Destiny (3 page)

For the moment, though, his attention was directed solely at the woman.

 

A
SNAKE LAY SUNNING
on the narrow ledge that Annja had spent the past hour climbing up to. She had been hoping to take a moment to relax there. Climbing freestyle was demanding. Her fingers and toes ached with effort.

The snake pushed itself back, poised to strike.

Great, Annja thought. Climbing back down was possible, but she was tired. Risking a poisonous snake bite was about the same as trying to negotiate the seventy-foot descent without taking a break.

She decided to deal with the snake.

Moving slowly, she pulled herself almost eye to eye with the snake. It drew back a little farther, almost out of room. Freezing, not wanting to startle the creature any more than she already had, she hung by her fingertips.

Easy, she told herself, breathing out softly through her mouth and inhaling through her nose.

The snake coiled tightly, its head low and its jaws distended to deliver a strike that would send poison through her system.

At a little over twenty inches long, it was full-grown. A string of black splotches from its flared head to the tip of its tail mottled the grayish-green scales and told Annja what kind of venomous adder she faced.

Ursini's vipers were known to have an irritable nature, to be very territorial and struck quickly when approached.

Their venom was hemotoxic, designed to break down the blood of their prey. Few human deaths were attributed to Ursini's vipers in the area, but Annja felt certain a lone climber miles from help in the mountains would be a probable candidate.

The ledge Annja clung to extended six feet to her left.

Okay, she mentally projected at the snake, not wanting to speak because the vibrations of her voice might spook the nervous viper, there's enough room for both of us.

Moving slowly, she shuffled her left hand over a few inches. The snake tightened its coil. She stopped, clinging by her fingertips. If she'd been wearing gloves she might have felt more comfortable taking the risk of movement. But at present only a thin layer of climbing chalk covered her hands.

She stared at the snake, feeling angry as it kept her at bay. She didn't like being afraid of anything. She was, of course, but she didn't like it. That something so small could impede her was irritating. If she'd worn a harness and had belayed herself to a cam, getting around the snake would have been a piece of cake.

But she hadn't.

“Bonjour,”
a voice suddenly called from above.

Gazing upward briefly, Annja spotted an old man hunkered down in a squatting position thirty feet up and to the right of her position.

He was in his sixties or seventies, leathery with age. Sweat-stained khaki hiking shorts and a gray T-shirt hung from his skinny frame. His white hair hung past his thin shoulders and his beard was too long to be neat and too short to be intended. He looked as if he hadn't taken care of himself lately. He held a long walking staff in his right hand.

“Bonjour,”
Annja responded quietly.

“Not a good spot to be in,” the old man observed.

“For me or the snake?” Annja asked.

The man's face creased as he laughed. “Clinging by your fingernails and you've still got wit.” He shook his head. “You seldom find that in a woman.”

“You aren't exactly enlightened, are you?” Annja shifted her grip slightly, trying to find a degree of comfort. There wasn't one.

“No,” the old man agreed. He paused. “You could, of course, climb back down.”

“I hate retreating.”

“So does the snake.”

“I suppose asking for help is out of the question?”

The old man spread his hands. “How? If I try to traverse the distance, should I be that skilled, I would doubtless send debris down. It might be enough to trigger a strike.”

Annja knew that was true.

“It is poisonous, you know. It's not just the sting of a bite you'll have to contend with.”

“I know.” Back and shoulders aching, Annja watched the snake. “I have a satellite phone. If I fall or get bitten, maybe you could call for help.”

“I'd be happy to.”

Annja held up a hand, letting go of her fear and focusing on the snake. Its wedge-shaped head followed her hand. Then, getting the reptile's rhythm, she flicked her hand.

The viper launched itself like an arrow from a bow.

Without thinking, Annja let go the ledge with her left elbow and swung from her right, crunching her fingers up tightly to grip and hoping that it was enough to keep her from falling.

The snake missed her but its effort had caused it to hang over the ledge. Before the viper could recover, Annja swung back toward it.

Trying not to think of what would happen if she missed or her right hand slipped from the ledge, she gripped the snake just behind its head. The cool, slickly alien feel of the scales slid against her palm.

Move! she told herself as she felt the snake writhing in her grip. Skidding across the rough cliff surface, feeling her fingers give just a fraction of an inch, she whip-cracked the snake away from the mountain.

Airborne, the snake twisted and knotted itself as it plummeted toward the verdant growth of the forest far below.

Flailing with her left hand, Annja managed to secure a fresh grip just as her right hand pulled free of the ledge. She recovered quickly and let her body go limp against the cliff side. Her flesh pressed against the uneven surface and helped distribute her weight.

“Well done,” the old man called. He applauded. “That took real nerve. I'm impressed.”

“That's me,” Annja agreed. She blew out a tense breath. “Impressive.”

She hoisted herself up with her arms, hoping the viper had been alone and hadn't been among friends. Even with the ledge, she tucked herself into a roll and luxuriated on her back.

The old man peered down at her. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. Just resting. I'll be up in a minute.”

Taking out a pipe, the old man lit up. The breeze pulled the smoke away. “Take your time,” he invited. “Take your time.”

Annja lay back and waited for her breathing to calm and the lactic acid buildup in her limbs to ease. You should go home, she told herself. Just pack up and go. Things are getting way too weird.

For some reason, though, she knew she couldn't turn and go back any more than she could have retreated from the snake. As she'd begun her ascent on the mountain, she'd felt a compulsion to continue her quest.

That was dumb, she'd thought. There was no way she was going to uncover the secret of La Bête after three hundred years when no one else had been able to.

But something was drawing her up the mountain.

A dull roaring sounded in the distance.

Recognizing the noise, Annja sat up on the cliff's edge and peered out into the forest that broke across the foothills of the mountains like an ocean of leaves.

Six Enduro motorcycles bobbed and slid through the forest. The riders wore brightly colored leathers and gleaming helmets.

“Are you expecting company?” the old man asked from the ledge above.

“No.”

“Perhaps they just came out here for the view,” the old man suggested. “Or maybe they brought their own entertainment.”

Meaning booze or drugs? Annja thought that was possible. But she didn't mean to get caught standing on a ledge if that wasn't the truth.

“Are you coming on up, then?” he asked politely.

“Yes.”

“Good.” The old man took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “It's rather warmer up here than I'd thought it would be.”

Annja stood, balancing precariously on the narrow ledge. She reached into her pack and took out a bottle of water. After drinking as much as she could, she replaced the bottle in her pack and started climbing again.

“There's a rock to your left.” The old man pointed to the outcropping with his staff.

She curled her hand around the rock and heaved.

“There you go,” he congratulated.

Listening to his speech, Annja wondered at his accent. He spoke English, but she believed that was because he knew she was American. But his French accent wasn't something she was familiar with.

Moments later, Annja gained the top of the ridgeline. The motorcycle engines had died and the silence seemed heavy.

“Thanks,” Annja said.

The old man shrugged. “It was nothing. You climb well,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“But you shouldn't climb alone.”

Looking around innocently, Annja asked, “Where's your partner?”

He shrugged. “I'm an old man. No one will miss me if I fall off the mountainside.” He started up the ridgeline.

Having no other destination in mind at the moment, Annja followed. The compulsion that she only halfway believed in seemed to be pulling her in that direction anyway.

“What brings you up here?” the old man asked.

“La Bête,” Annja answered.

Halting, he peered over his shoulder. “Surely you're joking.”

“No.”

“La Bête is a myth,” the old man stated. “Probably a story made up by a serial killer.”

“You would know about serial killers?”

“I would.” He didn't elaborate. Instead, he turned and continued up the ridgeline.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked.

“Searching for something that was lost.”

“You lost something up here?”

“No.” The old man swung around a boulder and kept going up. “It was lost a long time ago. Hundreds of years ago.”

“What was it?”

“Nothing you'd be interested in, my dear.”

“I'm an archaeologist. I like old things.” Annja instantly regretted her words when the old man turned around. If he was an old pervert, she'd just given him the perfect opportunity for an off-color remark.

“You?” he asked as if in disbelief. “An archaeologist?”

“Yes,” Annja declared. “Me.”

The old man blew a raspberry. “You're a child. What would you know about anything of antiquity?”

“I know that old men who think they know everything
don't
know everything,” she said. “Otherwise
children
like me wouldn't be discovering new things.”

“Learning about them from a book is one thing,” the old man said. “But to truly appreciate them, you have to live among them.”

“I try,” Annja said. “I've been on several dig sites.”

“Good for you. In another forty or fifty years, provided you don't die of a snakebite or a long fall, perhaps you will have learned something.”

A tremor passed through the ground.

Annja froze at once, not certain if she'd truly felt it.

The old man turned around to face her. His face knitted in concern. Irritably, he tapped his staff against the ground. “Did you feel that?” he asked.

“Yes,” Annja said. “It's probably nothing to worry about.”

“It felt like an earthquake. This isn't earthquake country.”

“Earthquakes take place around the world all the time. Humans just aren't sensitive enough to feel all of them,” Annja said.

The ground quivered again, more vigorously this time.

“Well,” the old man said, “I certainly felt that.” He kept walking forward. “Maybe we should think about getting down.”

Annja stayed where she was. Whatever was pulling at her was stronger than ever. It lay in the direction opposite the way the old man had chosen. Before she knew it, she was headed toward the pull.

“Where are you going?” the old man asked.

“I want to check something out.” Annja walked along the ridgeline, climbing again. A small trail she hadn't noticed before ran between bushes and small trees.

A game trail.

Despite the tremors, Annja went on.

 

F
OULARD
'
S MOOD HADN
'
T
lifted. A burning need for some kind of revenge filled him. The woman, Annja Creed, had to be delivered alive to Lesauvage, but she didn't have to be unbroken.

He parked his motorcycle beside a new SUV. The five men with him parked nearby.

They dismounted as one, used to working together. Jean had been one of them, one of Lesauvage's chosen few.

Drawing his 9 mm handgun, Foulard took the lead. The other men fell in behind.

They went quickly. Over the past few years, they had learned the Cévennes Mountains. Lesauvage had sent them all into the area at one time or another. Foulard had been several times.

None of them had ever found anything.

Foulard truly didn't believe the woman had found anything, either. He hoped she hadn't. Once Lesauvage saw that she knew nothing, he would quickly give her to them.

Eagerly, Foulard jogged up the trail. His face and arms still hurt, but the pain pills had taken off the edge.

When the first tremor passed through him, Foulard thought it was the drugs in his system. Then a cascade of rocks rushed from farther up the grade and nearly knocked him from his feet.

“What the hell is that?” one of the men behind him yelled.

“Earthquake,” another said.

“We don't want to be on top of this mountain if it's about to come down.”

Foulard spun toward them. “We were sent here to get the woman,” he said. “I won't go back to Lesauvage without her.”

The men just stared at him.

The ground quivered again.

“I'll kill any man who leaves me,” Foulard promised.

They all looked at him. They knew he would.

Another tremor passed through the earth, unleashing more debris that sledded down the mountainside.

“All right,” Croteau said. He was the oldest and largest of them. “We'll go with you. But make it quick.”

Turning, Foulard kept his balance through another jarring session, then started to run.

 

T
HE GAME TRAIL LOOKED
old and, judging from the bits and pieces of it Annja saw along the mountainside, it went all the way to the top.

The ground heaved this time, actually rising up and slamming back down beneath Annja's feet. She dropped to all fours, afraid of being flung from the mountainside.

“This way,” the old man shouted. “Come back from there before you get yourself killed.”

This is insane, Annja thought. She felt the earth quivering beneath her like a frightened animal.

“Don't be foolish,” the old man said.

Frustrated, Annja took out her Global Positioning System device. She took a reading.

Twenty-four satellites bracketed the earth. Every reading taken by the device acquired signals from at least twelve of them. When she returned to the mountains, she'd be within inches of the exact spot where she now stood.

Returning the GPS locater to her pack, she turned and started back down the mountain. The compulsion within her surged to a fever pitch with a suddenness and intensity that drove her to her knees in an intense attack of vertigo.

“Are you all right?” the old man asked.

She wasn't. But she couldn't speak to tell him that.

Without warning, she was no longer on the mountaintop. She stood in the middle of a blazing fire. Pain threatened to consume her.

Her whole life she'd suffered from nightmares about fire but, for the first time, it was happening while she was awake.

“Girl!” the old man bellowed.

“Girl!” he roared again. Panic strained his features. Some other look was there, as well. Perhaps it was understanding.

Annja didn't know. The nightmare abated. She focused on the old man.

Forced to use his staff to aid with his balance across the heaving earth, he came toward her. He held out his hand. “Come to me. Come to me now!”

Feeling drained and totally mystified, Annja tried to walk toward him. Then the ground opened up at her feet. In a heartbeat, the earth shifted and yawned till a chasm twenty feet across formed. Rocks and grass and debris disappeared into the earthen maw.

Barely staying on her feet, Annja backed away. She didn't want to try leaping down into the crevasse. During a quake, the earth could close back together just as quickly as it opened up. If the earth caught her, it would crush her.

“I can't reach you,” she said.

The old man pointed, leaning on his staff as another quake shuddered through the earth. “There's a trail. Back that way. Just head down.”

Turning, Annja gazed down the other side of the mountain. Here and there, just glimpses, she thought she saw a trail.

“Do you see it?” the old man called.

The earth heaved again, shifting violently enough that Annja almost lost her footing. “Yes!”

“Go!” the old man called. “Not much farther down, you'll find a campsite. I have a truck there. I will meet you.” With more agility and speed than Annja would have believed possible, he started down the crest where he stood.

Annja didn't know what the old man was doing in the mountains. There were a number of hiking trails. Even famed author Robert Louis Stevenson, though in ill health, had been compelled by his curiosity about the Beast of Gévaudan to try his luck at solving the mystery in the mountains. The trail Stevenson had taken was clearly marked for tourists interested in the countryside, the legend or the author of
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

The mountain shook again and Annja started running. Never in her research had she heard of any earthquakes in the area.

She followed the narrow path across worn stone that led through boulders and cracks along the mountainside. As she ran, the ground trembled and heaved. Several times she tripped and fell against the rock walls. Her backpack and the pouch containing the climbing chalk thudded against her.

“There she is!” The young male voice ripped across the sound of falling rock.

Going to ground immediately, Annja peered around.

Farther down the slope, one of the motorcycle riders, still wearing his riding leathers, peered up at her. For a moment she thought perhaps he was coming to help her.

Then she saw the small, black semiautomatic pistol in his hand and the bruises on his face. It was the man from the alley.

She turned and fled, racing back up the mountain.

The earth shook even more violently than before. A horrendous crack sounded nearby. Nearly knocked from her feet, aware that hundreds of pounds of rock and debris were skidding toward her, she pulled up short and tried to alter her course.

The ground opened up and swallowed her.