The Templar's Quest Part 9

Clearly not one of those people, Finn shrugged. 'I boogie to my own tune. So why j.a.pan?'

'I beg your pardon?' She shook her head, wondering if something had got lost in translation.

'You mentioned that your folks had taken a trip to j.a.pan.'

'I mentioned that two days ago. You're only now getting around to asking the follow-up question?'

The retort elicited another shrug. 'What can I say? Been busy.'

'To answer your belated question, my parents are partic.i.p.ating in the annual s.h.i.+koku Hachijuhakkasho.'

'What the h.e.l.l is '

'It's a j.a.panese pilgrimage,' she interjected, beating him to the punch. 'It's a two-month-long walking tour of eighty-eight different s.h.i.+ngon Buddhist temples. When I was a kid, we used to go every summer.'

His big shoulders noticeably shook, the man barely able to contain his mirth. 'So let me make sure I got this straight: you fly in an airplane more than five thousand miles so you can walk for sixty days. And I thought we had it bad at Catholic Teen Retreat.' Finn's umber-brown eyes twinkled merrily.

'I never said I enjoyed it. In fact, every summer I pleaded with my folks to go to Disneyland.' But she always ended up on s.h.i.+koku Island, attired in white cotton garments and a straw sedge hat, the traditional garb of a s.h.i.+koku pilgrim.

'I take it your folks are j.a.panese?'

'My mother is half-j.a.panese.' The product of an interracial marriage at a time in America's history when the j.a.panese were persona non grata.

'So, you're what? a Buddhist?'

'I used to be a Buddhist.'

Disinclined to answer any more 'follow-up' questions, Kate swung her knapsack on to her lap and busied herself with rummaging through its contents. As she did so, she quietly counted her breaths, focusing on each inhalation and exhalation. Right concentration. Refusing to let her mind wander to that horrific night when her Buddhist beliefs regarding 'acceptance' were utterly and irrevocably shattered, when she learned firsthand that there are some things that the heart can never accept.

'Hey, Kate. You okay?' Reaching across the seat, Finn lightly grasped her by the wrist. 'You look like you just chugged a gla.s.s of sour milk.'

'I'm fine.' Although it sounded like her voice, it was as if someone else was speaking the words for her.

'Well, you don't look fine.'

The cabbie peered over his shoulder. 'C'est rue de la Bucherie. Quelle est l'addresse?'

Grateful for the diversion, Kate said, 'Je ne sais pas. Arretez-vous ici.' Turning towards Finn, she translated the exchange. 'Since I don't know the exact street address, I told him to let us out here.'

Fare paid, they got out of the taxi. Peering over the top of her blue-tinted granny gla.s.ses, she could see that the Left Bank neighbourhood was a medieval warren of tiny one-way streets.

Finn glanced up from the Paris street map that he'd earlier purchased at the train station. 'The rules for survival in the city are no different than those for the jungle, or the mountains, or the desert. Blend in with the environment. And no sudden moves. If you see a cop, hear a cop, or smell a cop, act natural. Don't give 'em a reason to question you.'

Her breath caught in her throat. 'Wh-why would the police want to question us?' she stammered. 'Do you think the authorities have tracked us to Paris?'

'No, I don't think that. But it's always good to be cautious, right?'

About to nod her head, she caught herself in mid-motion, uncertain if a nod const.i.tuted a 'sudden move'.

They'd gone approximately one block when Kate spotted a brightly painted shop sign with the name 'L'Equinoxe' in gold lettering. Beneath that was an image of the Fool, the first card in the Tarot deck. The age-old symbol for infinite possibilities.

'There's Caedmon's bookstore, just a few doors down.'

Several moments later, standing at the entryway, Kate frowned. A small white placard with the word 'Ferme' hung crookedly on the other side of the gla.s.s door. Behind that, a green curtain had been drawn, preventing her from seeing inside the shop. Turning the door k.n.o.b, she verified that the shop was, indeed, closed.

'Do you wanna come back when the bookstore opens?'

Unsure, she glanced at her Seiko watch: 9.26. Local time.

'Actually, I think it's best if we seize the bull ' she banged on the wooden door frame with a balled fist 'by the proverbial horns.'

Several moments pa.s.sed. Again, Kate banged on the door. A bit more forcibly this time.

'The bookshop is closed!' a distinctly English voice boomed from the other side of the locked door.

'It's important that we speak with you,' Kate said through the gla.s.s.

'Je m'en fou! La librairie est ferme! Ca.s.se-toi maintenant! '

Worriedly biting her lower lip, she glanced at Finn. 'He insists that the shop is closed.' She didn't bother to translate the profane preface and postscript that bracketed the announcement.

'Are you sure that's even Engelbert standing on the other side of the door?'

'Oh, yes, I'm sure.' She'd recognize that well-articulated voice anywhere. Refusing to call retreat, Kate again rapped on the pane. 'Caedmon, please open the door. It's important that I speak with you.'

The entreaty worked, the deadbolt lock was released and the shop door swung open. A man, nearly as tall as Finn, with shoulder-length red hair, filled the entryway. Not only was his stained s.h.i.+rt completely unb.u.t.toned, the tails limply hanging against a pair of corduroy trousers, but his feet were bare.

'Kate? Is that you?'

'h.e.l.lo, Caedmon.' She pasted a cordial smile on to her lips. A vision of grace under pressure.

Blood-shot blue eyes narrowed. 'You have some b.l.o.o.d.y nerve, showing up on my doorstep.'

20.

'May we please come inside, Caedmon?'

Mockingly sweeping his arm aside, the red-headed Brit gestured for Finn and Kate to enter the bookshop. 'By all means. Mi casa, su casa.'

As he stepped across the threshold, Finn sized up their 'host', instantly pegging the guy for a p.r.i.c.k of the first order. Caedmon Aisquith. h.e.l.l, he could barely say it, let alone spell it. Standing approximately six foot three, Aisquith had the lean, rangy build of a long-distance runner. And the ashen, hollow-eyed look of an insomniac. That or the English dude was coming off one h.e.l.luva bender.

Finn removed his Oakley sungla.s.ses and hooked them on the collar of his T-s.h.i.+rt. Perusing the joint, he wondered how Aisquith made a living. Granted, he didn't know a lot about the book trade, but common sense told him that a dark, unkempt shop wasn't the kind of place that attracted a clientele. Who the h.e.l.l liked the smell of mildew? Not only were the floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered in a visible layer of dust, there were unwieldy stacks of books haphazardly arranged on the floor, just waiting for an unsuspecting customer to plough into. To quote his great-uncle Seamus, the place was 'a slipshod s.h.i.+pwreck'.

Kate cleared her throat. Probably because, like Finn, she'd just swallowed a mouthful of dust motes. 'Gosh ... it's been a long time. No doubt you're surprised to see me.'

Aisquith folded his arms over his chest. 'Baffled to say the least. In your lettre de rupture you succinctly stated that you never wanted to see me again.'

'I sent that letter sixteen years ago,' Kate retorted, an exasperated edge to her voice. 'In hindsight, conveying those sentiments in a letter was terribly unfair to you. However, I was young and inexperienced.'

'A poor excuse, given the nature of our relations.h.i.+p.'

Standing ringside, Finn quickly gathered that Kate had once shacked up with the dishevelled bookstore owner, and the p.r.i.c.k was still royally p.i.s.sed off that she'd given him the shaft. You go, girl.

'And including those lines of poetry from Yeats was unconscionable,' the p.r.i.c.k continued. ' "In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned; Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned." '

Finn sidled a few steps closer to Kate, a show of moral support. 'I don't know. Sounds like a cla.s.sy "Dear John" letter to me.'

'And who might you be?'

'The name's Finn McGuire. I'm Kate's new BFF.' He didn't bother extending his hand.

The Brit gave him the once-over. 'A diminutive of Finnegan, I take it?'

Sorely tempted to tell Aisquith where he could shove it after he took it, Finn belligerently tilted his chin. 'What can I say? My mother had a wicked dark humour.'

'She must have, to have named you after a dead character in a James Joyce novel. But that's the Irish for you.'

'Irish-American,' he corrected.

'Mmmm ... indeed.'

What the f.u.c.k did that mean?

'So, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?'

Kate hesitated, s.h.i.+fting her weight from one foot to the other. 'I, um, need your help, Caedmon. I've just made a long, arduous journey and ' Eyes bloodshot, cheeks flushed, she stared pleadingly at her old swain. By anyone's standard, she looked plenty pitiful. 'Please, Caedmon. I didn't know where else to go.'

Hearing that, the red-headed Brit instantly dropped the sarcastic att.i.tude. Like he'd just had a deathbed conversion, he placed a solicitous hand on Kate's shoulder. 'Of course. Anything. Christ, I'm such a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Arrow to the heart. Wounded to the quick. All that.'

And Kate complained about him not speaking in full sentences. This Aisquith guy had it down to an art form.

'I'm sorry. I probably should have called ahead or sent an email, but we've been on the run. Figuratively speaking, of course.' A red splotch instantly materialized on each freckled cheek. Two guilty bull's eyes.

Removing his hand from Kate's shoulder, Aisquith waved away the botched apology. 'Doesn't matter. For you, the door is always open.' As he spoke, he glanced down at his unb.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt. 'Forgive me. I've been under the weather.' He fumbled with one of the middle b.u.t.tons. 'A touch of la grippe, as it were.' Calling it quits after just the one b.u.t.ton, he clapped his hands together. 'Right. I'll get us some refreshments. A gla.s.s of sherry perhaps?' No sooner did he make the offer than Aisquith noticed the clock hanging on the adjacent wall. 'Oh, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! It's still morning.'

'Would it be too much to ask for a cup of tea? I'm in dire need of a pick-me-up.' Visibly sagging, Kate lowered her knapsack to the floor.

'No doubt I have a canister somewhere. Please make yourselves comfortable.' Aisquith gestured distractedly to the two leather wingback chairs shoe-horned between a pair of towering bookcases. Hospitality dispensed, he ambled towards an open door in the back of the shop, disappearing from sight.

With a weary sigh, Kate seated herself in the nearest chair. A wilted flower in a dusty pot.

'I don't know how to break it to you, Katie, but your pal looks like one of those guys who lives under the bridge in a cardboard box.'

'You heard him, he just got over a bout of the flu.' Though quick to come to the Brit's defence, her brow furrowed. Like she wasn't entirely convinced of what she'd just said. 'While he may not look his best, I'm certain that Caedmon can help us to decipher Jutier's tattoo as well as the symbols on the Montsegur '

'Don't breathe a word about the medallion,' he interjected, cutting her off at the pa.s.s. Although Kate thought that if they deciphered the symbols on the medallion they'd gain some valuable insight, which would help him track down the Dark Angel, he wasn't entirely convinced. 'I can't put my finger on it, but I've got a hinky feeling about your ex-boyfriend.'

'Don't be so paranoid. Caedmon is utterly harmless. For goodness' sake, he owns a bookstore.'

'Speaking of which ' Craning his neck, Finn glanced at several of the hand-printed tags affixed to the front of the shelves. 'Let's see, we got The Illuminati, The Knights Templar and something called The Merovingian Bloodline.' He turned towards a second bookcase. 'Ooh, here's a good section: Extraterrestrials, Alien Abductions and, not to be excluded, The Faery People.' Smirking, he glanced at his companion. 'We're talking conspiracy theorist of the first magnitude. What do you wanna bet Aisquith wears an aluminium foil shower cap?'

Kate shot him a chiding frown.

Point made, Finn walked over to the front door and pulled back the curtain that hung at the gla.s.s. Standing stock still, he perused the street in front of the bookstore. Little more than a single lane, the jumble of old-fas.h.i.+oned shops looked like something out of another time period.

While he had no proof, he had a gut feeling that Dixie and Johnny K's murderer was here in Paris. Somewhere. And I aim to find him.

'So long as the authorities don't get a hold of my a.s.s,' Finn muttered under his breath, able to hear a police siren bleating in the near distance. Between the flight crew at Dover and the airmen at Mildenhall, too many people knew that he'd left the US in a very unusual manner. Some people would do anything for a buck. And that included ratting out 'a buddy'.

We can't blow this joint fast enough.

Finn let the curtain fall back into place. Turning on his heel, he walked back to the niche.

'A cup of tea. A little chitchat. Then we're getting the h.e.l.l out of here,' he said to Kate in a lowered voice. 'And don't volunteer anything. Just follow my lead, okay?'

'Whatever,' she retorted testily, beginning to look and sound like a cranky kid on a long trip.

She wasn't the only cranky one. From the get-go, Finn had been opposed to bringing Kate Bauer to Paris. She was a distraction, plain and simple. But he knew that if he'd left her in DC, she'd likely wind up dead.

For better or worse, sickness and in health, she'd become a 115-pound anchor around his neck.

21.

Musee de la Vie Romantique, Paris Ivo Uhlemann slowly ascended the stone steps, his circ.u.mspect gait that of a white-haired septuagenarian. Physical debility a character flaw in a man of any age, he refused to use a cane. And he would rather put a bullet through his own skull than be pushed about in a wheelchair, his infirmities on public display.

Pausing at the top of the stone steps, he savoured the delicate scent of the pink roses that clung to the wrought-iron railing. The Museum of the Romantic Life boasted a magnificent garden and charming courtyard. Housed in the former residence of Ary Scheffer, a nineteenth-century artist, the mansion in its heyday had hosted the likes of Chopin, d.i.c.kens and Delacroix. He was there on that warm August morning to view the museum's new exhibition of drawings and watercolours from 'The Golden Age of the German Romantic Artists'.

No sooner did Ivo step through the museum's entryway than a pixie of a man rushed forward.

'Bonjour, Monsieur le Docteur!' Grasping Ivo by the shoulder, the museum curator warmly greeted him with the salutary cheek kiss. 'Such a pleasure! As always!'

Ivo suffered the faire le bise with a tight-lipped smile. It'd taken years of practice to train himself not to flinch at the overly familiar French greeting.

Taking a backward step, politely distancing himself from the other man, he said, 'I am greatly looking forward to viewing the new exhibition.'

'The French poet Nerval rightly claimed that Germany's Romantic artists were "a mother to us all",' the curator effused. With an ingratiating smile, he proffered a slim pamphlet. 'For your edification, I have prepared a pamphlet that contains the pertinent details for each work. It is my sincere hope that you enjoy the exhibition, Monsieur le Docteur.'