Labyrinth

CHAPTER 65

Will was aware of being dragged down the flight of narrow stairs to the basement, then along the concrete corridor through the two doors. His head was hanging forward. The smell of incense was less strong, although it still hung, like a memory, in the hushed subterranean gloom.

At first, Will thought they were taking him to the chamber and that they would kill him. A memory of the block of stone at the foot of the tomb, the blood on the floor, flashed into his mind. But, then he was being bumped over a step. He felt the fresh air of early morning on his face and he realised he was outside, in some sort of alley that ran along the back of rue du Cheval Blanc. There were the early morning smells of burned coffee beans and rubbish, the sounds of the garbage truck not far off. Will realised this was how they must have got Tavernier’s body away from the house and down to the river.

A spasm of fear went through him and he struggled a little, only to register that his arms and legs were tied. Will heard the sound of a car boot being opened. He was half lifted, half thrown into the back. It wasn’t the usual sort of thing. He was in some sort of large box. It smelled of plastic.

As he rolled awkwardly on to his side, his head connected with the back of the container and Will felt the skin around the wound split open. Blood started to trickle down his temple, irritating, stinging. He couldn’t move his hands to wipe it away.

Now Will remembered standing outside the door of the study. Then blinding crack of pain as Francois-Baptiste brought the gun down the side of his head; his knees giving way under him; Marie-Cecile’s imperious voice once again demanding to know what was going on.

A calloused hand grasped his arm. Will felt his sleeve being pushed up and then the sharp point of a needle piercing his skin. Like before. Then, the sound of catches being snapped into place and some sort of covering, a tarpaulin perhaps, being pulled over his prison.

The drug was seeping into his veins, cold, pleasant, anaesthetisingthe pain.Hazy. Will drifted in and out of consciousness. He felt the car picking up speed. He started to feel queasy as his head rolled from side to side as they took the corners. He thought of Alice. More than anything, he wanted to see her. Tell her he had tried his best. That he had not let her down.

He was hallucinating now. He could picture the swirling, murky green waters of the river Eure flooding into his mouth and nose and lungs. Will tried to keep Alice’s face in his mind, her serious brown eyes, her smile. If he could keep her image with him, then perhaps he would be all right.

But the fear of drowning, of dying in this foreign place that meant nothing to him, was more powerful. Will slipped away into the darkness.

In Carcassonne, Paul Authie stood on his balcony looking out over the river Aude, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He had used O’Donnell as bait to get to Francois-Baptiste de l’Oradore, but instinctively he rejected the idea of a dummy book for her to hand over. The boy would spot it was a fake. Besides, he did want him to see the state she was in and know he’d been set up.

Authie put his cup down on the table and shot the cuffs on his crisp white shirt. The only option was to confront Francois-Baptiste himself alone – and tell him he’d bring O’Donnell and the book to Marie-Cecile at the Pic de Soularac in time for the ceremony.

He regretted he’d not retrieved the ring, although he still believed Giraud had passed it to Audric Baillard and that Baillard would come to the Pic de Soularac of his own accord. Authie had no doubt the old man was out there somewhere, watching.

Alice Tanner was more of a problem. The disc O’Donnell had mentioned gave him pause for thought, all the more so because he didn’t understand its significance. Tanner was proving surprisingly adept at keeping out of his reach. She’d got away from Domingo and Braissart in the cemetery. They’d lost the car for several hours yesterday and when they did finally pick up the signal this morning, it was only to discover the vehicle was parked at the Hertz depot at Toulouse airport.

Authie closed his thin fingers around his crucifix. By midnight it would all be over. The heretical texts, the heretics themselves, would be destroyed.

In the distance the bell of the cathedral began to call the faithful to Friday mass. Authie glanced at his watch. He would go to confession. With his sins forgiven, in a state of Grace, he would kneel at the altar and receive the Holy Communion. Then he would be ready, body and soul, to fulfill God’s purpose.

Will felt the car slow down, then turn off the road on to a farm track.

The driver took it carefully, swerving to avoid the dips and hollows. Will’s teeth rattled in his head as the car bumped, jerked, jolted up the hill.

Finally, they stopped. The engine was turned off.

He felt the car rock as both men got out, then the sound of the doors slamming like shots from a gun and the clunk of the central locking. His hands were tied behind his back not in front, which made it harder, but Will twisted his wrists, trying to loosen the straps. He made little progress. The feeling was starting to come back. There was a band of pain across his shoulders from lying awkwardly for so long.

Suddenly, the boot was opened. Will lay completely still, his heart thudding, as the catches on the plastic container were unlocked. One of them took him under the arms, the other behind the knees. He was dragged out of the boot and dropped to the ground.

Even in his drugged state, Will felt they were miles from civilisation. The sun was fierce and there was a sharpness, a freshness to the air that spoke of space and lack of human habitation. It was utterly silent, utterly still. No cars, no people. Will blinked. He tried to focus, but it was too bright. The air was too clear. The sun seemed to be burning his eyes, turning everything to white.

He felt the hypodermic stab his arm again and the familiar embrace of the drug in his veins. The men pulled him roughly to his feet and started to drag him up the hill. The ground was steep and he could hear their laboured breathing, smell the sweat coming off them as they struggled in the heat.

Will was aware of the scrunch of gravel and stone, then the wooden struts of steps cut into the slope beneath his trailing feet, then the softness grass.

As he drifted back into semi-consciousness, he realised the whistling sound in his head was the ghostly sighing of the wind.