you. Just as a partner to begin with?" Michael said seriously. "You did say you came to Europe because you wanted to do something meaningful, to make a difference. What I do, what I am, is very like the Schattenjagers. You could share that..."
"I don't know, Michael," Grace said slowly, putting her hands up to her burning cheeks to cool them. She stopped, not knowing what to say. "I can't just..."
"It's Gabriel," Michael said matter-of-factly. "Isn't it?" he smiled, when she looked sharply at him.
"No!" Then, "Yes... no. It's so hard to explain," she sighed.
"Don't answer me now," he said. "Promise me you'll think about it?" he asked, his eyes warm and pleading.
"All right. I promise," she agreed.
******************************
Gabriel walked slowly up to his bedroom at the St.Clair house, wondering if there was something wrong with him. He had enjoyed a fantastic dinner in the company of a beautiful and sensual woman who had made it quite clear that she would not object to his attentions, and he had tamely left her at the door of her hotel room, pleading exhaustion.
Somehow, he had felt uneasy at the thought of a more intimate association with Nicole Barrat, despite the fact that she was very definitely a walking male fantasy. A year ago, Gabriel would have leapt at the luscious bait that was dangled so temptingly in front of him. So what was different now? Maybe it was all that wine, he thought. He definitely felt a little woozy.
He noticed in passing that both Michael's and Grace's rooms were dark, but a light still burned in Father Jean's room. Michael's car had been parked in its usual spot, so they must have returned from dinner before he did. Hesitating for a moment outside Grace's door, he changed his mind and walked straight to his own guest room.
Undressing and lying down, he stared at the starry sky that was visible through the tall window and drifted off...
A woman entered through the darkened doorway that led to the main room of St.George's Books. Surely he knew that sinuous walk and that graceful body?
"Malia," he sighed, as she drew closer.
"Don't speak," she said, climbing on to the bed beside him. She reached out to touch the Talisman that rested on his chest. Leaning down to kiss him, she drew the chain that hung around his neck over his head, releasing it, and placed the Talisman on the bedside table.
Slowly, she withdrew from him and stood up.
"Malia?" he mumured protestingly, puzzled.
"Come," the red-clad figure commanded softly. She walked silently out of the room. He rose to follow, dreamily wondering where she was leading him.
******************************
"Gabriel!" Grace sat up abruptly in bed, awakening from a disturbing dream. Still disoriented, she was brought to full consciousness by footsteps in the passage outside. Getting up and pulling on her robe, she decided to investigate. When she opened her door, the passage was empty. Looking down it, she noticed that Gabriel's door was ajar. She ran quickly to his room, and switched on the light to see that the bed was empty. With a sudden chill, she noticed the Talisman lying on the bedside table.
Downstairs, the front door swung open and shut. Rushing to the window, she saw Gabriel, shirtless, walking out of the house. She called his name, but he didn't seem to hear her. Her heart contracted with fear as she noticed his gaze, strangely fixed on the emptiness before him as though he saw an invisible presence leading him. Quickly grabbing the Talisman and the flashlight that lay beside it, she ran down to follow him.
Gabriel followed the female figure out into... Jackson Square? he thought, vaguely. What are we doing here? She stopped and turned to face him, arms held out enticingly. She slowly sank down to kneel on the soft grass, still beckoning irresistibly. He walked forward to join her...
Grace, about a hundred meters behind Gabriel, watched, as he stopped and sank to his knees in an open field. With a thrill of fear and horror, she realized that a shadowy figure was approaching him, with a weapon poised in its hand. She ran desperately towards Gabriel, praying she would be in time...
Gabriel bent to hear the words that the dark-haired woman whispered to him. Just as he reached out to touch her, a desperate cry brought him sharply awake -- "Gabriel! No!" Something hit him violently in the side, sending him sprawling, away from his kneeling position. He fought to catch his breath, feeling the weight that had landed on him shift away. When his eyes cleared, he distinguished a familiar shape standing in a defensive half crouch, back facing him: Grace. Why had she tackled him? he wondered dazedly.
Looking up, he froze at the sight that confronted him. A tall dark apparition stood before them in a menacing pose, with a long, sharp, and nasty looking knife poised to strike! And the face of the creature: his throat went dry with terror as he looked into the face of evil itself. It was a fearsome mask, twisted like a gargoyle. But worst of all were the eyes: for they were entirely human. Grace stood between him and the creature, poised like a lioness defending her young. She held his Talisman up to ward off the enemy, with defiance written in every inch of her.
Gabriel scrambled to his feet to join her. Despite Grace's brave pose, he could feel her trembling. Gently, he took the Talisman from her convulsive grip and pushed her behind him. He thrust the Talisman out, as threateningly as he could. His opponent did not appear very impressed; in fact, it seemed slightly amused at his gesture. It took a further step forward, its eyes moving from him to Grace, as if debating which to choose for its first victim. The aura of menacing evil that seemed to emanate from it in thick waves grew more oppressive.
Gabriel shifted sideways to shield Grace better. The Talisman in his hand seemed to grow hotter, emitting a faint golden glow. The creature, which seemed somehow feline and inhuman in the fluidity of its movements, followed him, staying just out of arm's reach. Then suddenly it struck! and danced away quickly. Gabriel felt a sharp pain above his right elbow, and felt wetness trickling down his arm. He fought to keep his grip on the Talisman, reaching out with his left hand to push Grace further behind him. Fear and pain were making him increasingly desperate.
Then a welcome presence loomed up out of the darkness beside him. "Vade retro, Iblis," Michael said firmly to the creature, his own Seal glowing like a miniature sun in his hand.
The cavalry made it on time! I'm going to put that guy up for sainthood, Gabriel thought wildly. He's earned it!
Warily, the Slasher retreated a few steps. Then it spoke for the first time. In English, as if it knew that it was the one language all three humans understood. Its voice hissed unpleasantly, with an eerie reptilian hollowness.
"I know you, mortal. My Enemy. I know the flavour of your putridly strong will. I recognise the stench of your sickening, incorruptible soul. But you will not take these two from me", it said, gesturing at Grace and Gabriel.
Michael did not reply. Instead, never taking his eyes from the creature, he moved to take Grace's hand and put it firmly in Gabriel's. "Don't be afraid", he said calmly. "Fear is its weapon. It can't touch you while you hold the Key. Don't let it go."
"No!" The demonic shape rasped, as Michael began a series of intricate gestures with the hand that held the Seal. It recoiled as he intoned in a clear voice, "In the name of Mithras, Lord of Truth, Light of the world, I banish evil." He traced a cross in the air, saying, "In the four cardinal directions, His Wisdom, His Power, His Light, His Healing; and above us all, His Truth!" He held the Seal up above his head. Then slowly, he traced a circle around Gabriel and Grace. To their awed eyes, he seemed to be glowing faintly. So that that's what he's really like, Gabriel thought dazedly. Now I know...
Then Michael stepped threateningly forward toward the demon. He started an ominous sounding chant, in a language neither Gabriel nor Grace understood.
"No," the dreadful apparition shrieked, backing away. Then, with one swift and terrible movement, its arm snapped forward, throwing the knife, which impacted with sickening force in Michael's chest. The demon snarled in satisfaction, while Grace cried out. Gabriel took a reflexive step forward, anger overcoming the fear that had held him paralysed. Michael stumbled, grabbing the hilt that protruded obscenely from the wound in his chest, but managed to choke out the closing words of his incantation as he fell: "...Mithrae Invicto!"
The demonic entity fled, with an angry howl that faded into the night. Gabriel and Grace rushed forward to Michael's side. Gabriel took one look at the blood that seemed to fountain up out of the prone man's body, and turned to bark urgent words at Grace. "Go for help, Gracie, call an ambulance!" After an appalled moment, when she stared wide-eyed at the wounded man, she ran towards the farmhouse.
Gabriel knelt down, frantically trying to recall his rudimentary knowledge of first aid. Put pressure on the wound, he thought. The knife seemed to have been dislodged by Michael's fall, unless the wounded man had pulled it out himself as a reflex. Swearing luridly to himself, Gabriel jammed his own hand over Michael's own on top of the terrible gaping hole he could see beneath the scarlet ruin of the shirt he wore.
"Shit, Michael, don't you goddam die on me! Michael?! Michael! Stay awake, dammit," he growled frantically.
"I'm awake, Gabriel," a thin whisper assured him.
"Help is on the way, man, you're going to be OK," Gabriel said, more softly, as calmly as he could.
"Gabriel, you have to stop him. You must stop Iblis," Michael insisted in a hoarse voice. "You'll need this." He pushed the Seal weakly at Gabriel.
Gabriel stared incredulously at him.
"Take it," Michael said again. "Find St.George's sword. Kill the demon," his voice a mere thread of sound.
"Michael, no! I can't take your Seal, I've had enough trouble with my own family's Talisman!" he said. "You're going to be fine, you're St.George's heir, not me!" he ended, his voice rising in increasing anxiety.
"I deputise you, then," Michael said, actually managing a smile through the agony he was surely going through. "Call it a temporary loan. I'll be around to collect," he said feebly, the smile turning into a weak chuckle that died quickly into coughs. He slipped into unconsciouness, his head lolling back weakly, like a spent rag doll.
Dammit, where's that ambulance, Gabriel thought desperately. If he loses much more blood...! Then Father Jean appeared and knelt next to him, taking over with gentle and capable hands.
"The ambulance is on its way, Gabriel. Here, let me."
He spoke softly to Michael in French, putting a thick pad on the wound and binding it. Gabriel stumbled to his feet, Talisman in one hand, Seal in the other. Both were sticky with blood, Michael's and his own. He stared down at Michael, and then raised his eyes to the sky.
Help me! he pleaded silently, tears of helpless rage coursing down his face. Straightening, he made a silent oath into the clear night air. Iblis, you fucking SOB, you're going to pay for this!
******************************