“And the trigger for all this was Marcel getting sick and Michel being tapped to replace him?” I asked.
“Right.”
“Hadn’t they anticipated that possibility? No offense, but none of them is any spring chicken.”
Marcel’s whole body quivered slightly, and he raised a hand to point at me. “I knew. I knew.”
Didier leaned forward and adjusted the sick man’s blankets again after he fell back against the pillows, exhausted.
“Marcel had been smelling a rat for years,” he said over his shoulder, “at the same time that the other two were getting suspicious about how much Marcel knew, which really wasn’t that much. So each side was making plans and building up private manpower while they were all pretending to be a big happy family. Picard and Guidry found out they weren’t going to be able to use Michel like they’d used Marcel after Jean’s death, so they sprang their trap.”
“By pulling their fifty-year-old frozen rabbit out of the closet,” I concluded.
Didier smiled. “Yeah—too much, huh? Dumping him out of a plane? You gotta give ’em points for style.”
“Who flew the plane?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Beats me. Lot of guys might do that for the right amount. But that was just the beginning, anyway. They also had to fake a war with the Angels. They knocked off Tessier, since they knew he was in Marcel’s pocket—not knowing Tessier had the three of us as backup—and then they killed the guy who supposedly called you that night at the old jail. You were a big help. And then they sliced one of their own and put an Angel’s button in his hand. Very Hollywood.”
“And very useless after Marcel passed the polygraph,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s when the shit hit the fan,” Didier agreed.
I looked directly at Marcel. “But you still didn’t know who’d killed your father.”
Marcel merely tapped the side of his head.
“He had a pretty good idea. It just happened to be wrong. We only figured it out after Guidry lost his nerve, tried to knock you off, and did kill Sawyer.”
That still didn’t make sense to me. “How? Those dots don’t connect to Roger Scott.”
There was an awkward silence. Marcel’s glance fell to his idle hands.
“Michel did that,” Didier said. “He got tired of screwing around, grabbed Guidry, and got it out of him.”
I shook my head. “He tortured him. I knew he was shy of a full load. You guys are too much.”
Again Marcel jerked to life, waving a hand at me and croaking, “They are the killers. We were just businessmen.”
I didn’t argue with him. “I’m guessing Picard suffered the same fate. Where’s he stored?”
There was no comment from either one of them.
“Why grab me, then?” I persisted. “What was that going to do for you? You told me you were buying time for Michel. Am I the diversion while he heads out of the country?”
Again, there was only silence. I looked from one of them to the other, wondering at this sudden reticence, reviewing all I’d learned. As far as the Deschamps lineage was concerned, the three relevant intertwining threads were ego, pride, and revenge. Jean had set out to redress his son’s murder in Italy. Marcel had conspired with his son to right the wrong of Jean’s death. So what of Michel in this parody of a Greek tragedy? He’d killed in turn, ignorant of ever having known either Jean or Antoine, but inflamed by passions he’d inherited in psychopathic proportions from a father only reputed to be as cold as a calculator—but who’d proved to have been willing to sacrifice his final legacy for the sake of family honor.
Michel had to be the remaining loose missile in all this, and the silence I was getting now implied that his destiny was as yet unfulfilled.
A coldness crept into me as I finally understood.
I swung around, opened the door, and stepped outside, looking back at Marcel one last time. “I may have been behind the ball on most of this, but I am goddamned if I’m going to let this play out the way you want it to. You can go to your death knowing your vanity destroyed your own son.”
Marcel’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to speak, but I slammed the door to cut him off. I’d already heard more than I wanted to.
I RAN BACK TO THE RAILROAD YARD AS FAST AS I COULD,
slipping on the snow, calling Willy’s name before I even reached our boxcar.
He stuck his head out the door, his gun in hand. “What the hell’s goin’ on?”
“We gotta find a phone. Fast,” I said, already heading back out toward the street.
“What about these two?” He shouted after me.
“Take their wallets for the IDs and cut them loose. We can round them up later.”
Willy caught up to me as I was slowing down before a public phone booth mounted to the side of a darkened building.
“What happened?”
I picked up the receiver and began dialing the Stowe police department. “If we’re lucky, nothing yet. The reason I was grabbed was to stall us.”
The dispatcher picked up on the other end.
“This is Joe Gunther. Is the chief there? It’s an emergency.”
“Nobody’s here. The patrol’s out and everyone else is in bed.”
“Roust them out, then. Send a unit to the Roger Scott residence. Somebody’s on the way to kill him, if he hasn’t already. You know the address?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, move on it. I’m in Sherbrooke with Kunkle and heading your way as fast as I can.”
“Who’s trying to knock him off?” Willy asked as I stepped from the booth to the curbside, having just noticed a patrol car in the far distance beginning to turn down a side street.
“Fire your gun a couple of times at that pile of pallets,” I told him.
He did so immediately, filling the night air with noise and two blinding flashes. The car stopped, straightened out, and its strobe lights came to life.
“I think we just got a ride,” I said.
· · ·
Thirty minutes later we were in a helicopter heading for the American border like a darkened rocket in the night—Willy, Gilles Lacombe, myself, and the flight crew.
Lacombe was on a cell phone, as he had been virtually from the moment we’d left the ground, exchanging information with his people back at headquarters.
Willy and I were wearing headsets, connected to the onboard communications.
“Why in Christ’s name is Michel going after Scott?” Willy asked over the engine’s din.
“To satisfy family honor,” I told him. “The real Scott was killed in battle—something I was told days ago but didn’t follow up on. Another man named Webber—a certified weasel—stole his dog tags, probably for a rainy day, and then later relieved some Italian villa of a zillion dollars’ worth of jewels, art, and gold, killing Antoine Deschamps at the same time.”
“You’re kidding me. A heist?”
“Not surprising, given the people involved. Anyway, my guess is Webber shipped it home somehow—easy if you knew the right people—but then got shot and crippled in southern France. He also was reported killed—probably by himself—which is when I think he put those stolen dog tags to good use. Roger Scott was reborn as a wounded vet, shipped home to meet up with his loot and a future as a rich Stowe eccentric.”
“Did Jean Deschamps know that?”
“No, which is why he was so relaxed when he came to Stowe to interview Scott—eating out on the town and staying at a fancy inn.”
“So Scott killed father and son both,” Willy said.
“Right. The way Marcel’s been polluting his brain, Michel doesn’t think he has anything left to lose. His own father’s all but dead of cancer, he’s killed both Picard and Guidry, the organization’s about to be eaten by jackals, so all that remains is family pride. The final debt must be paid, regardless of the cost.”
Lacombe shut his phone down and put on a headset. “They have just located Marcel Deschamps in a van in his own driveway. The preliminary evidence is telling us he is dead of an overdose.”
“Suicide?” I asked.
“That I do not know. Was he strong enough to do it?”
I considered that, along with the dexterity it would have taken. It was clear to me Didier had followed orders one last time. But I wasn’t sure—had I been in his shoes—that I wouldn’t have done the same thing.
“He might have been—yes,” I told Lacombe. “Did they find the others? Didier and his two pals?”
“Not yet, but they did find Gaston Picard in the basement of the Deschamps home.”
“Tortured to death?”
Lacombe merely nodded as the pilot broke in, speaking English out of courtesy. “You might want to take a look out the port window,” he said. “I’m also switching you over to the police frequency below, by their request.”
We all three craned toward a flickering glow in the left window. I clearly recognized the outline of Roger Scott’s castle-like mansion below us, engulfed in flames like a vision of Hell.
“Joe, you there?”
I recognized Frank Auerbach’s voice.
“We’re right overhead, Frank. Is Scott still alive?”
“We got complications there. We set up an LZ for you upwind to the northwest. I’ll see you after you land.”
· · ·
From the ground, the fire looked like it was spewing from a volcano, spiraling upward as if propelled from deep below the surface. It roared and crackled with cyclonic energy, pulling oxygen toward it with enough force to make our clothes flap.
Frank Auerbach came running toward the helicopter with Paul Spraiger in tow.
“What complications?” I yelled at him over the rotor noise and fire combined.
He pointed to a small log building precariously near the inferno. “They’re in that garden house—Scott and the guy you warned us about. Sammie’s with them.”
“We were told there was another guy, too.”
But Willy Kunkle grabbed Frank’s lapel in his fist before he could answer me, shaking him as he shouted, “What the hell do you mean, Sammie’s with them? That place is about to go up, you stupid bastard.”
I laid my hand on his and shook my head. “What’s going on, Frank?”
Auerbach had freed himself and was already walking toward the building, circling around to keep it between the flames and us, since the heat was almost unbearable.
He spoke over his shoulder. “Our first units got here just as Scott was being dragged out of the house by what’s-his-name. The other guy got away—he was seen running off and we haven’t been able to find him.”
“So it is Michel Deschamps in there?”
“Right. He had a gun, held them off, and barricaded himself in the garden house. Sammie went in to negotiate before I could stop her, and she won’t come out.”
“God damn her,” Willy snarled. “Typical.”
We were about thirty yards away from the building’s front door, shielding our faces with our hands to avoid being burned by the towering flames beyond it. Frank spoke into his portable radio, and one of the deck guns mounted to a distant fire truck swung over and doused us with a cooling, drenching shower—an incongruous sensation in an otherwise sub-zero night.
“Okay,” he yelled, “let’s go. I talked to the fire chief just before you landed. We’ll be lucky if we have ten minutes before that place ignites.”
Doubled over in our watery cocoon, we headed toward the cottage, straight toward the searing, howling, air-sucking maelstrom over-arching it, straining to see what was happening beyond the doorway. A hundred feet shy of the cottage, however, there was a sudden low rumble, like the sound of a truck entering a tunnel at high speed, followed by a huge, round, boiling bubble of fire that burst from the open door and the two windows on either side of it.
We stopped dead in our tracks, stunned by what we’d seen, utterly and instantly convinced that no human could have survived it.
Willy began running toward the heat, screaming.
Frank and I only hesitated a second before following. Although that one fireball had come and gone in an instant, there was little doubting its effect. We were giving chase to save Willy’s life, and no more.
Inside, the light was red and yellow and orange in a dancing demonic medley, throwing shadows against the walls like a slide projector gone wild, making visibility difficult and confusing. Also, now free of the water’s protective mantle, my skin instantly began to sting in the oven-hot heat.
Willy was on his knees, his back to us, before an upended slate potting table, his one arm flailing as he threw what looked like gunny sacks over his shoulder, finally revealing a startled Sammie Martens lying dazed beneath them.
“Cut it out,” she yelled at him, struggling to sit up. “I need those to protect my face.”
“I thought you were dead,” he said in a half sob, frozen in mid-motion.
After a split-second pause, she reached up and gently touched his cheek with a grimy hand. “It went overhead. I’m okay.” She pulled herself up by the table edge, trying to see beyond it into the room. “What about Michel?”
The rest of us then followed her gaze, suddenly reminded of what had brought us here.
There, against the far wall, leaned a wide-eyed Michel Deschamps—his hair gone, his face blotched red and peeling—crouching behind a wheelchair-bound and slumped over Roger Scott. He had a gun jammed against the crippled man’s temple, although it wasn’t clear the latter was even alive.
We dropped down immediately as Michel screamed in English, “Back off or I’ll shoot him. I swear I will.”
We shuffled up next to Sammie, who, barely glancing at us, shouted, “Relax, Michel. This is a no-win situation. There’re dozens of cops outside and you’re badly hurt. Just put down the gun so we can get you out. You did what you came to do—the house is toast and the treasure along with it. Scott’s a pauper now. Your family’s avenged. Come on, Michel. There’s not much time left. It’s a miracle we’re all still alive.”
“I don’t need time,” he answered above the freight train rumbling of the fire behind the wall. “I need this man dead.”
“Then shoot the son of a bitch and get it over with,” Willy shouted.
Sammie broke her concentration to stare at him.
“I want you out of here,” he told her.
“Michel,” I called out. “It’s Joe Gunther. I just came from Sherbrooke. It’s all over. Your father’s dead. Let’s end this. You put your gun down and we’ll bring that man to justice—hold him accountable for killing your uncle and grandfather both. It’ll be clear to the world what he did. You die in here, nobody’ll know. You’ll just go down as being a madman.”