French Kiss, page 31
Her shadow was Asian, perhaps Vietnamese, and that worried her. As she had told Chris, she had come up against Mun’s enemies before. Betrayal of such an intimate nature had, perhaps, made Mun careless, and that had rubbed off on Soutane.
In killing Mun’s lover Soutane had found herself thrust into an ever-descending spiral of self-hatred, culminating in her attempt to commit suicide. Never mind that she had acted to avenge the attack on Mun. She had acted against her innate nature. So, like a madman, the war—and its aftermath—had crept into her life, turning it upside down.
Terry had saved her from herself. Surely she would be dead now but for him. How she had loved him! In caring more about him than she did about herself, she was able to emerge from her self-destructive state. And, seeing the prison of her own making, she could avoid entering its locked gate again.
Now, in her mind, she saw again that grim citadel of her own making, where she had sat, putting the keen knife edge against the blue veins of her wrists, rising up before her, and knew that here in Tourrette was her karma. Terry’s death had, perhaps, dictated this, as much as the course of his life. Her own fate entwined with his just as if he were still alive.
Echoes, hurrying after her, urging her on at a faster pace. She was in a street filled entirely with shadow. It was chilly here in the blue light, and she shivered, hugging herself.
She was near the Church of Our Lady of Benva. In its stern, overweening facade stone images of suffering and redemption clawed the air like gargoyles whose excesses of human emotion mimicked physical grotesqueries.
Somewhere, a clock was striking the hour. Soutane, listening, pressed herself against the cool stone. She heard footsteps, on the other side, heading away from her. There was no point in staying in the street, but still she waited because she wanted there to be no doubt in her pursuer’s mind as to where she was going.
She turned, slipped through the iron-studded oaken church doors. Inside, she felt wind ruffle the hair at the nape of her neck, as if the breath of God lingered here.
It was dim, muffled, except where thick bars of dusty light penetrated arched, leaded-glass windows, and dropped like shrouds to the stone floor.
She saw the worn stone font and, ahead, the nave. Candles flickered before a small altar set into a groined niche to her left. Someone knelt there, head bowed in prayer. Beyond, dim in the dusty light, she saw rows of wooden pews, leading to the magnificent main altar.
The air was dense with incense and prayer. Soutane passed a marble figure of Our Lady of Benva, patron saint of travelers, then, further on, representations of the Madonna and of Christ on the Cross. So much suffering, she thought. So much blood. The sins of mankind seemed hung out here, like wash drying in the sun.
She heard Latin being chanted, a song, a prayer, a sacrament, she could not tell which, and did not know whether, in fact, there was any.
By this time she had taken stock of her environment. She reviewed the possibilities, only briefly wondering where Terry had been when he had been killed, his blood running across the cool granite floor to mix with that of Christ’s.
Turning, she hurried back up the aisle until she came again to the statue of Our Lady of Benva. Across the way the penitent was still at prayer. Soutane slipped behind the marble statue.
She felt a chill race up her spine as the damp of the stone wall penetrated her blouse. Her muscles contracted. Squeezed in the interstice, she pressed her cheek against the veined marble so that she would have an unobstructed view of the entrance.
She saw the Asian appear. He was Vietnamese, she was sure now as she scanned his face. There was no spark of human soul there. It was as if he was already dead.
Soutane felt herself shudder, knew that was a bad sign. Her fear would lend him another kind of power, one with which she was less able to cope, and she began mentally to steel herself for the coming ordeal.
He stood in the center of one of the bars of light, sending his lengthening shadow across the stones. It lapped at the foot of Our Lady of Benva like a black sea, curling at high tide.
He did not, as others would, turn himself this way and that as he searched. Rather, he stood quite still. Only his head moved, an owl at midnight, singling out its prey.
His lips were the color of dried blood, and they were slightly parted as if he were tasting the air for her presence. His eyes, like ebony beacons, quartered the interior of the church, and Soutane imagined that they could pierce the marble behind which she was hidden.
Stop it! she thought. You’re terrifying yourself. But the fact remained that she was terrified of this man, and what he was forcing her to unleash inside herself. She began to hate him for what he was obliging her to do. Gradually, that hate outstripped her fear until, at last, she was ready.
Her body was centered in her lower belly; her mind dwelt in that special Void of being/nonbeing, where thoughts of victory or defeat never entered.
As Dante stood in the dusty light, Soutane uncoiled herself from the safety of her niche. Through the darkness of shadow she leaped, and when she alit, she did so with no sound at all.
Even so, Dante became aware of her. His head swiveled, and his gaze caught her like the talons of a bird.
“Why are you following me?” she said.
“La Porte à la Nuit was sold to us.” He spoke in a deadly whisper. “Now I have come to claim it.”
“Where is the money?” Soutane asked. “Did you pay it?”
“We were deceived,” he said. “We were given a worthless duplicate.”
“You killed him.” Staring now into Dante’s face, Soutane was never more certain of anything in her life. “You murdered Terry. Why?”
“I was not present at the transaction,” he said in a quite futile attempt to dissuade her. It was not that he did not remember
Milhaud’s warning about Soutane. It was, rather, that he could not believe that she was quite so dangerous. “I cannot say what happened.”
Soutane shrugged, and he, concerned now, tried to read her eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she said in an odd, disconnected voice.
Hear my voice, O God, in my complaint; preserve my life from dread of the enemy, hide me from the secret plots of the wicked … A Psalm of David, sung in French, enveloped them in sound as vespers was celebrated.
“He’s dead.”
… from the scheming of evildoers…
Hands empty. Filled with the Void. Moving closer, saying, “That is what matters now. Not La Porte à la Nuit, not your business transaction. A man’s life.”
“I know nothing of this,” he said, preparing himself. “I am blameless.”
… who whet their tongues like swords, who aim their bitter words like arrows…
She used atemi, quick, precise percussive blows with the edges of her hands, and her stiffened fingertips. She aimed at his ribs, heart, and liver. But he was prepared, and he was lightning quick, parrying her even as she increased the speed of her attack.
Soutane grabbed his right wrist with her left hand and, as he began to anticipate her atemi, she went into an aikido irimi, swiveling to her right, using his own momentum to twist his arm back upon itself, as she smashed the heel of her right hand into his chin.
Dante jerked backward, and he almost blacked out from the pain. But he had been breathing from deep in his stomach, and this saved him. For now he drew upon this wellspring of energy, kicking out hard, catching Soutane on the top of her thigh.
It was a nerve meridian, and Soutane’s right leg immediately went numb. She stumbled, losing her grip on him as she sought to right herself.
Dante smashed the edge of his hand into her shoulder, and Soutane went down on her hands and knees. She could see him coming, strained to push herself aside, but nothing worked. He kicked her in the ribs, and she gave a strangled gasp.
Reached up in desperation, digging her nails into the cloth of his trousers, just to hold on, to keep his leg at bay, knowing, if only dimly, that another kick would finish her.
She gritted her teeth as another blow sent pain radiating through her shoulder and back. But she would not let go of his leg, strengthening her hold, concentrating her energy, narrowing the focus to a pinpoint, the pain and fear blotted out now, as she fought to survive.
She sought out and found the nerve meridian on the inside of his leg, used her thumb to dig into his flesh just above the knee joint.
The leg gave way, and he was falling, coming her way, his weight like a heat above her, like a great shadow plunging…
She gasped, and rolled. As he hit the stone floor, she jammed an elbow into his sternum, heard his muted grunt of pain, felt his thumbs on her face, near her eye sockets, seeking purchase, wanting to dig in.
No time, had to change her strategy, use the wedge of her fingers just beneath his sternum.
… But God will shoot his arrow at them…
Plunging in, hearing the cotton fabric of his shirt rip, hearing his little scream, like that of an infant, smelling the quick, nauseating rush of breath from deep inside him.
Because of their tongue he will bring them to ruin…
Her hand full of blood; his eyes shouting obscenities at her, his grip on her cheek hard as granite, stiffening, falling away.
Then all men will fear; they will tell what God has wrought, and ponder what he has done.
His eyes fixed on the benevolent countenance of Our Lady of Benva, glazing.
They were in a house three streets away. Chris had tried to talk to M. Asprey at the gallery, but he had raised a cautioning finger. He had brought them here, to a two-story house of low ceilings, stone walls, tile floors. Downstairs, where they were, there was a kitchen, a small living room with a gigantic hearth, and in back a bath.
But, to a great degree, it was taken up with M. Asprey’s studio: an artist’s easel on which was a blank canvas, a stool with a palette, a wooden box crammed with a jumble of oil and acrylic paint tubes. Below, on the floor, metal cans of turp.
The majority of the space was devoted to a handmade workbench above which hung a galaxy of marionettes in the making.
Half in shadow, they stared down at the human inhabitants with peculiar, incurious eyes.
“I have been waiting for you.”
There was a devil, a twin of the one who was menacing the Puss ‘n Boots in the gallery’s window, hanging in a corner of the workshop. He was incomplete, the bones of his skeleton half on, half off. Somehow this conspired to make him even more threatening.
“Monsieur Haye told me that, if he should die, you would come.” M. Asprey pulled at some strings, and the devil nodded his partly composed head as if in assent.
There were the remains of a fire in the stone hearth. Chris stared into them as if in their configuration he could, like the Romans who had inhabited this country long ago, divine the future.
“If he told you I’d be coming,” Chris said, “he also told you that I’d be asking about a dagger. A very special dagger.”
“That’s right,” M. Asprey said, holding up the harlequin Puss ‘n Boots that he had taken from the gallery window. He looked at it as lovingly as if it were his daughter. “This is my first creation,” he said, “and, therefore, my most beloved.”
He took a razor blade and made one quick vertical incision down the back of the harlequin. From inside it, he pulled out an object. “This is what Monsieur Haye wished to keep safe for you,” he said, holding out the dagger. La Porte à la Nuit.
Chris took it and examined it in the light. It felt unnaturally heavy, as if it were made of some unknown metal. “Do you know what this is?”
“I know that it was made by a master craftsman,” M. Asprey said. “I know that it is very valuable.”
Chris nodded. “To some.”
On the windowsill outside, a black cat padded slowly by. For a moment it sat staring at them, licking the fur of its forepaws, then it went on. From the open window he could hear the call to vespers, echoing through the walled village, wafting upward from Our Lady of Benva Church. Soon the Magnificat would begin.
“The blade is made of Imperial jade,” M. Asprey said. “I have never seen a single piece of such size. I could not even begin to calculate its value.” He pointed. “Then there is the ruby. Take it closer into the daylight and you will see that it has that special color known as pigeon blood. That marks it as Burmese. It is six carats in weight. Are you at all familiar with gems? A stone of that size is exceptionally rare.”
“You seem to know a great deal about this piece.”
M. Asprey smiled. “I should. Your brother asked me to make a duplicate of it.”
So the Jesuit was not lying to Soutane, Chris thought. Was Terry trying to pull a fast one with the buyers or did he have something more in mind? “The dagger’s value is not monetary,” he said, “but spiritual.”
“I understand.” M. Asprey nodded. “It was well, then, that it was hidden so carefully.”
“And it must be hidden as carefully again.” Chris handed him back the dagger. “Will you see to it?”
The cat on the windowsill had returned. It sat, its back as hunched as a cripple’s, bathing in the last of the sunlight. Then it heard something, perhaps far off, and was gone. The distant roar of the cataract as, plunged in darkness, it crashed against the rocks came to him on the lilt of an early-evening breeze.
Chris watching M. Asprey’s skilled hands as he returned the Doorway to Night to its sanctuary, and began healing the harlequin.
Let the righteous rejoice in the Lord, and take refuge in him!
Let all the upright in heart glory!
Sound died away slowly as the echoes painted shadows upon shadows. Soutane’s eyes were wild and staring, like those of a mare about to be broken.
Across from her the penitent figure at the small altar rose. He had not heard them at battle, the psalm, that chorus of sweet voices, obscuring all other sounds inside the church.
Now the figure, through with prayer, lifted a burning taper from its sconce and, turning, crossed the stone floor in three strides. Bending abruptly, he thrust the flame into Soutane’s face.
“It’s not over,” M. Mabuse said, grinning. “No. For you it’s just beginning.”
As Soutane twisted her face from the heat, he grabbed her hair and, jerking hard on it, dragged her back into the thick shadows by the side of the statue of Our Lady of Benva.
Light fled before him; shadow seemed to cling to him as if they coveted his presence. Soutane used her nails, scratching at his cheeks, nose, and forehead.
He hit her hard, and she stopped. He threw her behind the marble figure, stuffing her painfully into the narrow space between the statue and the wall.
She was breathing deeply, trying to regain some of her physical strength and her mental equilibrium. She had killed again, and she felt herself soaking up the self-loathing like a sponge. Emotionally, she was close to the edge of darkness, the place where she had been nothing, wanted only silence and an end to thinking, feeling—to being. Close to the terrible, cold place where the knife edge traced the veins on the inside of her wrists.
Stuffed into that tiny space forced her in on herself. What she saw inside herself was that same black well of emptiness that had made her take the blade to her wrists. Because there was clearly nothing inside of her worth saving, only an open wound, festering and abhorrent.
Time contracted to the wink of an eye, the gleam of reflection on the convex surface of an iris. Above her loomed the face of the enemy, ages old, implacable, insatiable.
Once again she was compelled to fight herself, what she had done, as well as fight for her own life. She felt the cruel pressure he exerted on her, the unyielding stone against which she was being crushed.
She scented from his half-open mouth a stench that nauseated her. He hit her hard on the shoulder, and she cried out. He tried to fill her mouth with the heel of his hand, but she twisted away.
He jabbed at her neck, and the pain made her eyes water. Without knowing it, she jerked her head back toward him, and his hand came down over her mouth like a gag. His powerful thumb was wedged beneath her chin, preventing her from using her jaw and her teeth.
Her neck was exposed and, to her horror, she saw his face filling her vision, his mouth opening, his teeth gleaming like a dog’s. She began to shake, realizing that he was about to sever tendons, arteries, nerves with his snapping jaws.
A horror overcame her that transcended even her fear of herself. She balled her hands into fists and, with a hideous strength, she slammed them both into the spot over his heart.
He was staggered just long enough for her to slither out from the damp interstice. With an inarticulate cry she brushed past him, knocking aside his lunge to hold on to her, and ran, breathless, into the depths of the church.
When Mun slept, he did so with his senses wide open. He had learned to do this during the war, had, in fact, been taught the technique by Terry Haye. Where Terry had learned it, Mun had at first no idea. Later, when he got to know them both better, it was clear that Virgil had been the source, as he was the source of so much that flowed out of Terry Haye.
Mun did not understand this until one night in the jungles of Cambodia, after they had crossed the muddy river, the forbidden border from which there could be no turning back, Terry had confided in him.
“Before I met Virgil,” Terry said, “I had no idea what this war was all about. It was like someone talking to me in Martian while he tried to blow my legs out from under me.
“Virgil made sense of it all. This war isn’t about finding COSVN, it isn’t about trying to annihilate Charlie, it’s about surviving when the earthquake, the tidal wave, the hurricane all hit at once, and you think there’s no place to hide, not the earth or the sea or the sky, nowhere.”
Before that, Mun had worked for Virgil, but he had never really understood him. He had thought him a mercenary without a heart or a soul as Mun understood those spiritual things. But from Terry, he saw that neither of these men liked war, or even wanted to be there. They were like Mun, caught up in events over which they had no control.
