Destiny (6 page)

The bistro did carry a very fine selection of wines. Roux insisted on their sampling a variety during dinner. The meal was superb. Annja devoured filet mignon, steamed vegetables, baked potatoes smothered in cheese, salads and rolls as big as her fist and so fresh from the oven they almost burned her fingers.

She hadn't eaten since breakfast, so she didn't strive for modesty. She ate with gusto, and Roux complimented her on her appetite.

As it turned out, Roux didn't know much about Corvin Lesauvage. All he had was a collection of vague rumors. Lesauvage was a murderer several times over. He ran drugs. He peddled archaeological forgeries. If an illegal dollar was made in the Lozère area, ten percent of it belonged to Corvin Lesauvage because he brokered the deal, allowed it to take place or kept quiet about it.

The bistro was quiet and dark. French love songs played softly in the background. A wall of trickling water backlit by aquamarine lights kept the shadows at bay. The wait staff proved almost undetectable.

Warmed by the wine, exhausted by her exertions, Annja found herself relaxing perhaps a little more than she should have. But her curiosity about Roux was rampant.

“Are you French?” she asked after they had finished discovering how little he knew about Lesauvage.

“As French as can be,” Roux promised. He refilled her glass, then his own.

“Yet you speak Latin fluently.”

Roux gestured magnanimously. “Doesn't everyone?”

“No. What do you do, Mr. Roux?”

“Please,” he said, turning up a hand, “just call me Roux. It's a name that's suited me long enough.”

“The question's still on the table,” Annja pointed out.

“So it is.” He sipped his wine. “Truthfully? I do whatever pleases me. If fortune smiles on me, there's a reason to get up in the morning. If I'm truly blessed, there are several reasons.”

“Then you must be independently wealthy,” Annja said, half in jest.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Very. I've had plenty of time to amass a fortune. It's not hard if you live long enough and don't try to be greedy.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Paris.” Roux smiled. “I've always loved Paris. Even after it's gotten as gaudy and overpopulated and dirty as it has. You open the window in the morning there, you can almost feel the magic in the air.”

“How did you make your fortune?”

“Slowly. Investments, mostly. I've been very lucky where investments are concerned. I've always been able to take the long view, I suppose.”

Annja eyed him over her glass. “How old are you?”

“Far, far older than I look, I assure you.” His blue eyes twinkled merrily.

Santa Claus should have eyes like that, Annja couldn't help thinking.

“You are quite aggressive in your investigative approach,” he said gently.

“I've been accused of that before.” Annja leaned forward, studying him. “I've made my peace with it. As an archaeologist, you're trained to ask questions. Of the situation. Of the people around you. Of yourself.”

“I see.”

“What were you doing up in the mountains this afternoon?”

“Taking a constitutional.”

Annja smiled. Despite the abrasive nature the old man brought out in her, there was something about him that she liked. He was as openly secretive as the nuns at the orphanage where she'd grown up.

“I don't believe you,” she told him.

“I take no offense,” he told her. “I wouldn't believe me, either.”

“You were looking for something.”

Roux shrugged.

“But you're not going to tell me what it is,” Annja said.

“Let me ask you something.” Roux leaned in close to her and spoke conspiratorially. “You found something in that cave this afternoon, didn't you?”

Annja picked at a bit of leftover bread and used the time to think. “I found La Bête.”

“A creature that you believe was once La Bête.”

“I showed you the pictures.”

“I saw it, too,” Roux reminded her.

“You don't believe it was La Bête?” Annja asked.

“Perhaps.” Roux lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “The light was uncertain. Things were happening very quickly in there.”

“What do you think it was?”

“A fabrication, perhaps.”

“It was real.” Annja had no doubt about that.

“There's something else I'm interested in,” the old man replied. “Something you haven't told me. I saw you in that cave. You had something in your hand.”

“A human skull,” she replied.

“That isn't all.”

The charm was still in Annja's pocket. She'd had it out only once. That was back in the police station bathroom. She'd been afraid the police were going to take charm away from her so she'd made a rubbing of both sides in her journal.

“I saw you with something else in your hand,” he said. “Something shiny. Something metallic. It looked old.” He paused. “If you found it in the cave, I would think it was very old.”

“Not when compared to the Mesozoic period.”

Roux laughed. The sound was easy and pleasant.

Annja found herself laughing with him, but thought it was as much because of the wine as of the humor in the situation. She didn't trust him. She was certain his presence in the mountains was no accident.

“Touché,” he replied. He sipped more wine. “Still, you have me intrigued, Miss Creed.”

She looked at him. “I don't trust you. But don't take that personally. I don't trust most people.”

“In your current state of affairs, with a criminal figure pursuing you for some unknown, nefarious reason, I wouldn't be the trusting sort, either.”

“I was taught by the best to be slightly paranoid.”

Roux lifted his eyebrows. “The Central Intelligence Agency?”

“Worse than that,” Annja said. “Catholic nuns.”

Roux grinned. “Ah, that explains it.”

“The paranoia?”

“The fact that you don't come bursting out of your shirts on the television program.” Roux looked at her appraisingly. “You're certainly equipped.”

Annja stared at him. “Are you coming on to me?”

“Would it be appropriate?”

“No.”

Roux tapped the table with his hand. “Then that settles it. I was
not
coming on to you. It's the wine, the candlelight in your hair and the sparkle in those marvelous green eyes. A moment in a beautiful restaurant after a delightful repast.”

“I think,” Annja said, “that you probably hit on anything that has a heartbeat and stays in one place long enough.”

Leaning back in his chair, Roux laughed uproariously. He drew the unwelcome attention of several other diners. Finally, he regained control of himself. “I do like you, Miss Creed. I find you…refreshing.”

Annja sipped her wine and considered her options. So far, the origins of the charm had stumped her. She looked at the old man. “I'm going to trust you. A little.”

“In what capacity?”

“Something professional.”

Anticipation gleamed in his bright blue eyes. “Whatever you found in the cave?”

“Yes. How experienced are you in antiquities?”

Roux shrugged. “I've made more than a few fortunes dabbling in such luxuries. There are a great many forgeries out there, you know.”

Annja did know. She had dealt with several of them. In addition to everything else she did, she also consulted on museum acquisitions and for private buyers. Her certificate of authenticity marked many of them.

“This isn't a forgery.” She took the piece of metal from her pocket and placed it on the table between them.

A look of pleasant surprise filled Roux's face. “You didn't give it to the inspector?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He didn't possess an archaeologist's mind-set.”

“I see.” Roux gestured to the medallion. “May I?”

“As long as I can watch you, sure.” Annja leaned in and watched carefully.

“You carried this unprotected in your pocket?” His voice carried recrimination.

“I wasn't able to properly store it.”

“Perhaps something in your backpack.”

“Perhaps the police could have gone through my things.”

“Yes. Of course.” Roux pushed the medallion around, studying the image stamped onto it.

As he touched the charm, the fiery vision that had filled Annja's head during the earthquake returned to her in full Technicolor.

“Are you all right?” He was looking at her.

“Yes,” she said, though she didn't honestly know.

“Do you know what this is?” Roux asked.

“A talisman of some sort. Probably for good luck.” Annja described how she had found it tied around the dead man's neck.

“Not very lucky,” Roux said.

“He killed the Beast of Gévaudan.”

“Even if this nameless warrior had received the glory due him, fame is a poor consolation prize.”

“I don't think he was interested in prizes.”

“You believe he was slaying a monster.”

“Yes,” Annja replied. Despite her experience disproving myths, she had always believed in slaying monsters.

“Do you know what this symbol is?” Roux asked.

Moving the flickering candle flame closer to the charm, Annja shook her head. “I've never seen it before.”

“Nor have I.” Roux reached into his pocket and took out a Leatherman Multitool. He held the charm in his fingers and aimed the point at the grimy buildup surrounding the image of the wolf and the mountain.

“Wait a minute,” Annja said.

“Trust me. I'll be careful. I know what I'm doing.”

Breathing slowly, Annja watched. She didn't think the old man could hurt the charm, but she didn't like having it out of her possession.

Roux worked gently. The grime fell away in tiny flakes. Beneath it, the metal proved as lustrous and shiny as the day it had been forged.

Given the conditions of the cave, Annja had expected a fair amount of preservation. Ships had spent hundreds of years in caves and were found remarkably intact, as if the pirates who had hidden there had only left days ago instead of centuries.

“Beautiful,” Roux whispered when he had finished. He turned the piece of metal in his fingers, catching the candlelight again and again.

Annja silently agreed. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“A good-luck charm? Of course I have.”

“Not just a good-luck charm,” Annja said, “but one like this.”

Roux shook his head. “It's a charm. I believe that. Since you found it around the dead man's neck, I'd say it was made to defend him—”

“—against the Beast of Gévaudan,” Annja finished. “I got that. But the mark on the obverse looks like it was struck by a die. The wolf and the mountain appeared to have been carved.”

“So you believe this to be a unique piece rather than one of many?” Roux asked.

“I do,” Annja agreed. “You can see the die mark wasn't struck quite cleanly and two of the edges are slightly blunted.”

Peering more closely at the charm, Roux said, “You have very good eyes.” He studied the image for a moment. “And, you're exactly right.” He looked up at her.

“Have you seen such a die mark before?” Annja asked.

“No.”

Studying the old man, Annja tried to figure out if he was lying to her. If he was, she decided, he was very good at it. “I was hoping you had.”

“Never. I would be very interested to learn what you find out about it.” Roux studied her. “Tell me, in your archaeological travels, have you ever had cause to research the history of Joan of Arc?”

“I'm familiar with her stories, but I've spent no real time with them,” Annja said.

“Pity. She was a very tragic figure.”

For just a moment, Annja remembered the visions she had experienced. Joan of Arc had burned at the stake not far from where Annja now sat. Had her subconscious summoned that image during the quake?

“She was a very brave young woman,” Roux said. “Foolish, certainly, but brave nonetheless. She should not be forgotten.”

What are you trying to tell me? Annja wondered.

“One thing you should start doing immediately is taking better care of this charm.” Roux said. “After all, it could prove to be a significant find if you discover its history.” Roux took a handkerchief from his pocket and dropped the charm into the center of it. Picking up the ends of the handkerchief, he folded the charm inside. Then he handed the makeshift package to Annja with a smile. “There. That should better protect it until you can put it in a proper storage container.”

Annja closed her hand over the handkerchief and felt the hard outline of the disk inside. She put the handkerchief into her shorts pocket and closed the Velcro tab.

“Thank you,” she said.

Roux looked around, then tapped the table and said, “I'll be back in just a moment. Too much wine.”

Comfortable and almost sleepy, Annja settled back in her chair and relaxed. Thoughts of the cozy bed at the bed-and-breakfast where she was staying danced in her head. She tried to marshal her thoughts and figure out her next course of action.

Identification of the charm was paramount. Doug Morrell would love the story and not hesitate at all over the digital pictures she had taken of La Bête. The television producer wasn't like some police inspectors Annja had met.

Thinking of Inspector Richelieu reminded Annja of Corvin Lesauvage. It didn't make sense to think that a well-organized crime figure would send a team after her for the camera equipment and whatever cash she carried.

But that wasn't what they were after, was it? The man had wanted her. Lesauvage had wanted to talk to her.

She started to feel frightened.

Suddenly she realized how much time had passed since Roux had quit the table. He had been gone a long time. Too long.