Ice Claw (22 page)

“Which means what?” Max asked.

“Somebody is born at a particular time. Someone who knows how to interpret these things looks to the heavens and the stars and planets, and draws a birth chart.”

Max thought for a moment. “Like a compass? They point to the stars and planets.”

“That is one way of thinking of it, yes. It used to require
great skill to do such things. It shows someone’s life, their destiny. It shows events. It shows me nothing. I don’t understand them. I don’t do them. What do I know? I will tell you a secret, Max. It’s too difficult. Like mathematics. I hated it at school. I am intuitive, not scientific. Besides, these days, things like this can be done on computers. Not for me, I think.”

She drained the bottle into the glass and dropped it into a bin full of other empty bottles.

“But this was done years ago. Maybe twenty or thirty years ago. And you can see it’s hand-drawn,” Max said.

“Then the man who did it had the old skills,” she said.

Max gave that a moment’s thought. “Old? You mean, special?”

“I mean whoever did it was skilled in ancient wisdom,” she said as she adjusted the gas flame beneath a pan of simmering water.

“I found something else,” he said hesitantly.

She waited.

“It was a painting and it had two Latin words on it,” he said.

“No one speaks Latin anymore. Not even lawyers, damn them,” she muttered.

“But you’ve got books on Latin on your shelves. I saw them.”

“You were nosing around?”

“I was looking for an atlas.”

“You found one?”

“No.”

“So? You’re going somewhere?”

He’d probably said too much already. Better not to ask
anything more. He nodded, put the paper back in his pocket and got up from the table. “I’m going back to England. I think I need my dad’s help with this.”

She lit another cigarette, found another half bottle of red wine and topped up her glass. She swallowed a mouthful and turned the television’s sound up. “That is the most sensible thing you have said since you have been here. You need an atlas to find your way home?”

“No, course not.”

“Then you’re looking for something else. What Latin words don’t you understand?”

“Lux Ferre
. I mean, I think I know what they mean but I don’t understand why I saw them.”

“At the château?”

He nodded. The strong smell of the rough wine and her smoldering cigarette was mingling unpleasantly with the smell of the boiling vegetables. He wanted to get some air but he had to find the answer to this last question.

“So? They mean what?”

“Something to do with light.”

She nodded.
“Lux Ferre
was used by ancient Roman astrologers. It means ‘Light Bringer.’ But the words were corrupted, they were joined together—Luxferre. You understand now? It became the word that now represents ominous darkness and evil. It means Lucifer.”

Max was silent. His mind whirled. Lucifer. The last word Zabala had screamed at him. Traces of the name in the château teased him, those words etched on the bookshelf and their meaning something about morning light, and now
Lux Ferre
—Lucifer.

He wasn’t sure whether it was the steam in the kitchen making him sweat.

“I think you should go home, Max. I do,” she said carefully.

He nodded. He had already decided not to show her the numbers they had found or the other diagram he had drawn quickly from the pendant seen through the telescope. She had identified the man, or the entity, Max didn’t know which, that Zabala feared.

How come Lucifer brought light? He was a force of evil. Or both.

“There is an old atlas in the library,” the Countess said nonchalantly as she peeled another potato.

If a birth chart was like a compass to the stars, then it might also hold a clue to where Max should go next. The comtesse’s library, stuffed with generations of old books, yielded an atlas, its musty pages still etched sharply with names of countries that no longer existed.
Everything changes, Max. Empires are gained and lost, the climate falters, our fate is uncertain. So make plans but don’t expect them always to work out. That way you’ll get through
.

His dad’s words comforted him as Max fingered the piece of paper in his hands. The drawing he had made from the crystal pendant was a long-sided triangle that reminded him of when he did orienteering. To find where he was on the ground he would take a compass reading of two other visible objects and join the lines up, then this triangulation would
give him his location. Max knew it could never be to scale, but he had a good eye and he had drawn the lines accurately. He laid it on the page showing France and some of its old colonies in North Africa. He turned the drawing around, like orienting a compass, but it made no sense, especially not the letters
E, S
and
Q
. Then he placed one corner of the triangle on the foothills of the Pyrenees, just about where he was now. The shorter baseline seemed to point in the direction of the French Alps and Switzerland, but it was the longer line of the triangle that held his attention. It pointed towards North Africa. He grabbed a ruler from the table, laid it on the line.
Come on! Think!
Could this line be a direction? The scale of the atlas wasn’t big enough for him to be that accurate, but there seemed no doubt in his mind that the line went straight into the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. And that was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Sophie lived there. The area on the map looked barren; a world away from the comfort of Europe. How to get there, and what would be waiting for him when he did?

Max, Sayid and Sophie sat around the big table in the main room eating bread and cheese. Max reached out and tore a chunk from a baguette, shoving a wedge of cheese into it.

“We have to leave here, Max. Those men found me in Biarritz and I do not know
how
they found me. And now Sayid has told me what happened at the château.”

Max felt a twinge of panic. What else had he told her?

“Was there nothing at all there? No clues?” she said.

Sayid looked innocent, filled his mouth with food and turned to Max. A sense of relief. Sayid hadn’t said anything important other than they had been attacked.

“No, there was nothing. I think this whole thing is a wild-goose chase. Sayid and I are going back to England.”

“Great!” Sayid said, a little too enthusiastically. The buzz of the earlier encounter at the château had already left him. England was a refuge from all the crazy people in the world.

Sophie did not react. Max had secretly hoped she would. He told himself that her reaction might have given him a chance to see if she was involved more deeply in all this mess than she had told him.

“I’ll phone the airport for you,” she volunteered.

“No. The comtesse can do that,” he said a little too quickly, realizing that he was still uncertain of her motives. That instinctive sense of survival overrode all other emotions.

Before Sophie could say anything the comtesse scuttled into the room, waving the kitchen knife. “Turn it on! Turn it on!” she cried, gesturing towards the television set.

Sayid was the nearest.

A moment later Max’s face filled the screen.

No one spoke. The French news station showed an old picture of Zabala and Max’s passport photograph. Then scenes intercut between the avalanche area behind Mont la Croix, a body being stretchered away and Zabala’s mountain hut. The newscaster’s voice was hurried but clear enough to understand.

The body of Brother Zabala, a Basque monk, had been found buried beneath a recent avalanche. The postmortem
showed he had been shot before the avalanche claimed him, but that he had also suffered a knife wound. An English boy—Max’s passport photograph zoomed up on the screen—Max Gordon, was believed to be involved in the monk’s death. As with all foreign visitors staying in French guesthouses, his passport had been photocopied. The boy had been identified hiking in the mountain passes, approximately three weeks before the man’s death, in the area where the recluse lived. In the Pau hospital the boy had learned the whereabouts of Zabala and was seen by a local farmer running from the monk’s reclusive home on Montagne Noire and—a closeup of Max’s watch filled the screen—this watch was found clasped in the dead man’s hand. The inscription on the back of the watch identified its owner: Max Gordon. Upon further investigation at the mountain hut—more images of police taking out boxes of material from Zabala’s home, police crime scene officers, taped areas, sniffer dogs—evidence that blood found in the hut belonged to the dead man. Samples of skin taken from beneath the dead man’s fingernails indicated a struggle and DNA analysis matched the blood in Zabala’s hut to the English boy.

The motive for the monk’s murder was unclear at this stage, the voice went on, but police were now hunting for this boy to help with their inquiries. Gordon, described as 1.75 meters tall, athletic build, untidily cut fair hair, blue-gray eyes, weighing approximately sixty kilograms, was considered dangerous. The public was warned not to approach him.

Suddenly a reporter, someone called Laurent Messier, appeared on-screen with a microphone. Max immediately recognized the building behind him as the hospital in Pau.

“I am here at the hospital in Pau, where the boy, Max Gordon, was brought following the avalanche at Mont la Croix and where he was examined by neurologist Dr. Fabian Vagnier.”

The microphone moved a few centimeters towards the consultant’s mouth. He appeared appropriately somber, his own desire for recognition bending the truth as he rattled off words too fast and technical for Max to catch, but when the reporter spoke to the camera again, he emphasized words Max did understand:
assassin et un sociopath
.

Everyone stood in shock. The comtesse killed the sound, then stared at Max. It was Sayid who broke the silence.

“I didn’t get all that. What was that bit at the end?”

Still no one moved.

“A French doctor said he did a brain scan on Max after the avalanche and that he found brain activity which was usually associated with violent behavior,” Sophie said quietly. “A killer’s behavior.”

“Bloody hell,” Sayid said under his breath.

Everyone was looking at Max. He rolled up his sleeve, showing the comtesse and Sophie the faded scratch marks. “I tried to save Zabala. He fell, he scratched my arm and grabbed my father’s watch. I didn’t kill him. But I did see the killer.”

“You recognized him?” Sophie said quickly, barely able to keep the alarm out of her voice.

Max hesitated but kept his eyes locked on hers. “No, they were too far away.”

She nodded and looked down.

Max turned to the comtesse. “I promise you, Comtesse, I did not kill him.”

She had not moved, but the knife in her hand was slightly higher than before, held in a defensive gesture. Then, after a moment, she lowered it and nodded.

“Of course you did not. I believe you. But now you are in very serious trouble.” She looked at the silent screen, and they followed her gaze.

A picture of Max filled the frame and emblazoned below it were the words
Recherché pour meurtre
.

Max Gordon: Wanted for Murder.

Max had, as always, very little to pack—travel light, travel fast. He weighed his options as he rolled his trousers and T-shirts and stuffed them into the backpack. How best to escape the police hunt and the attacks of whoever wanted him dead? He was beginning to feel like a fish caught in a net. Squirming to breathe, he knew panic was just waiting to smother him, and that was when big mistakes were made. Well, he wouldn’t panic. He’d make a plan.

“You have to tell the police everything, Max,” Sayid said, interrupting his thoughts.

“No. I turn myself in now and we’ll
never
find the secret. Listen, Sayid, Zabala was murdered for something so important that I can’t let it die with him. The police have got enough evidence to put me away until there’s a trial. This is a setup.”

“What do you mean?” Sophie asked.

Still unable to read her intention, Max held her gaze.

“How did they find Zabala’s body?” Max said.

“There must have been a melt,” she said.

“But there hasn’t been. You saw the news; they went straight to the spot where he fell.”

“Someone told them!” Sayid said.

“That’s right. And who knew?”

“The killer,” Sophie said calmly.

It wasn’t a guess, it was stating the obvious, but why did such a bare fact feel like a challenge? Max wondered. Was it the way she said it—so coolly?

He nodded. “Whoever’s been chasing me needs me in a place where they can get whatever information I have. Setting the French police force onto me is a hell of a way of getting me pinned down, wouldn’t you say?”

“You lied to me. You went to Zabala’s hut to look for something. What?”

“I wanted to find out more about him,” Max told her, still unwilling to let her know too much until he determined how involved she was.

“And that’s why you went to the château?”

“Because I discovered that’s where he once worked.”