Philippe, from his place in the tunnel heard the voices. He motioned for his brother to remain silent and listened closely; after a few tense minutes he made up his mind. "Christine is in serious trouble," he whispered. "There's three or more men after Reauchard, and she's in the middle."
Raoul swallowed hard and gestured to the grate. "T-Then we'd better get up there."
Philippe nodded and explained to his brother how they were going to proceed. All the years of soldiering kicked in and took over. Philippe would go up first and quickly assess the situation, then Raoul was to go straight to Christine if able, and get her back to the tunnel and out of harm's way. Because of the tall bushes and scrub trees, their exit from the tunnel would be briefly screened from view, giving Philippe the time he needed to see what they were up against.
He pulled himself out through the grate and kept low to the ground, moving over to make room for Raoul. He looked again through the bushes as his brother joined him, seeing a man with a gun walking toward Christine, and what seemed to be a very pissed off Phantom. Philippe aimed and squeezed the trigger at nearly the same time as the Iranian thug shot Reauchard.
All hell broke loose.
Erik grunted as the bullet plowed through his thigh, just above his knee and the blood ran hotly down his leg. The pain was exquisite, but he watched startled, as a neat, round hole appeared in the middle of the Iranian shooter's forehead. Not wasting any time that had been so fortuitously given him, he pivoted swiftly on his sound leg, and swiped the pistol off of an astonished Nadir, giving his former friend a vicious chop to the throat.
The Persian went down, clutching desperately at his neck, and wheezing loudly as he tried to suck air through a damaged windpipe.
Erik turned back quickly, jerking Christine roughly behind him, nearly forcing her to the ground. He aimed the pistol at the nearest oncoming Iranian and squeezed the trigger. His bullet caught the man in the chest, and with a cry, he went to his knees, then slowly crumpled over onto his side. Philippe and Raoul had come forward, the elder de Chagny ducking behind a spindly tree, when a bullet whined past his head and buried itself in a nearby stump.
Raoul worked his way quickly over to Christine, just as Erik turned and saw him. His relief at seeing the younger man was great. He immediately shoved Christine at him. "Get her out of here now! Back to the tunnel. Go!"
Erik's eyes were wild with pain and grief, knowing this was the end for them. They would never get the chance to see where their relationship could have gone. He only knew how he felt. And always would. He chanced one last glance at the woman he loved so deeply, then turned away and faced Behzadi. He choked back a groan when his leg gave out on him.
Raoul started to pull Christine away and back to the tunnel and safety, but she was putting up her own fight. "No! Erik!" She tried hard to shove her friend away. "Let go, damn you!"
She yelled his name again, and struggled against Raoul's hands, but he only tightened his grip further. She was horrified as Erik staggered when the bullet hit him, the blood quickly soaking his trouser leg. She had already forgotten her shocked reaction to his face in the moments after he was shot, and wanted nothing more than to leave this place with him. Both of them safe from the madness.
She fought to get out of Raoul's grasp, but to no avail. He was far too strong for her, and her last sight of him, was when he lurched forward and went down on one knee. She screamed, deathly afraid he wouldn't be able to get back up.
She turned to her friend in desperation. "Help him!" she cried. "Can't you see he's hurt?!"
"Shut up, Christine! Just shut up!" Raoul said savagely, as he continued dragging her away, and being far from gentle about it. His only goal was to reach the relative safety of the tunnel with both of them intact.
"You're just making it harder for him and us- not to mention my brother. I have to get you away from here so shut. up." The fear of a bullet finding one of them energized him to move faster, and kept his temper on a short leash.
He would never forget that demonic face, or the madness shining out of Reauchard's eyes.
She realized with dismay, that her friend was right. By making too much noise, she was jeopardizing all of them, especially Erik and Philippe. Abruptly the fight left her. Raoul pulled Christine rapidly away from the mayhem in the clearing. She no longer fought him, but followed quietly, instead fighting a strange lethargy beginning to overtake her. He reached the grate, and not stopping, he helped Christine through, and lowered her swiftly to the passage floor.
Glancing back once, he quickly followed and started the trek back to the house, all the while praying his brother would be all right. When they finally arrived in the library, Raoul heaved a sigh of relief. He had looked constantly over his shoulder, expecting trouble and was glad when they made it back safely. He led Christine to a chair and pushed her gently into it, then went to work freeing her hands.
Her once beautiful gown was soiled and torn, the wings left behind in the tunnel, her halo pulled off in the clearing. He rubbed her sore wrists and looked worriedly into her eyes. He got up and went to a carafe on the table and poured her a glass of water, holding it to her mouth. Raoul watched in relief when she took a few sips. He gently pushed the hair back from her face. "I'm sorry, Christine."
She said nothing, refusing to look at him. Keeping one eye on her, he took out his phone and spoke to one of the agent's downstairs. Then he placed a call to Elizabeth.
Philippe watched as his brother and Christine disappeared from sight. He turned in time to see Reauchard going to one knee, his face a grimace of pain, and Behzadi motioning his man forward. They want Reauchard alive, Philippe thought. He had known men who enjoyed the suffering of their enemies. These killers had something special planned for the Phantom, something involving a lot of agony followed by a very messy death.
He took a bead on one of the Iranian thugs and shot him, hitting the man in the neck. The Iranian yelled, and bleeding profusely, he turned toward Philippe and raised his pistol. Erik, who had climbed unsteadily to his feet, shot the man again, killing him before turning to Behzadi. The crime lord wasted no time firing his weapon at the Phantom, but a combination of nerves and bad luck had his first shot narrowly missing its mark, instead passing harmlessly through the sleeve of Erik's shirt.
Before he could fire again, Erik threw his own gun aside, and advanced rapidly on Behzadi, his eyes a hellish glow. The crime lord's scream was short and sharp as the Phantom wrapped long fingers around his neck. He was horrified at the way the tables were turned, as his life was snuffed out by a killer with the face of a demon. The death's head leered at him, those burning eyes boring into his own.
"May you have a speedy journey to hell."
Philippe heard the snap of bone from across the clearing.
They stood together uneasily in the moonlight, surveying the carnage. Behzadi lay on the ground, eyes wide and staring at nothing, his head bent at an odd angle. Erik recovered his mask and once again hid his face from the world. Philippe breathed easier. He never saw anything like the Phantom's face before, and hoped to never again.
Erik limped over to where the Persian lay propped against a tree, barely conscious. "He will live, I think," he muttered half to himself.
Philippe heard him and came closer. "Someday when you have more time, perhaps you'll tell me how often you've been in my home uninvited." he said dryly.
Erik was about to say something, when Philippe's phone beeped. A moment later he smiled faintly, and turned to Reauchard. "Christine is safe, and help is on the way. Might be a good idea for you to take off." He crouched down, and looked closer at Nadir. "Hope there's an ambulance coming with them."
He sighed raggedly in relief at the news that she was safe, "Why?" he asked finally.
Philippe shrugged. "Because you weren't the enemy here." He gestured to the bodies in the clearing. "They would have taken Christine, and that's not something I would consent to."
"Nor would I. You know Farsi, yes?" Erik said accusingly.
Philippe chuckled. "I get around. Besides, we fought side by side. You're practically my brother now."
Erik sneered and gestured to the Persian. "Mais oui. Observe my brother-in-arms. He would have handed me over to ce morceau de merde," (that piece of shit), and nodded his head at Behzadi's corpse.
"I don't think your friend did so willingly."
He snorted. "I was led to believe by the good daroga, that you would have been willing to do anything to be a count."
"Your friend lied," Philippe said easily. "Who are you, Reauchard? You don't seem too concerned that this area will be swarming with agents very soon." He tucked the pistol into his jacket. "Hell, I'd lay odds the feds in my home right now, know exactly who you are. No longer a paid assassin are you?"
Erik turned to leave. "No more than you are a paid mercenary."
They could hear a number of cars approaching from the Fairfield Rd. Philippe grinned then. "Touche." He glanced at Reauchard one last time. "Not sticking around for the fun?"
"I have a prior engagement. Tell Christine..." He shook his head tiredly and looked at Philippe with eyes that held all the sorrow in the world. "Tell her...tell her- adieu." His voice broke as he turned and melted into the shadows.
Philippe stood in the clearing, hands on hips and looked around. "How the hell am I going to explain this mess?" he muttered.
Elizabeth and Meg hurried to Chagny where Raoul met them at the door, and led them to one of the bedrooms where Christine was ensconced. They arrived at the same time as Philippe, who walked out of the library as they came down the hall.
Raoul went to his brother and grasped his arm. He looked steadily at him. "All right, Phil?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." He slung his arm around his brother in a brief, hard hug.
They watched as Moncharmin's body was removed from the library, and a man wearing a business suit walked up to Philippe and conferred with him in low tones. They glanced down the hall to the bedroom where Christine now sat, and Phil shook his head and said something quietly to him. The man turned and walked back into the library, while de Chagny headed to the room where Christine was waiting. As he came through the door, he saw her sitting numbly in a chair. Everyone converged on her at once, but when she finally lifted her head she had eyes only for Philippe.
She stood up and grasped his forearms tightly. "Erik?"
He cupped one of her cheeks and said softly, "He's gone, Christine."
She stumbled backward, the numbness leaving her to be replaced with dread. Determined, she went to the door with every intention of going back to the clearing. Philippe realized his mistake and went to her, forcing her around to face him. "No honey, he's not dead! He left the area, that's all."
Elizabeth, still unsure of what took place, came forward and took her by the arm. "Come and sit down, Christine. You look done in."
She shook her head wearily. "No. I'm going back to the house."
Erik nosed the car off the road as near to the house as he could manage, and killed the engine, making his halting way to the apartment. Limping heavily, he was forced to stop every so often and briefly rest his leg. He cut diagonally across the field in back of the house, keeping to the shadows as much as he was able. He encountered no one as he went upstairs, and once there, set to work gathering materials to treat his bullet wound.
He was no stranger to pain.
Their acquaintance went way back. It had been the one constant in his life, whether physical or mental, it had always opened its arms to him- the one thing willing to hold him close. He quickly extracted the bullet, thankful at least that it hadn't lodged in the bone. Bracing once more for the pain, he poured antiseptic over the wound and bound it up. He gathered his things together and threw them haphazardly into the suitcase, then taking pen and paper, he proceeded to write a note to Christine.
Ten miles outside of Gettysburg, his hands started to tremble on the steering wheel. Clenching his teeth, he grasped it tighter until his fingers ached. The state of numbed emotions rapidly wore off, only to be replaced with a profound agony. He watched the road in front of him through suddenly blurred vision, and drove on through the night.
She couldn't get there fast enough. When Philippe gave her the news that Erik was gone, she wanted only to go home as quickly as possible. With the tears still drying on her face, she herded Elizabeth and Meg out the door and into Meg's car. Upon arriving home, she left the two women in the foyer staring after her in bewilderment, while she climbed the steps to the Reynold's apartment as fast as her tired legs would take her.
She had a moment of fear when she noted the absence of his car, but refused to give in to it. Her steps slowed as she approached his door, all of a sudden frightened as to what she would find. There was a smear of blood on the door frame. Hesitantly, she tapped on it and called his name. When he didn't answer, she took a deep breath and turned the knob.
It was unlocked, and she entered the room knowing for certain that he wasn't there. For Christine immediately saw the scuffed violin case, and propped against it a sheet of notepaper bearing her name in a flowing script. She was trembling and didn't realize it. Her sole focus was on the note. She reached for it, knowing in her heart that Erik had already departed Gettysburg.
With shaking hands, she unfolded it.
I know you can never forgive me for the danger I put you
in, my Christine. I can never forgive myself. You deserve a man
with a normal past and a bright future. I can give you neither.
Forget me and be happy, mon amour. I will keep you in my heart forever.
You were my dream.
Erik
Christine held the piece of paper tightly and searched the room as if Erik was simply in hiding, and would eventually reveal himself to her. But aside from the violin, all of his things were gone. The small apartment was empty, as if he'd never been there at all. She walked to the bathroom door and looked in. The bloody towels caught her eye immediately; going inside, she saw the drops of blood around the waste can, and the small lump of metal glinting dully on the bottom of it. Always alone. Why doesn't anyone ever take care of you, Erik? She recalled her revulsion seeing his face, and felt deeply ashamed.
Her eyes filled with tears, imagining him in pain and doctoring himself as best as he could. She turned and went back to the main room slowly, a numbness creeping over her. Meg found her sitting quietly at the kitchen table dry eyed and still clutching his note.
Philippe listened to the French president in the cyclorama center. The president was standing in front of the 27 ft. high, 359 ft. circular painting, speaking of his ancestor, Paul Philippoteax and his magnificent work, Pickett's Charge. Because of what had occurred just the night before, it had been decided by the planning committee and the French themselves, to move the speech to a safer location.
Philippe had been surprised when a friend of his from the State Department approached him just before the ceremony began. Jason McNeal had been a friend since college and a sometime golfing buddy, who at the moment had a very interesting story to tell him. Jason stood next to Philippe outside the visitor's center awaiting the arrival of France's president. July 3rd that morning promised to be muggy and overcast, much like it was on that other July 3rd in 1863.
"Heard you had some trouble last night. Trouble involving someone from French Intelligence."
Jason then had his undivided attention. Philippe studied the other man's face a moment, then said warily, "Who's your source, Jace?"
The red-haired Jason put his hands in his pockets and smiled deprecatingly at his friend. "You cut right to the chase, don't you? All right. Would you believe a member of the DGSE?"
Philippe was startled. "That's external security for France. Are you saying Erik Reauchard works for them? He's an agent?"
"Yup, that's exactly what I'm saying. He was here because of the danger to France's president."
Philippe let out a soft whistle and shook his head. "He's one of the good guys now. I was half right about him."
He chuckled and looked at Jason. "He still kills for a living, but on the right side of the law now, eh?"
Jason nodded. "The French agent I spoke to cited the murders of two members of parliament. That's what led to Reauchard's involvement. Signs caused them to believe the president was next and that led him here.
"And it was Reauchard who notified them of the trouble last night. The DGSE in turn, has been working with the feds involved; that's why none of you were interrogated, and why they moved the speech inside. Also his doing."
Philippe scratched his head. "I'll be damned. Where is he now?"
Jason shrugged. "Gone. The other man that was with him is in custody waiting for extradition to France as soon as he's well enough.
"This Behzadi used the president as a ruse to get to Reauchard." He shook his head and gave de Chagny a lopsided grin. "I think the poor bastard bit off more than he could chew though with that guy. Wonder if he'd want to work for us? I was told he could get past any locked door or security system out there," he said wistfully.
"Do tell," Philippe said wryly, wondering how many trips Reauchard made to his home.
"I don't think we'll be seeing him back this way anytime soon, Jace."
He looked up as he heard a number of vehicles turning into the driveway of the visitor's center. France's president had arrived and the media outlets present, started filming his approach for the six o'clock news. Philippe was brought back to the present, when the crowd in the building broke into applause at the end of the speech. He wasn't quite sure what Andre Moncharmin's part in all of this had been, but he had been involved. Enough to be left dead on the floor of the library.
So the president hadn't been the target. It was Reauchard all along. Some Iranian crime lord had wanted revenge for an old murder. Asad Behzadi hadn't succeeded, but the Phantom had been brought down after all- by Christine Daae.
A/N Because of a glitch when I was editing Chapter 20, it kind of disappeared, so I had to re-submit it, and it's been stuck at the tail end of the story. Use the arrow at the bottom of the page and you'll see Chapter 20 posted after the epilogue. Once you're done with 20, use the arrow again to go back to 21, and you're good to go after that. Sorry for any inconvenience.