Angel City (43 page)

A red lamp in the high corner of the room flashed in threes.

“Shit.”

She lifted Max from her lap, set him on her shoulder as she jumped to her feet. The book tumbled to the floor. Max pointed to it.

“
Lune
moon.”

“Not now, honey, we have to go somewhere, but don't worry. It'll be here when we get back. Here, be a big boy, hold your sippy cup.”

She hurried to her bedroom and the door to the hall. Max tried to jump from her arms, reaching back for the book.

“
Lune!
Moon!”

“Crap, you want moon, we'll take moon.”

Katherine ran back, grabbed the book, ran for the door.

“Boo!”

“Oh, Jesus.”

She ran back to Max's room, reached for the cat. He darted away.

“Goddammit!”

The door to Katherine's room opened. Officer Jannsen in the doorway, stopwatch hanging around her neck, along with a small machine gun. She spoke calmly, but seriously.

“Now, Kat.”

“He wants the cat.”

“Forget the cat.”

“I can't—”

Officer Jannsen dashed into the room, pulled Max from Katherine's arms, and headed for the door.

“Jesus, what are you doing?”

Officer Jannsen was already down the hall and down the stairs. She heard Max crying.

“Hey, hey!”

Katherine ran for the door, dropped the sketchbook, flew down the stairs. She got to the kitchen, saw Officer Jannsen going out the door.

“Dammit! Come back here!”

In the garden she saw four of the Swiss Guards running into the trees, their Brügger & Thomets raised, firing . . .
blamblam, blam!

“Fuck! Max!”

She ran for Control, two guards were inside with headsets, one watching the monitors as black shapes moved through the trees, approaching the house.

“Intruders 220 and 146 degrees. Two squad, engage and destroy 146 degrees. Repeat, engage and destroy at 146. Three squad, intruders have you on the flank from 220. Reposition firing line.”

Katherine yelled, “What the fuck is happening?”

The Swiss Guard at the monitors saw her.

“Downstairs, Madame Taylor, now!”

Katherine ran down the hall. The false wall at the end of the hall had been slid open. She jumped through it and down a narrow stairwell. Something under her feet, tripping, grabbing the handrail.

“Max!”

She heard him shriek. She ran through a series of connecting passages. She went left, then right, turned right again. She stopped; she'd come to a dead end. Heard Max's voice again.

“Fuck it! Anne, you fucking bitch!”

She ran back to where she'd started. Ran through the drill in her head.

“Left, right, left, and left,” she mumbled to herself.

She ran, found another set of steep stairs going down. She jumped, hitting the concrete floor hard. She looked ahead. Officer Jannsen was inside the safe room and the vault door was closing. There was no stopping it once it started to close.

“No! Max!”

She ran ahead.

Officer Jannsen jumped from the room, handed Max to Katherine. Max twisted and screamed. His face was contorted with panic.

“Jesus, is this real?”

“Get in.”

“They're fucking shooting!”

“Get in!”

Katherine ducked in the safe room, the massive vault door sealed, and hydraulic bolts slammed into sockets like bullets:
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Max jumped, was rendered silent for a second, but there was a terrified look in his eyes.

“It's okay, honey, it's okay. You're with Mommy, it's okay.”

A fearful cry gushed from his mouth, and he swung his fists. His sippy cup was still in his right hand, and it caught Katherine on the side of the head.

“Shit!”

Katherine sat on the small bed, sat him on her lap, pulled at his hands, took the sippy cup.

“No, honey, it's okay. It's only a game, it's okay. Please, Max, it's okay.”

Max thrashed about in her arms. She wrapped her arms tight around him.

“Jesus, please stop, Max. Stop. Listen to me, stop.”

He shrieked, his whole body trembling.

“Max, please . . . please . . . please . . .” she whispered again and again.

Max shuddered, gasped for air, caught his breath. Katherine wrapped the sleeve of her sweatshirt around her hand, wiped Max's eye and nose.

“Shhhh, honey, there you go. See, it's all okay now.”

Max looked around the room.

“Yeah, you've never been here before, have you?
Maman
always had to carry that dumb old doll. You want to see where we are?”

Max took a breath. He was settling. Katherine picked him up and stood in the center of the room. She felt her own body trembling.

“See, there's
Maman
's bed. Isn't that a funny bed? It's so tiny. And there's a computer and a TV where we can watch ‘Shaun the Sheep.' And over there is a little bed for you to go night-night.”

“Nnnnnight.”

“That's right. And here's a box of toys over here, and over here there's a little table where we can eat, and here's our little tiny kitchen. All the things we need. And behind the door is our little bathroom. See, there's a shower and a potty and a—”

“Boo!” Max said.

She looked at Max; he was looking toward Katherine's bed. Under the bed was Monsieur Booty, cowering with his tail curled around him. Katherine saw herself coming down the stairs, tripping . . . It was Monsieur Booty. Of course, from the other drills the cat learned to chase after Katherine into the safe room. Seeing him under the bed, and the smile on Max's face, tears rushed to her eyes.

“Yes, see? It's that silly old Monsieur Booty.”

She walked close to the bed, sat Max on the floor. The cat emerged from his hiding place, sniffed Max's nose, rubbed his head against his belly. Max giggled. Katherine sat on the bed, put her face in her hands, bit her lip to keep from crying. She looked up at the ceiling. Concrete. Like the walls, like the floor. Reinforced with iron bars and surrounded by sections of six-inch steel. Not a window, and only one way out; through the vault door. She heard the sound of an exhaust fan and felt a stream of fresh air. “Fresh” wasn't quite it, she remembered. There was a supply of breathable air, figured on their body weight. That's what she was told. It was the same system used on submarines trapped under the sea. The air was reoxygenated and scrubbers removed traces of carbon dioxide. The more she looked around the safe room, the more she felt as if she were on a submarine, trapped, deep beneath the sea.

She looked at Max and Monsieur Booty. They'd been watching her, sensing her panic.

“I know, let's sing something.”

Max tipped his head.

“Well, we're down here, let's have some fun.”

“Fnnnn.”

“Yeah. Tell you what, let's sing Max's favorite song.” She took her son's small hands in her own, clapped them softly together, and sang.

“In the town where I was born,

Lived a man who sailed to sea.”

Katherine stopped, crinkled her forehead.

“What do you think, bustercakes?”

Max stared at his mother, listened to her voice. He knew the word
buster
, and he knew when his mother said it, she was talking to him. But
bustercakes
was a new word, and it sounded very funny. Even funnier when he realized it meant him, too. He shook his hands and giggled.

“Yeah, let's get to the really fun part.”

She clapped his hands again.

“We all live in a yellow submarine.”

Clunk, clunk, pshhhhhh.

Katherine looked at the vault door.

The hydraulic bolts were easing from their sockets.

“. . . a yellow submarine.”

The door opened on its hinges. Officer Jannsen came into the safe room.

“Nnnn,” Max said.

“Bonjour, Max.”
She looked at Katherine. “That was about as sloppy as your performance on the firing range this morning.”

“I was rattled. Max was upset, then the bullets.”

“Blanks, Kat, we were firing blanks. It was an exercise.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know?”

“That's not the point. The point is you panicked and screwed up.”

Katherine took a second to think. She sighed.

“I know. I screwed up. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. Just know that if it comes to it, I'll be in here with Max and you'll be on the outside with the killers.”

Katherine combed Max's hair with her fingers.

“I understand.”

“
Bon.
We're done upstairs. You can come out now.”

Officer Jannsen turned to leave. Katherine had a feeling she was never coming back.

“Anne?”

“Yes?”

“Molly said she has homemade huckleberry pie at the diner. Maybe when the drills are over, you, me, and Max can go stuff ourselves.”

Officer Jannsen folded her arms under her breasts, looked down to the floor.

“There are some things you should know, Kat. The killers have been looking for you all over the world. And you were right; it is Max they want. And you were right about this house. It can't be found on Google Earth; it's in a security zone. It exists for one reason: to protect you and Max. And yes, we've been keeping your emotions and memories under control with the teas. But it's not for the reasons you think. You're not a prisoner here, and we're not trying to turn you into a zombie; we're trying to prevent you from falling back into madness. You want to leave this place, we can't stop you. You want to stop drinking the teas, go ahead. In two months, you'll be certifiably insane. On the way, you'll forget you have a son. But that would be for the best, because by then Max will be gone. But before you check out of here and lose your mind for real, remember what the killers did to you, remember what they did to Marc Rochat. Remember what they did all over Lausanne. Torturing people, flaying them alive, rape, beheadings, slaughter. Can you imagine it? Can you see it in beforetimes?”

Katherine nodded.

“Good. Now imagine what they'll do to Max if they get their hands on him.”

Katherine looked at Max, combed his black hair with her fingers.

“Is he normal?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you giving him anything?”

“Outside the usual inoculations any child gets, no.”

“Nothing in his apple juice?”

“Nothing but freshly pressed apples.”

Katherine looked at Officer Jannsen.

“Then he's okay, yeah?”

“He's more than okay. Max is perfect.”

Katherine felt her throat tighten; she bit her lip. She stood up, rested Max's butt on her hip, and gently bounced him up and down.

“I know, Max, let's go upstairs. You can help crazy Mommy make a cup of tea.”

I

H
ARPER REACHED THE TOP OF THE TRAIL AND STOPPED.
T
HE SUN
had cleared the Pyrenees, and the stone walls of the fortress glowed in the morning light. He looked down the steep cliffs. Far below, in the Field of the Burned, was the white dot of the dog who'd led him from the house. Two hours earlier, Harper had come out the kitchen door and seen stars fading from the sky. He'd turned to grab the walking staff he'd left by the door, and when he'd turned back, the slobbering Shiva was standing before him. Harper looked at the animal.

“Right. Lead the way.”

And so the dog did, with a slow, flopping pace. First to the back gate hidden in the trees, where the dog waited for Harper to unhook the latch so they could pass through; then into the woods, where the cover of night had yet to be lifted. If Harper didn't know better, he'd swear the dog halted at irregular intervals to scan the forest for danger. Each time Harper waited for the dog to listen to sounds running through the woods or sniff scents in the wind, just in case that's what the dog was doing. Now, from the top of the pluton, Harper watched the dog sniff through the field till it found a patch of warm sun to sleep on.

“Good boy, stay,” Harper said.

He felt a sudden rush of vertigo, felt sick. He backed away from the cliff, took a deep breath, steadied himself. When his head stopped spinning, he climbed the wooden stairs leading to the south gate and stepped into the courtyard. Empty, quiet. He looked around. From what he recalled from the History Channel, this wasn't the actual fortress of the Cathars. The Crusaders destroyed that one. But the Cathar fortress would have been built on the same exact ground, meter for meter. And looking at the layout, it was the smallness of the space that struck him first. He tried to imagine five hundred plus souls crammed together with no place to hide from the French catapults. He waited for something to flash through his eyes. Nothing.

He crossed the courtyard to the north gate, looked out over the valleys and flattening land. Tried to imagine ten thousand Crusaders coming up the valley. Tried to imagine two hundred fighters standing on the walls of the fortress, watching the invaders encircle the pluton. Tried to imagine him and two of his kind knowing there were hundreds of stone-cold bad guys hiding amid the Crusaders. Still came up with nothing. He stepped through the north gate, looked northwest down the side of the cliff. He saw the ruins of the stone huts that were the homes of the Cathar civilians. Down there's where they found the laser pointer, pointing west to east to make an artificial horizon . . . He looked back at the north gate. And that's where the kid set the transmission rig to hack into Blue Brain.

He looked back at the fortress.

The gate and laser may be perpendicular to each other, but they had nothing to do with each other. Coincidence? No such bloody thing. So where are the intersecting lines of causality on this one? He scanned the surrounding hills. Each of them had a clear shot at the northern quadrant of the sky and the constellation Draco where the comet appeared. Astruc and the kid could've done the job from any of the surrounding hilltops, and left the transmission gear undetected for a thousand years.

“So why here?”

Harper answered his own question.

“The priest was trying to make a point. So what the hell is it?”

He walked around the fortress, careful not to look down. Coming to the west rim of the pluton, the tower was a silhouette against a rising sun. Like a stone thumb lining up a point of perspective from here to the sun, ninety-three million miles away. He went back into the courtyard, walked in circles. He stopped at the foot of the stone steps leading to what was left of the ramparts. Something whipped through his eyes. Wasn't a flash of time; it was a feeling. The locals called it déjà vu, the closest thing they had to moving through time. Maybe it was Captain Jay Michael Harper, maybe it was Bernard de Saint-Martin, maybe it was a trace of every human form he'd occupied from the beginning . . . but just now he was getting a heavy rush of
been there, seen it
.

His eyes locked on the place where the tower met the ground.

There was a great slab of granite rising from the earth, half hidden under the tower. He walked closer to it, stared at it. Here, the rush was more intense. He lowered to one knee, touched the stone. Bits of time ripped through his eyes. Lausanne Cathedral . . . the junkie on the altar, the one his kind called Gabriel . . . standing in the midday sun pouring through the great stained glass window of the south transept, scratching the crook of his arm, desperate for a fix, telling Harper,
The earth beneath these stones is sacred.

Harper's eyes saw it.

Two and a half million years ago, eternal beings from another place had come to Earth bearing a spark of the first light of creation. They watched, waited, until a small band of humanoids crossed the plain. The humanoids scratched the grass and sniffed at the dirt, searching for signs of game. When night fell over the land, the humanoids took shelter in a cave and huddled together for warmth. The creatures from another place descended from the pluton and entered the cave, telling them to be not afraid. And they revealed the first light of creation. The humanoids stared at the flame, the light seeped into their eyes, and an eternal soul was ignited in the forms of men, so that mankind would one day know the truth—the universe and everything in it was part of one living being.

“Bloody hell,” Harper mumbled.

He got to his feet, looked around the courtyard, then out through the north gate. His eyes flashed the rooftop in Paris, the comet, the triangulations downloading into Blue Brain. Thousands per second, all from the point of perspective of an imaginary line drawn from right to left across the sky . . .
This sacred earth
was Father fucking Astruc's point.

“First contact was here. It happened here.”

From outside the south gate, the sound of a rock tumbling down the cliff.

Harper eased into the shadows under the south wall. He heard voices, American voices. Two minutes later, two young women stepped through the south gate and into the courtyard. They were dressed in blue jeans, hiking boots, fleeces. One of them had a camera around her neck. They looked about the courtyard.

“Wow,” one of them said.

“I need to tweet this to Doug,” the other one said.

That one pulled out a mobile and began to take pictures. It was when she turned to the southwest wall that she saw a man step from the shadows, wooden staff in hand.

“Holy fuck!” were the next words from her mouth.

“It's all right. Don't be afraid,” Harper said.

The two women looked at each other, then him.

“Look, we know the fortress isn't open till ten. We just wanted to see it before the tourists got here.”

Harper smiled.

“Actually, so did I.”

“You're not a security guard?”

“No. I'm a tourist, like you. And I was just leaving.”

The one who'd been taking pictures with her mobile said, “Do you know where the light comes?”

Harper looked at her.

“Sorry?”

“Where it comes through on the summer solstice? The Cathars were into that kind of stuff.”

Harper thought about it.

“Today isn't the solstice. It was months ago,” Harper said.

“We'd still like to see where it happens. Feel the energy. It never dies, you know.”

Harper didn't have the heart to tell them this wasn't the real fortress of the Cathars. And he flashed something from the History Channel: There was a bit about people coming to see the light on the dawn of the summer solstice. Light came from the east, hit the fortress at a certain angle. He looked around the place, saw the arrow slits in what was left of the tower. Got it.

“Up there. Sun cuts directly through those slits in the stone, like clockwork.”

The two women stared at the tower. Harper headed for the south gate and was almost through it when the one with the camera around her neck said, “Do you speak French?”

Harper stopped, looked back.

“What?”

“Do you speak French?”

“More or less.”

“What does ‘Montségur' mean? Is it ‘safe mountain' or ‘safe place,' or is it something else?”

Harper thought about it. He looked around the fortress . . .
this sacred earth.
He looked at the two women.

“Actually, Montségur is an Occitan word. The people that lived here before the French. It was the language of the Cathars.”

“Really? So what's it mean?”

Harper smiled.

“It means ‘Angel City.'”

Their jaws dropped, their eyes widened. One of them finally broke the silence: “That is so the coolest thing I have ever heard.”

Harper looked up at the sky, saw heavy clouds drifting in from the west. He looked at the young women, passed the palm of his right hand before their eyes.

“
Divulgare verbum
 . . .
Spread the word
. And don't stay up here too long, ladies. It's going to snow by afternoon.”

He stared at them; they were motionless. It'd take them a few seconds to come around, and when they did, he'd be gone. But they'd have a memory of meeting someone . . . someone who appeared from the shadows and told them to be not afraid and showed them where the dawn of the summer solstice passed through the tower, told them
Montségur
was a word that meant “Angel City,” and that they should spread the word . . . then he disappeared. The wildest part of their imagination would want to believe the man
was
an angel. Then they'd really have something to tweet about. Harper laughed to himself. He stepped out through the south gate, made his way down the trail.

He reached the Field of the Burned, followed his tracks across the grass in the direction of the house. He scanned the slope for his guide dog, Shiva. Spotted him sitting under a tree at the north edge of the field. Harper pointed southeast.

“I think the house is that way.”

Shiva didn't budge.

Harper walked toward him, saw a patch of ground that had been turned over, like a small grave. Grass had been scattered over it in an attempt to hide it. Harper brushed away the grass with the tip of his staff. He saw boot marks in the dirt, as if someone wearing a size six and a half, maybe a seven, had stomped down on the mound. Harper knelt down, touched the dirt. It was moist, freshly turned. He poked at the dirt with his staff, began to dig. A meter down, he hit something solid. He laid his staff on the ground, scooped out dirt with his hands. A rectangular shape appeared in the earth. He outlined the edges with his fingers, brushed away a thin layer of dirt. It was the reliquary box from the cavern under Paris.

“You must be bloody joking me.”

II

H
ARPER RESTED THE WALKING STAFF NEXT TO THE KITCHEN
door. He kicked dirt from his boots, went inside. Serge was sitting at the table, drinking espresso from a shot glass. Clock on the wall read 08:25 hours.

“
Bono matin.
Will you take a coffee?”

“
Bono matin.
And I'd love a coffee.”

Harper set the reliquary box on the table. Serge regarded it, didn't display surprise. He pushed himself from the table, walked to a coffee machine. He set another shot glass under the spout and pressed a button. The machine growled, and a stream of coffee drained into the glass. Serge carried the glass to Harper.

“There is sugar in the bowl.”

“Cheers,” Harper said, picking up the spoon on the table and dropping a healthy pile into his glass. He stirred, sipped, nodded toward the reliquary box.

“Look familiar?”

“No, but it sounds familiar.”

“How's that work?”

“The angel who stayed under our roof carried a wooden box. A reliquary box. So goes the story.”

“And in the story, did the angel tell your family what was inside it?”

“The story goes that the angel showed them what was inside it.”

Harper finished his espresso. He opened the box, unwrapped the leather cover, pulled out the sextant, and laid it on the table.

“Is that what they saw?”

“From what has been told to me, it could be. Where did you find it?”

“In the Field of the Burned. It had been buried there two days ago.”

“And you know it was buried there two days ago because . . .”

“Trust me.”

Serge sat back in his chair.

“So it's true then.”

“What's true?”

Serge nodded toward the sextant. “The story.”

“Did the angel tell your family what it was for?”

“Not that I've ever heard. But the story only says it was revealed to us.”

“Revealed.”

“That's the word used in telling the story.”

“Why?”