Chapter Summary: Nico continues his torment of Raoul in both actions and words. Louis awakes to find Nico and Raoul gone. Madame Giry tells Erik of Meg's news and presents him with a request from the parents-to-be. That request prompts a conversation about Tallis that seems to Erik a new insight. The police close in on the farmhouse where Raoul was held. And Nico closes in on something else entirely.
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
It was unusually warm for an autumn evening; the full moon hanging low in the sky, so close a person could almost reach out and touch its scarred surface. The light from the moon shone brightly, nearly chasing the very stars from the heavens as it reached down to illuminate the Earth beneath. Its light shone nearly as bright as the sun as it highlighted grand houses and small cottages, sparkling over still waters and reaching into the dark depths of wooded glades. Yet the brightness of the moon could do nothing to penetrate the silvery fog that hugged close to the cool ground, dancing along in the darkness, thin tendrils reaching out to encompass the unwary that ventured into its path. The light could do nothing to penetrate the gypsy wagon that stood hidden in one of those wooded glades, the fog moving upward over the wheels as horses grazed quietly nearby. It could not see into the wagon where one man conversed while another listened – unable to do anything else.
Nico moved the wet blade of his knife upward from where it had penetrated Raoul's shoulder to caress his neck. "Anymore noises this night and you will find me quite capable of inflicting just punishment for your disobedience." Nico lifted the knife and waved it before eyes that were full of pain. "Do I make myself clear?"
Raoul did not answer fast enough for Nico's tastes and he found the tip of the knife pushing at the corner of his eye.
"Do I make myself clear?" Nico repeated softly.
Raoul managed a nod.
"Such a good boy," Nico whispered, as his hands reached down to cup Raoul's face. "Such a nice toy."
Raoul shuddered at the touch of those hands upon his face and froze as the knife suddenly flashed in the meager light offered by the oil lamp.
"What do you say?" Nico wondered as he lifted the cut gag away from Raoul's face.
"Why?" Raoul uttered the only thought that had been in his mind since he had awoken from the drugged sleep, pulled from his angel and tossed into a new nightmare.
Nico's knife pushed against the side of Raoul's nose. "They say your wife's phantom lover had no nose," he said in that strange singsong voice. "I wonder what she would say if you returned with no nose?"
"Thank you," Raoul managed - his voice hoarse from screaming and lack of water. He closed his eyes against this new world that he did not understand.
Nico put the knife down and tapped a single hand against the ropes covering Raoul's chest. "Did you not hear me?" he wondered. "Did you not hear me say that I you would be returned?"
Raoul's eyes snapped open. "What?"
Nico's eyes were wide and empty. "I am picking up the mess," he told Raoul. "I put my toy back in the box and now I am putting the box away."
"Let me out of here," Raoul croaked, his desperation evident, "please!"
"Oh no," Nico frowned at him. "No, no, no. You have to stay there till we get home."
The words Nico spoke finally penetrated the fear and panic clouding Raoul's mind. "Home?" he breathed the word hopefully.
"Home," Nico replied, his hands reaching up for the open coffin lid. "But everyone thinks you are dead and that means you have to go to a different home." He slowly began to lower the lid.
"No!" Raoul screamed. "Please do not! Please!" The lid fell into place and Raoul managed to raise his head enough to bang against it, the reverberating shock causing the new wound in his shoulder to pound unmercifully.
Nico climbed atop the coffin, stretching his frame out, his head resting near the opening that allowed Raoul to breathe. "I am going to stay the night right here," Nico said sweetly. "I must keep my toy company." His expression and tone of voice changed dramatically. "But if I so much as hear a squeak from you, I can promise my righteous anger shall be just and your punishment swift." Nico chuckled. "God remembers his catechism." He kissed the edge of the opening. "Nighty-night, sweet toy."
Raoul struggled to breathe through his tears, through the bonds about his torso that compressed cracked ribs and bruised lungs, fighting the urge to scream his panic to the surrounding night.
The long night slowly faded to day as the Earth turned. The moon set and the sun rose and a wagon began to move along the road to Chagny, drawing ever closer to its destination. The man in the back of the wagon had once again succumbed to the dark stillness of drugged oblivion. While in a quiet farmhouse high in the hills outside of Grenoble, life began to return to the man slumped on the kitchen floor.
Life began its return in the dry, sticky feeling of a mouth long held open during sleep. His mouth closed as he swallowed several times, generating saliva, chasing away the feeling of having a ball of yarn in his mouth. A tongue snaked out, moistening lips as senses slowly returned, reaching beyond the darkness, assessing the situation. The senses noted the ache of muscles and bones that had spent too long on the hard tile of the kitchen floor. The man winced as he began to move limbs, rolling onto his back, a hand reaching for his head as a new pain took precedence, demanding his attention. A single hand reached for his head, coming to rest against a bump the size of a small egg. Fingers tentatively explored the tender area and paused as they felt the tracks of something on the skin; it took but a moment for the fingers to make the connection – dried blood. And then the eyes shot open.
"Nico," Louis breathed as he quickly sat up, ignoring the world that spun about him. He managed to turn his head toward the staircase that was visible just beyond the doorway. "God damn it!" Louis managed as he got to his feet, swaying, a single hand reaching out to grab the table as he steadied himself, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit," Louis said as he moved from the kitchen toward the stairs, his feet stumbling over themselves. He gripped the banister tightly as he pulled himself up the stairs. "If you have done anything stupid…" Louis muttered to himself as he reached the top of the stairs. He moved uneasily to the room where his hostage had been held, feeling his heart sink as he walked through the open door. "Merde!" Louis shouted as he took note of the empty room.
He stumbled back down the stairs, having to pause once, his hand gripping the banister as a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him. Louis barely waited for it to pass before he was moving back through the kitchen and out to the courtyard. His footing grew surer with each step and by the time he had crossed the courtyard to the barn, Louis was once again in control of his movements. He paused in the open doors of the barn, his eyes scanning the interior, taking note of the open stall doors, the missing horses, and the vanished wagon.
"God damn you to Hell!" Louis shouted, the effort causing his head to pound and he leaned momentarily against the barn door. "What the hell am I going to do?" he wondered aloud and turned around, looking at and through the open door to the courtyard. "Village. I can get a horse in the village," he muttered and walked back to the farmhouse.
Louis entered the house and moved back up the stairs to the room in which he had slept. He quickly pulled up the rug in the bedroom and lifted up one of the flooring planks beneath. Louis nodded to himself as his hands reached in and pulled out two pistols and a stack of money. He did not bother to replace the plank or the rug as he turned to the wardrobe behind him, removing a small peddler's sack from inside the wardrobe and slipping the guns and the money into it. He left the bedroom and went down the stairs, into the kitchen. He paused briefly to wet a discarded rag and ran it over his face, wincing as it contacted the bump on his head. Louis left the kitchen and gave a glance at his reflection in the hallway mirror. "It will have to do," he muttered and walked through the front door out into the courtyard. Louis passed through the courtyard gate and into the countryside beyond, walking down the road that led to town and not once did his thoughts stray to the missing man – to Francois.
Yet Francois – as well as Louis and Nico - were on the minds of the search parties that had gathered at a crossroads in the mountains. There were four different groups who met that morning at the crossroads, twenty different men each led by a ranking officer; they sat on horses, attention focused, guns at the ready. They held their mounts still; listening intently as Chief Inspector Pichette gave the morning's orders, Inspector Rousseau and Inspector Menard on either side.
"Gentlemen," Pichette began, "we have spent the last days divided into equal groups of four and have covered much ground." He raised his hand, a paper waving in the wind. "While we still have ground to cover in this area, it is not that much more; therefore, we will now divide into two groups – one under the lead of Inspector Menard, the other under Inspector Rousseau and myself." He turned to Inspector Menard.
"There will be one man in each group who will be designated as a runner," Menard began. "Should any sign of the men for whom we search be found, this man will be sent to notify the other group so that we can join forces." Menard turned to look at Rousseau.
"We shall proceed as before – searching each property listed on the sheet held by the lead inspector," Rousseau said and glanced at his watch. "Should nothing be found, plan to meet back at this point at four p.m. this afternoon." He turned to Pichette.
"Are there any questions?" Pichette wondered and waited for a brief moment as he scanned the faces of the gendarmes staring back at him. "Good." He tightened his grip on the reins of his mount. "Gentlemen, you know what needs to be done. Good luck to us all and Godspeed."
Twenty four men divided into two groups, one heading east under the direction of Inspector Menard; one heading west under the direction of Chief Inspector Pichette and Inspector Rousseau. The face of every man in each group was grim and determined; their minds focused entirely on the task before them – to bring justice to a family torn apart by deception, cruelty, lies and violence.
And in Paris, another family was on the mind of the woman who wore a smile and was utterly distracted from anything her guest had to say.
"Antoinette," Erik said, trying to get his friend's attention, "have you heard anything I have said over the last minutes?"
There was no answer.
"I said I am going back to Boulogne and I am going to drag Christine back to Paris where I shall take her into the ruins of the opera house and keep her there until we both die of old age," Erik said.
"That's nice," Antoinette told him as she put down her teacup and smiled at Erik.
"I am sure Christine will think so," Erik muttered.
A puzzled frown crossed Antoinette's face. "What did you say you are going to do with Christine?"
Erik threw up his hands. "Finally! I have your attention!"
Antoinette gave a small, self-derisive laugh. "Pray, forgive me," she replied, a smile crossing her face as she put her teacup down. Antoinette's sharp eyes surveyed the bright, sunny library in which she and Erik sat. Her eyes flashed over the books bound in various shades of leather. They lingered on the rich colors of the autumn flowers that had found their way in from her garden. "This is a comfortable room, is it not?" she wondered, half to herself.
"Very," Erik answered from where he sat perched on the highly polished piano bench. "But what has that to do with anything."
"You may have noticed that I have been a bit distracted."
"It had occurred to me," Erik grumped.
Antoinette sat up a bit straighter. "I shall not let your moods disturb me this day."
"When have they ever disturbed you?" Erik wondered.
Antoinette fixed Erik with a clear, twinkling gaze. "I am to be a grandmother," she announced, the smile on her face speaking volumes.
The perpetual glum moodiness on Erik's face quickly vanished to be replaced by a wide-eyed wonder. His mouth opened and closed several times as he struggled to find the words in the midst of his amazement. "I do believe that congratulations are in order," he finally said as he extended his hands to the woman seated across from him.
"Thank you," Antoinette said as she took Erik's hands and squeezed them lightly. "I am … I am…" Words failed her as the very private woman allowed her joy to overwhelm her senses.
Erik nodded a slight smile on his lips. "I can tell," he said softly. "I can see the joy this news brings to you. I imagine it brings the same joy to Meg and her husband."
"I did not think it possible for my daughter to be any brighter than she already is," Antoinette admitted. "Now I find that I was wrong." She sighed, the smile never leaving her face. "Meg is absolutely glowing! And Valery is so proud that I do believe he may burst from it!" The thought made the grandmother-to-be break into laughter.
It was infectious and Erik could not help but join in. "I do not believe I have ever seen you like this!"
Antoinette shook her head. "It is the joy of simply living," she told him, taking her hands back, one going to her mouth. "I nearly forgot!" Antoinette rose to her feet and moved through the pocket doors that led to her parlor. She returned with an envelope in her hands. Antoinette waved her hands at Erik and he moved over on the piano bench so that she could sit next to him; she placed the envelope into his hands. "This is from Valery," she told him. "It is a special request from him and from Meg – they would like you to compose a lullaby for their child."
Erik stared at the envelope in his hands as if it were a request for his soul. He turned a puzzled look to Antoinette. "A what?" he asked, his words coming out in a faltering stutter.
"A lullaby," Antoinette said. "It is a song used to lull children to sleep."
"I know what it is," Erik frowned. "I just … I do not … why me?"
Antoinette raised a hand and rubbed at her temple. "Honestly," she muttered under her breath and took one of Erik's hands in her own. "I think fondly of you – as does my daughter. Her husband holds you in some esteem. They are very proud and fond of the music you composed for their anniversary. Is it so far-fetched that they would ask you to compose a lullaby for their child?"
"Yes," came the one word answer.
"Why?"
"Because I know nothing of children," Erik told the woman seated beside him. "Because I do not have the time."
Antoinette knew him so well. "And…" she encouraged him.
Erik raised his eyes to look at the ceiling before turning them to look at Antoinette. "And because I am in the midst of composing my music for Tallis." He looked pained. "And I am finding it a damn hard task!"
"And why would that be?" Antoinette asked gently, wanting Erik to face his feelings, to face himself.
"Because she is at her parents and not here!" Erik told her. "Is it not obvious!"
"If you truly loved her," Antoinette began, "I do not think you would have any difficulty placing your feelings for her onto paper."
Erik was stunned. "How can you say that to me?"
"I am the only one who can," Antoinette replied and sighed. "I know you think you love her…"
"I do!" Erik insisted.
"Be still and do not interrupt," Antoinette told him, speaking as if he were a small child. "If you truly loved her, you would not have insisted on returning, time and time again, to Christine until her child was born. If you truly loved her, you would have placed her needs and her desires before your own. If you truly loved her, her happiness would have taken precedence over your own." Antoinette squeezed the hand she held. "You know how fond of you I am; yet I am not blind to your faults. You have been playing at being in love with Tallis while she has truly been in love with you. She never wavered in her devotion each time you returned to Christine. She encouraged you to follow your heart. She was your true friend, wanting for you what it was that you wanted for yourself."
A sudden fear gripped Erik's heart. "She is not coming back, is she?"
Antoinette found that she could answer him honestly. "I do not know," she replied. "I know that she wanted the time with her family to listen to her mind and to follow her heart."
Erik jumped to his feet. "I have to return to the garret!" he exclaimed, his thoughts racing behind his eyes. "I know what it is I must do." He raised Antoinette's hand to his lips. "Forgive me," he asked and managed a small smile. "And thank you!" And with those words Erik swept from the room.
Antoinette could hear the sound of her kitchen door opening and closing. She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes in prayer. "Dear God," she began, "give me strength for I do not know how much longer I shall be able to keep this secret." She opened her eyes and smiled. "And thank you for my grandchild. Watch over my Meg and her little family and keep them safe." Antoinette waited for a moment, her heart continuing to pray in words that she could not form, before rising to her feet and turning to look out the window. "I think I shall take this lovely afternoon to walk into town," she said to herself.
Late morning faded into afternoon as Antoinette enjoyed herself in the nearby park, watching the small children who played there, daydreaming about the time when one of those children would be clinging to her hand. And while Antoinette enjoyed her time in the park, hundreds of miles south, Chief Inspector Pichette was raising his hand, causing the search party who accompanied him to pause.
"Where are we?" he asked Inspector Rousseau, his voice tired.
Rousseau pulled papers from his jacket pocket, opening them, his eyes scanning the writing and drawings. He raised his head and looked about himself. He studied the landmarks – the woods with their changing leaves, the winding, mountain road the search party had been following. Rousseau listened and caught the sound of a stream hidden somewhere nearby. He returned his gaze, once again, to the papers before raising his head and pointing up the road. "There is a farmhouse at the end of this road," he said. "It is one of the last three on our list."
"Good," Pichette replied and glanced at his watch. "We have another two hours before we need to meet Inspector Menard and his men back at the crossroads." A frown crossed his face. "If our luck – or lack, thereof – continues to hold, we should have no trouble meeting that deadline." He turned to look at the men behind him. "Forward," he called out.
The horses made their way up the winding road in two columns. The horses that had been so complacent over the three days that the search had been conducted suddenly grew restless. They tossed their heads and snorted. Well-trained mounts danced sideways on the road, fighting the gentle control their riders exerted. Puzzled frowns crossed the faces of the riders who scanned the surrounding woods, searching for any movement, any sign of a predator stalking their movements.
Inspector Rousseau held up a hand and the line behind him ground to a halt. All eyes looked up the hill at the entrance to a walled courtyard. The gendarmes followed the lead of the Pichette and Rousseau and dismounted as quietly as possible. Three men moved through the group, gathering reins, moving horses into the woods. The other men gathered silently behind Pichette and Rousseau.
"You," Chief Inspector Pichette addressed his young inspector, "take three men and approach that gate from either side. Do not move in until you are sure there is no danger."
"Understood," Rousseau replied and waved for the three nearest men to follow him.
They moved cautiously up either side of the road as they approached the entrance built into the walled courtyard. The two groups of men stopped on either side of the entrance, hugging tightly to the wall. Inspector Rousseau nodded at the man opposite him and the man slowly stuck his head around the corner of the opening to gaze into the courtyard. It took but a moment before he pulled his head back, a puzzled look on his face.
"What is it?" Inspector Rousseau whispered across the short distance between them.
"The barn door is wide open," the man whispered back, "as is the front door. No movement."
Inspector Rousseau's lips set into a tight line and he turned back to the waiting men, waving them forward. He waited until they had reached his side before addressing Chief Inspector Pichette. "The doors are open and there does not appear to be any sign of movement. There is a barn and a house."
Chief Inspector Pichette nodded slightly and turned to address the men about him. "Two groups. One to the barn under Inspector Rousseau. One to the house under my direction. Anything – no matter how insignificant – could bear great importance." He was a man of few words when confronting the duty that was his life and expected those about him to be the same. "Go."
The police moved silently through the opening, guns drawn, half of them following Inspector Rousseau into the barn, the other half following Chief Inspector Pichette into the house.
Once in the small entry foyer of the house, Pichette waved his men into groups, trusting their abilities, knowing that they would do what was required of them. He barely looked back as the men split up, some going up the stairs, others down the hall and into the rooms that beckoned from the still foyer. Pichette took two men and moved into the kitchen, a sharp look coming into his eyes as he noted the overturned chair. The intelligence flared even brighter as Pichette approached the kitchen table, bending over to examine the edge and the strange stain there. He looked up as footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs and entering the kitchen.
"Sir," the gendarme said.
"Yes," Pichette replied as he looked closer at the stain, reaching out to finger it lightly.
"We found manacles and chains attached to the wall of one of the upstairs bedrooms," the man said.
Chief Inspector Pichette straightened suddenly. "What?" he replied as he turned.
"And blood," the man continued. "There appears to be blood on several surfaces of the room."
"Excuse me sir," a voice came from behind Pichette.
Pichette knew that voice and turned to face it. "Inspector," he addressed Rousseau cautiously as he noted the look on the Inspector's face.
"We also found chains and manacles in one of the stalls in the barn " Rousseau told him. "There was also a blood stain on the wall with blonde hairs stuck to it." He did not flinch at the look at crossed Pichette's face. "We also found evidence that horses were recently stabled in the other stalls." Rousseau drew a deep breath and swallowed. "There is also an iron box in the barn similar to those used to torture prisoners of war."
Pichette could feel his heart dropping in his chest but would not permit those in his charge to see such a thing. "It would appear that this is where Foucault and his cohorts went to ground. It would appear they have already selected another victim." He shook his head. "And it would appear we are too late."
The atmosphere in the kitchen grew silent at Pichette's words as every man there felt the weight of their efforts begin to collapse in upon them. And in that silence a small sound could be heard. It sounded weak, faint and distant. Rousseau was the first to hear it.
"Sir," he said, his brows creasing in a frown. "Listen."
Every ear of every man tuned into the distant sound, Pichette's eyes quickly sweeping the room. "The door," he breathed as he rushed to the door leading to the cellar, Rousseau on his heels. Pichette threw the door open, the light from the open door, the windows, barely illuminating the gaping black mouth of the cellar. Yet it illuminated enough.
"There is man down there!" Rousseau exclaimed as he followed Pichette down the stairs.
"Help me," the man sprawled at the bottom of the stairs pleaded weakly as the two inspectors stopped by his side. "My leg …"
The inspectors quickly assessed the man, noting the strange angle of one of his legs.
Rousseau turned his attention toward the top of the cellar stairs. "Get help down here now!" he ordered.
Pichette had not taken his eyes from the injured man. "Who are you?" he wondered and watched as the man closed his eyes and turned his head away.
And all through a day that had seen one man awaken to silent house only to desperately flee the silence, another man had acted out of a driven deliberation. Through an afternoon that had witnessed the rescue of a second man in the same house who had turned from his rescuers, another man did not turn his head from that for which he strived. This man had kept his purpose just as focused as that of the gendarmes who sought him. All through the purple twilight, the rising of the moon in the evening and into the dark embrace of the night, he had never faltered. He had moved with a purpose, seeking one object, never wavering from the certainty in his heart that what he was doing was needed and necessary.
He had never left behind a mess before and he was not about to do so now.
Finally, as a clock from the nearby village chimed out twice, the sound echoing over a valley steeped in the peaceful silence of a night's rest, Nico pulled back lightly on the reins of the horses pulling the gypsy wagon upon which he sat. He could see the end of his journey in sight, illuminated by the bright, full moon. Nico clicked his tongue and tapped the reins on the back of the horses, turning the cart right into the long lane.
And he smiled as the steeple barely hidden behind the curve in the road drew ever closer.