Deliver Us From Evil (7 page)

T
HEY WERE SITTING
in a car outside Charles de Gaulle Airport. Shortly, a turboprop plane would be taking Shaw to Avignon. The plan was for
him to stay there a few days before venturing on to Gordes, which was less than an hour’s drive away.

Frank said, “Amy Crawford is already in Provence.”

“I’ve worked with her before. She’s a top-notch field agent.”

“Got the plan down pat?”

“In my head it’s perfect. We’ll see how it flies on the ground.”

Frank made to light one of his little cigars, but Shaw stopped him. “Give it a rest until I’m twenty thousand feet up. I need
the extra oxygen right now.”

Frank put his cigar away. “Nervous? Not like you.”

“I saw Katie the other night.”

“The hell you say. Where?”

“Right here in Paris. You telling me you didn’t know?”

“Scout’s Honor. First I heard of it.”

“Come on, Frank. She showed up at the restaurant where I was having dinner. How do you think she managed that?”

“You ever stop and think that the lady is a world-class journalist? She finds stuff out.”

“Right.” Shaw clearly did not believe this.

“What’d she want?”

Shaw didn’t answer right away because he didn’t really have an answer.
What did she want? Was it really just to see for herself that I was okay? But I told her that on the phone.

“Shaw?”

He noticed that Frank was staring at him and didn’t look happy. “You just zoned out on me. You’re heading out on a mission
against one very scary guy and you’re already zoning? Not good.”

“She didn’t really say what she wanted. And she only stayed a minute.”

Frank gripped his arm. “What, you telling me you didn’t invite her to join you for dinner? She traveled all that way and—”

“How do you know how far she traveled?”

Frank made a face and slumped back in his seat.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” said Frank grumpily.

“Half the time you act like you don’t give a crap if I live or die. The other half it feels like you’re trying to play matchmaker.”

“My mother was the same way with me. Must be genetic.”

“We’re not family, Frank.”

“Hell, in some ways we’re closer than family. And who else do you have?”

Shaw looked away, tapped his travel documents against his thigh. Who else did he have? Just Frank? God, that was a depressing
thought. “So why do you think she came to see me?”

“Ask me a hard one. She wanted you to tell her, face-to-face, to stay.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“It doesn’t take a brilliant deduction. And no, she didn’t tell me that, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

“Nothing can happen between her and me, Frank.”

“Well, something already has, apparently.”

“Anna’s grave isn’t even cold and—”

“It doesn’t have to be about that. You think a smart lady like Katie doesn’t know what you’re feeling about Anna? She knows
you’re not going to jump into bed with her. She knows you may never jump into bed with her. And I don’t think she even wants
that. At least not now.”

“So now you’re a shrink?”

“I’m just a guy making a reasoned observation.”

“So what does she really want?”

“You two shared a lot. Went through hell together. Both came out of it emotional wrecks. I think she just wants to be your
friend.”

“Well, here’s a news update for you, my line of work doesn’t allow for friends.”

Shaw slammed the door shut behind him and walked off to grab his wings to Avignon.

Frank stared after him until the tall man disappeared into the masses entering the airport. He told the driver to head on.
He pulled out his cigar, started to light up, and then stuck it back in his jacket pocket.

“Sometimes you don’t know how lucky you are, Shaw,” he muttered to nobody.

F
EDIR
K
UCHIN
was a very smart man, smarter than all of them had thought. Not only had he outwitted Professor Mallory, but he’d outmaneuvered
Reggie and her team on the ground in Provence. The penalty for this failure was steep. Reggie stared over at the bodies of
Whit and Dominic. Whit’s head was gone; Dominic no longer had a face.

Reggie had been forced to kneel in the center of the freezing room while Kuchin and his men encircled her. There really was
no escape this time. She looked up into the long, cruel face as he stroked her chin with one of his hands. She would have
attacked him, but her hands and legs were bound. She focused on the bodies of her dead colleagues so she wouldn’t feel the
touch of the monster against her skin.

Kuchin laughed, a smug, deep laugh that seemed to go on for minutes. Did you think it would be that easy? he said to her.
Did you really? After all those years of guarding myself against this very thing, you really thought someone like you could
get to me? You’re an amateur sent in to do a professional’s job.

The stroking changed to a hard slap and Reggie fell backwards, hitting her head on the concrete floor. He immediately pulled
her back up by the hair. His face nearly touching hers, he said, Tell me your name. Your real name.

Why? she mumbled.

Because I like to know these things.

No, I won’t.

He hit her in the mouth with his gun, loosening two teeth and breaking a third. She tasted blood and pieces of her gum and
swallowed part of one shattered molar.

No.

He hit her again in the stomach and she doubled over. He stomped on her right hand, snapping two fingers. He crushed her left
knee with another blow.

Now!

Reggie, she muttered as the blood trickled down her face.

Reggie, what?

Reggie Campion.

Well, Reggie Campion, now you’ll know.

Know what?

What it feels like to die in beautiful Provence.

He motioned to one of his men, who came forward with the canister. A moment later Reggie could taste the petrol as it poured
over her, clogging her nostrils, stinging her eyes.

She wanted to be brave. But she heard herself scream, No, please. Don’t. Like a child. Pathetic. Weak.

Kuchin smiled, took the match from his pocket, struck it against the heel of his shoe, and held it up for her to see.

No, no, she cried out.

I actually thought you’d be a worthier foe, Reggie, said Kuchin.

No, please, don’t kill me.

This time the monster wins, Reggie Campion, he said.

He dropped the match on her head and she burst into flames.

With a scream muffled only by the covers over her face, Reggie threw herself out of the bed and landed on the floor, her body
twisting and turning, grinding itself into the floor as she fought the imaginary flames. Then, coming to her senses, she stopped
and lay still for several minutes. She managed to crawl to the bathroom before emptying her stomach in the toilet, and then
collapsed on her back on the cool tile floor.

She lay there breathing hard, waiting for the waves of sickness to fade. Finally she struggled up, stumbled to the window,
and looked out onto the grounds of Harrowsfield. As the time to leave on the mission grew closer she usually liked to spend
less time at the estate and more at her flat. However, the sexually energetic couple in the room above her had still not satisfied
themselves. So she’d come here.

Yet as she had driven away from London she’d also felt a pang of envy.
When’s the last time I had sex? Pretty pathetic when I can’t even remember.

The rain had passed but the air had not lost its chill. Reggie lifted the window and leaned out, taking deep breaths as the
nightmare’s sickening effects faded.

I’m having night terrors about the bloke and I haven’t even faced him yet. Not good, Reggie. Not good.

The worst part had been the vision of Whit and Dominic lying dead. Her fears could not be a reason for them to die. She had
to get her head straight.

She dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a frayed hooded sweatshirt with “Oxford” stenciled on the front and slipped out the rear
kitchen door. She wasn’t sure if Whit had gone back home or stayed over. She didn’t want him, or anyone, to see her like this.
It only took her a few minutes to reach the old cemetery and, even in the dark, mere seconds after that to locate the old
tombstone of Laura R. Campion. She stood in front of it, hands in her pockets.

In a completely irrational way, since she had no family left alive, Reggie had come to think of this dead woman as representing
a touchstone for her, to visit in times of stress and uncertainty. It was madness, though, she knew, to try to escape the
terror she was feeling by coming to a cemetery in the middle of the night and staring at the grave of a woman dead for over
two hundred years who as far as she knew had no connection to her at all.

“Yet I must be a bit mad,” she said softly, “to do what I do.”

And yet it
was
perfectly sane, she told herself, to be afraid of a man like Fedir Kuchin, who burned children alive without a second thought.
A man who’d slaughtered thousands of people at a time in horrific ways. It would be madness
not
to be afraid.

On the other side of the graveyard was a small private chapel that had fallen into ruin. Its stone-block walls were blackened
with age, the roof was partially fallen in, and the thick arched wooden doors had grown frail from termites and rot.

Reggie passed inside and walked up near the altar. She would come here on occasion to get away from the demands of her “career”
and to listen to the birds that had taken up roost in the old joists of the structure. There were no stained glass windows,
simply lead ones that had been broken or merely disintegrated. Through these openings the sounds of the surrounding woods
poured inside.

Apparently unlike Fedir Kuchin she had long since given up notions of a higher power guiding them all. She had done so for
a simple reason. An all-knowing, all-powerful, benevolent god would never allow the monsters to roam the earth, killing whomever
they desired. So for her, their mere presence in the world ruled out any possibility of a benign supreme being. Others would
argue that point, and many had with her. She listened patiently to their reasoned statements and then simply disagreed with
their conclusions.

They would have two more days to finalize everything, and then she was leaving for Provence. Before that happened she and
the professor would make the exact decision on how to do it. Whether Fedir Kuchin lived or died would depend on their making
the right decision.

Finally, realizing all that was riding on this, and despite her own personal misgivings, Reggie knelt down at the altar,
put her hands together, and started to pray, that good would defeat evil one more time.

She figured it couldn’t hurt.

T
HE VILLA
that Evan Waller would be staying at cost over twenty thousand euros per week and he’d leased it for a month, paying in advance,
or so the leasing agent had told Shaw. The house was parked next to the cliffs of Gordes and rose five levels high, reachable
inside only by a single spiral limestone staircase. The place had six bedrooms and a saltwater pool in the rear grounds where
there was also an alfresco dining area under a wooden pergola, along with an outdoor kitchen and propane grill. The villa’s
owner had recently renovated it, and all the appliances, including the Wolf gas stovetop in the spacious kitchen, were new.

Shaw knew all of this because he was meeting with the leasing agent at her office in Gordes in the guise of being a potential
renter for next year. The agent was polite and informative.

“Don’t take too much time,” she’d warned him in efficient French. She was a Brit transplant but her French was very good.
“Just yesterday there was another person here who wants to lease for next year too.”

“Really,” said Shaw. “Who might that be?”

The woman arched her eyebrows. “That is confidential. But she is young, American, and quite lovely. And obviously quite well-to-do.
These villas are the best in the area and beyond the purse of most. The same builder did the renovation on the villa next
door. They’re not exactly alike inside, but there are many similarities, including the limestone spiral stairs connecting
all floors.”

So much for confidences
, thought Shaw. “But if the place is leased now as you said, where’s the tenant? The villa is empty.”

The woman appeared uncertain. “It’s true he’s leased it for the month. Paid in advance.”

“So it is a
man
, then?” Shaw said.

She looked upset with herself. “Yes, but his name is confidential.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, he’s not here yet. It was quite unusual, actually. I mean, to pay thousands of euros for something you’re not even
using? Well, it’s not for me to say, I suppose. Rich people are peculiar that way, aren’t they? But you yourself must be rich,
if you’re looking at renting such a villa.”

“I’ve done well in life,” Shaw said modestly. “And we can speak in English if you prefer, though your French is far better
than mine.”

She looked both pleased and relieved by this. Her demeanor and tone instantly changed, and her British accent rang loud and
clear. “Well, that’s sweet of you to say. I’ve been doing these lessons for a month to get that gurgling thing going in my
throat, but I can’t say I’ve quite got the hang of it. These French, though, they speak so beautifully, so brilliantly, don’t
they? But it just about wrecks my poor esophagus.”

“Mine too.”

“Anyway, since the place is empty I could’ve taken you up for a quick peek, but we don’t want to barge in and find Mr. Waller
in his underpants, now do we?” She chuckled.

“So it’s Mr. Waller?”

The woman looked chagrined. “Now look what I’ve gone and done. Okay, that’s the man’s name, but don’t bandy it about. Our
work
is
confidential.”

“Of course. Not a word. Thank you.”

He left her and walked to the place in Gordes where he was staying, a small hotel that also had a spa. Situated on the precipice
of the Vaucluse plateau with the Luberon valley and hills beyond, Gordes could be reached almost faster on foot from the villas
below by a series of steps cut into the rock. A car ride was quite circuitous and involved a number of switchbacks. The village
of white and gray stone structures clung to the rock sides like bees to a honeycomb. The village itself was twice crowned:
by the Catholic church with its soaring bell tower and by a medieval castle that now housed part of the town’s government.

He called Frank and filled him in. Ever since he’d arrived here Shaw had methodically reconnoitered each building of note
in the town. He probably knew Gordes better than many of its longtime residents. He and Amy Crawford were due to meet tomorrow,
but Shaw had been in contact with her since he’d landed in Provence.

There were a number of possibilities in the village for lunch, so he took his time reading menus printed on crisp white paper
and tacked onto exterior walls. He selected L’Estaminet Café near the town center and had his meal, supplementing it with
a glass of Rhone, which was of course quite popular around these parts. On the other hand, Italian wine was almost impossible
to find, Shaw thought with a grin. His smile faded when she walked in. Though the place was teeming with tourists, for some
reason he knew this must be the American of whom the real estate agent had spoken; young, lovely, and so well off.

She was in her late twenties, with streaked blonde hair that he sensed wasn’t her natural color. Her skin was tanned to almond
with a few freckles on her shoulders the size and color of coffee beans. She was wearing a sundress with a scalloped front
allowing a glimpse of her cleavage; leather sandals covered her long, narrow feet. Shaw could only see her in profile as she
was escorted to her seat. But as she put her bag in the chair next to her she momentarily turned his way.

It seemed that Shaw’s eyes and brain were disturbingly out of sync, as though his mind had expected his pupils to signal something
other than what they had just seen. Yet he didn’t know exactly why he had any expectation at all. Her face was not perfect.
Her nose was a bit long and thin and a little too sharply angled; the eyes were a tad large for symmetry when aligned against
her face, the cheeks somewhat flat. Yet somehow all put together these elements made her far more memorable than if her features
had been flawless. Beautiful women, especially in the south of France, were not so rare, but someone who did not fit neatly
into a category was often unforgettable.

Her body was athletic; the shoulders well-developed, her legs long and defined, the calves particularly muscular as though
she had walked uphill a great deal in her life. Because of her leanness she looked taller than what he approximated was about
five-seven, but she also seemed small to him. Yet since he stood six foot six in his bare feet, just about everyone other
than basketball players seemed diminutive to Shaw.

As he continued to think about it, Shaw realized that what had startled him was that though she was obviously young, she seemed
old, not physically, of course.

She seems far too serious for someone that young.

Though he’d finished his meal, a curious Shaw chose to stay and have a café and a cup of strawberry sorbet. Once or twice
he thought he saw her glance his way, but it might have been his imagination. He finally paid his bill, rose, and left. If
he’d turned around, he would have seen definitive proof that she had noticed him, her gaze lingering long after he’d closed
the door.

He walked down the uneven cobblestone streets but kept the front of the restaurant in sight. Twenty minutes later she stepped
out the door, looked around, and started down the path that would carry her to the villas below. That included one shortcut, down a short flight of worn stone steps
that would eliminate about a minute out of the trip by subtracting a switchback from the route.

Shaw followed her, wondering where she was staying. He was surprised to see her approach and then unlock the front door to
the villa next to where Waller would be staying. And she’d made inquiries about the other villa too. Despite Frank’s finding
nothing on the woman, she would still bear watching. Surprises were never good especially if Shaw was on the receiving end
of one.