The Devil's Bed Page 2

  “No, no, no, no.” Felix waved the idea away. This was all he needed, somebody who really gave a damn about this stupid tour. He didn't have enough troubles. Fournier's standing orders regarding tourists was 'get them in and get them out'. “It is not allowed.”

  “This is why I came. To see the burial site. I can't go in for just a few minutes?”

  “Mother of God,” Felix exclaimed in mock terror. “No!”

  Rule one in dealing with trouble makers was to use the colorful, somewhat colorized, Templar legend. With that in mind, he followed his horrified look by crossing himself, spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch. “It is an accursed place.”

  The Irishman muttered “Fek!” His wife barked “Language!” The poor guy got his ribs jabbed again, but Brandy was on his side.

  “I don't believe in curses,” Brandy said. “And I'd really like to see the graves.”

  Felix sank inside. 'No' was a perfectly good answer. Why wouldn't she take it? The American left him no choice. If bogus curses would not move her, perhaps a bogus law would. “I'm sorry. It is protected. Historical. No one is allowed.”

  Brandy looked at the supposedly protected, completely unkempt, graveyard and knew he'd lied. And, as the tour guide began to herd the others away, knew also there was nothing she could do about it. Angry and cheated, but resigned, she fell in and headed back. In her disappointment, Brandy failed to notice Vicki and her new companion lagging behind.

  As the group sank over the berm and out of sight, Vicki leaned against the iron fence smiling at Loup. “When I was a kid, we lived beside a cemetery. My brother and I grew up using it as our playground.”

  Loup leapt the fence and landed in the tall grass inside the cemetery.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Being a kid.” He held his hands out in invitation. “Let's play.”

  Three

  Vicki looked after the tour but saw only the berm and a sky collecting angry clouds in the west. They were alone. And being alone with the dark Frenchman was, she had to admit, exciting. She giggled to vent her nerves and allowed Loup to help her over the fence. Safely inside the graveyard, Loup kissed her - and she let him. Then she pushed him away and wandered toward the graves.

  “I'll never forget that cemetery,” she said. “One night, we'd gone to see a vampire movie…”

  “Ah, vous aimez des vampires? Très intéressant!”

  God, that's so sexy… “Whatever you said.” Her smile faded, replaced with a shiver at the childhood memory. “Maybe it was because I was a kid. I sat there, terrified, with my sweater over my head. Then we had to walk eight blocks and through that cemetery to get home. I thought I'd die”

  “You do not believe in the, eh, living dead, do you?”

  “I have enough trouble with the living… living.”

  Loup's eyes shined as a subtle change occurred in them. What she had taken for concern suddenly registered as amusement. He bellowed a laugh.

  Strangely unsettled, Vicki turned away. The nearby raised tomb came into view and just then the Templars seemed as good a diversion as any. She pointed to the sarcophagus lid where the inscription was bisected by a crack running across its stone face. “What does it say?”

  Loup followed her gaze. “Francois de Raiis. Died – 18 March, 1314. Murderer.”

  “Nice epitaph.”

  “There's more,” he said, reading on, “Heretic. Idolator. Witch.”

  Vicki bit her lip. Loup saw her discomfort and smiled. “Oh, mon cher, he was not what you would call a… bad fellow.”

  Vicki looked a question at the handsome stranger.

  “He allowed me the top of his tomb to deflower my first maiden.”

  “Really.” Vicki was aghast. “How romantic.”

  Loup changed. There was no physical transformation, but she couldn't help but feel something menacing had overtaken him. His child-like giddiness disappeared. His handsome good looks seemed suddenly frightening. The mouth that had so tenderly kissed her was now framed in thin lines. His nostrils flared. His eyebrows were lightning bolts, his ears pointed, and the deep black pools of his eyes were suddenly tunnels leading - Vicki didn't know where.

  “Romance?” He grunted. “She was a pig, eighteen to my fifteen. But couple a fat whore with a curious youth, add a stolen bottle of vodka… Heaven.”

  Vicki wordlessly turned to leave. Loup grabbed her wrist and pulled her back.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I'm getting out of here.”

  “Mais amour, we are at the gates of heaven.”

  “You've got to be kidding me?”

  “I could not be more serious.” Loup pulled her to him. He pressed his mouth against hers so fiercely it hurt and forced his pointed tongue between her lips.

  Vicki pushed him away. “Jesus, we just met.”

  “And what a delicious meeting it has been.”

  Loup jerked her to him, so suddenly a muscle pulled in her neck. Vicki pushed back but he was having none of it. “I am not kidding,” he said through clenched teeth. She pushed again and Loup shook her. “I am not kidding!”

  Vicki slapped him hard across the face and Loup's eye reddened. He viciously returned the slap. Vicki fell back against the sarcophagus striking her head with a boney thud. Loup threw her legs apart and ripped her blouse. Crying, her consciousness slipping, Vicki stopped fighting.

  The adult skull, twenty-two puzzle-like bones joined by rigid sutures, was a marvelously designed container. Directly beneath lay the protective membrane dura mater (tough mother). Together, they could take one hell of a wallop. But when Vicki's skull slammed against the stone they cracked and tore; the puzzle pieces scrambled.

  As suddenly as he'd begun the violence Loup stopped. His eyes widened as a deep red pool grew on the lid of the sarcophagus beneath the girl's head.

  “Damn it. Damn!”

  He climbed off, staring at his handiwork, and cursed. A smear of her blood marred his hand; the bitch. He wiped it on her blouse. He straightened his suit and looked around, suddenly afraid. Then he ran… leaving Vicki alone.

  The battleship gray bus sagged in a fading patch of shade inside and just up the curved drive from the castle's gate and just at the edge of the stone courtyard. White muslin banners with Tour de Terreur splashed in red (and Marcel Fournier Tour's Ltd in smaller black) were tied from windows on each side.

  The red-head, brooding as the approaching storm clouds, climbed aboard first and took her place, right of the aisle, behind the door. She eyed the driver's seat like a falcon watching a rabbit hole.

  Outside, Felix stroked the air urging the others to board quickly. “Messieurs et Mesdames. Everyone, please.”

  Seemingly from nowhere Loup joined the group in line. The tour guide grimaced to see his reddened eye but Loup trumped Felix's look with one of his own; smarmy self-importance. He paused at the door, whispered, “Don't say a damn word,” to Felix, then boarded the bus. He found a seat alone at the back.

  Brandy, note pad and glasses stored in her bag o' plenty, scanned the courtyard for her friend. Vicki was nowhere to be seen and, as the others funneled past, she grew concerned.

  The Irishman bought her some time, holding up the line to ask, “Do ye' have tours at night?”

  Felix looked sharply up from his clip board. “Ce qui?”

  “Ye' know… tour's after dark. T'would tink yer speech would be more effective in the dark.”

  “No sane man will have anything to do with Castle Freedom after nightfall.”

  “Ye'd tink t'would be a gold mine.”

  “Tell me, monsieur, what can a dead man buy with gold?”

  The Irishman ran his hand through his carrot hair. “Fek.”

  Jab. “Language!”

  Felix stared the Irish couple past with terror stricken eyes - and grinned once they were aboard. His smile vanished when he saw Brandy loitering.

  “Please. There is no time to waste.” He interrupted her attempt to speak an
d gently pushed her up the stairs. Brandy had no choice but to board. Felix took the wheel, fired the engine and shifted the gears.

  “Hold on,” she shouted. “Stop!”

  Felix hit the brakes.

  “My friend isn't on the bus!” Brandy said. “My sister-in-law, she isn't here.”

  Felix looked to the others, in their places with worn out faces. He looked outside the bus and saw what he always saw after a tour; the castle caretaker, Anibal Socrates, waiting for their departure. He looked past Brandy to the scowling red-head and assured her, with plaintive eyes, he wanted none of the American girl's trouble. Out of places to look, Felix returned his gaze to Brandy and shrugged helplessly.

  “That's it? You can't just leave her.”

  The tour guide sighed and reached to open the door.

  “Felix!”

  The rear view mirror displayed Loup storming the aisle. Another uninvited swimmer, Felix thought, pissing in his pool. Loup wore a hateful frown, but then, Loup always did. An argument ensued that, for those who spoke French, went:

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Her companion isn't on the bus.”

  “It is not our problem. We cannot wait.”

  “But we…”

  “Her companion is not our problem!”

  The red-haired girl chimed in only to be ignored. Loup ordered Felix to drive the bus.

  “Who are you anyway?” Brandy demanded. When Don Juan ignored her too, she said, “Fine. Let me off. I'll find her myself.”

  “I said let's go!” Loup repeated. “If you want your goddamned job, drive!”

  Felix set the vehicle in motion nearly knocking Brandy and Loup off their feet. Grinding the gears, revving the engine, he stuttered the bus to the castle gate, under the arch and over the drawbridge.

  Following on foot, the caretaker closed the gate as the bus disappeared down the road. He secured the chain, grateful they were gone. The sky to the west was growing dark. If the ache in his knee and the pains in his feet were indicators, and they were, a storm was on the way.

  He'd been in the midst of a long overdue job. And poor Zorion, his faithful mule, was still harnessed to the cart waiting. Socrates needed to finish. He took a last look at the sky. A storm was surely brewing.

  Aboard the bus, Brandy was fuming. She'd expected the return to the village to be a return to 'sleep' mode. Instead, she was wide awake and kicking herself for failing Vicki. And she was enraged at Felix and creepy Don Juan, whoever he was. How dare they? How dare they?

  God, she wished Ray had been here. Why wasn't he? He'd come to France but hadn't come along on the tour. All the benefits, none of the bull. Where was he when his sister needed him? Where was he when she needed him? As she sank back into the bus seat, Brandy found herself growing very angry with her fiancé, Ray Kramer.

  Four

  Brandy would be pissed. Ray ogled the myriad designs covering the walls of the little shop fully aware that, if she knew he was there, man, Brandy would be pissed.

  'There' was Art dans le Movement a tiny, obvious tattoo parlor (garish lighting, graffiti paint job) with no logical reason to exist in the quaint French village of Paradis. So, when he left Chambon, the immense village park, where he'd killed off a ham and pastrami on rye, a bag of chips, and an hour, and after passing a cobbler's shoppe, a cheese shoppe and a bakery, the last thing on earth Ray expected to find was a tattoo parlor. Maybe it was fate.

  The place was decorated with the expected wall to wall tats and, unexpectedly, an amazing collection of bleached animal skulls. Rats, cats, dogs, birds. The artist had personality.

  “That's bad!”

  Ray, a monstrous 'biker' of a man, turned and again saw what he'd expected, a heavily tattooed and pierced shop artist standing in a back room doorway. What was unexpected was the British accent - thick as cut-comb honey.

  “The tats! Bloody hell, they're baaaaad! I like, mate.”

  “You're English?”

  “You mean British? Nah.” He saw Ray's confusion. “Believe it or not, mate, I'm French, actually.”

  Ray bit his tongue. Six weeks of Anger Management and still his first thought was, 'Is this guy fucking with me?' If he was French he was keeping it a secret from his voice. It thought he was British.

  The artist laughed nasally then raised his hands, signaling for peace. “Honest to God, I'm not mocking you. I was born here, three blocks away. But I was raised in the UK. A political brat. My father was in the Foreign Service, diplomatic messenger, ambassador to Her Majesty, a member of the EP. Misspent my youth in Nottingham and the rest in London. Came home last year to open shop.” He stepped forward to shake. “Jerome Rousseau,” he said. “Despite this bloody accent… I'm pure Frog.”

  He laughed again and this time Ray joined in.

  “You've got a bit of an accent yourself. Americain, n'est-ce pas?, as the locals would ask.”

  Ray nodded. “Red, white and blue. Ray Kramer. By Wyoming, out of Illinois.”

  “Wyoming? A cowboy?”

  “Yeah, with a steel horse. Hog rider.”

  “Fucking-A, mate. I like bikes. I also like tats, if you don't mind my getting back to business.”

  “I don't mind.” Ray examined his own left arm without enthusiasm. His muscular bicep sported an inky hooded executioner, ax in hand, before a shadowed castle with a bat flitting past a faded yellow moon. “I'm getting tired of them.”

  Ray considered Jerome but, beneath the art, there was little to see. Five-six maybe, emaciated, with an ice blue complexion. His bald head resembled a bag of doorknobs, his teeth a sagging fence, with silver, gold and amalgam pickets. Over-sized, blue plastic glasses. But that was the canvas. To compare himself was silly. Ray could snap Jerome like a dried twig. To compare their body art was the reverse. Ray's didn't hold a candle.

  The word 'psycho' ran, in crimson, from ear to ear across Jerome's throat as if it had been slit. Inky barbed wire encircled each wrist. Letters marred his fingers but he fidgeted so Ray couldn't read them. Beneath his fishnet tank top, a werewolf howled on his right breast, a demon screamed on his left, and an undetermined creature from hell jumped a Harley through a flaming hoop across his back. Those were just the big tats. Around them ships sailed, cars raced, animals pounced, weapons fired, blood spurted and skulls, lots of skulls, grinned as one tableau ran into another across Jerome's body. To say nothing of the piercings.

  “I'm thinking of getting away from the spooky stuff,” Ray said, scanning the walls. “I don't know. Maybe an animal…”

  Jerome clicked the metal stud in his tongue. He closed his eyes - even his lids had tats – and got an idea. “I could cover that with a buffalo or a bear. Either would kick ass.”

  Distracted by thoughts of a bison on his bicep, Ray didn't see Fournier's gray battleship pull up at the Bus Stop across the street.

  Brandy marked time waiting for the others to disembark. It took a moment and she suffered Don Juan's glare as he passed but, excepting Felix and the red-head, the bus finally emptied. Brandy shouldered her bag and headed for the front. Felix saw her in his mirror and sank visibly. She knew the feeling.

  “Please, you've got to help me.”

  “There is nothing I can do, mademoiselle. If your friend chose not to ride back with the bus… We are not responsible.”

  “You are,” Brandy said. “Vicki's never been to France before. There's no reason for her to stay at the castle. Why would she do that?”

  “She is your friend. I have met many strange women.”

  “C'est comme ça,” the red-head chimed in angrily. “What women?”

  “Ça n'a pas d'importance,” Felix told her. Then, in horror, added, “No, no, no. No women. That is not my meaning. I have met no women!”

  “Vicki isn't strange,” Brandy cried, trying to reclaim the driver's attention. “I don't appreciate what you're implying.”

  “I imply nothing. I am sorry, please. Do not appreciate it… from the sidewalk.” Felix rose
from his seat, giving Brandy no choice but to back down the stairs and off the bus, then closed the door in her face.

  Brandy scowled through the bus door window. Inside, the red-haired girl barked at Felix. He raised his hands in surrender and climbed back into his seat. The girl kept talking. Brandy kept staring. He ignored both and pulled away from the curb.

  Jerome's suggestion had settled and Ray, despite knowing better, found himself studying a wall of tattoos. He pointed to an eye-catching bison. “How much?”

  Jerome twisted his lips in thought. “I'd have to have five hundred.”

  Ray sank. The vision of a new tat faded, replaced by one of Brandy beating him to death with her carpet bag. He'd promised not to add any without their talking first (like he was a kid). It wasn't the art; she was cool with his body. It was the money. Ray looked the shop over again. “You do any bartering?”

  The tattoo artist felt a sale slipping away. He had limited interests which were, pretty much, on display. Still… what the hell. “I'm into skulls.”

  Ray smiled a wide 'I'm getting me a new tat smile'. “Well,” he said. “My brother's a taxidermist and I don't see a bear skull here.”

  Jerome's own grin burst from the riot of ink and metal that comprised his face. “Bloke,” he said, “I'd do that fucker for a bear skull!”

  Ray could not have been happier – until he looked out the window to see Brandy standing alone across the street. “Balls!” Ray hurried for the door assuring Jerome, over his shoulder, he'd be back.

  The others tourists had returned to their lives; disinterested, happy as clams, sour as lemons, dishing verbal abuse, or returning physical abuse as was their lot. Brandy, opposite her nature, simply stood at the Bus Stop across from a tattoo parlor (good thing Ray wasn't here!) and down the street from the Fournier Tour office (where the heck was Ray?). It was, she guessed, near sundown but hard to tell as clouds churning a storm in the west cast a gloom over the village.