Aurora Crusade is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, or to actual places, is purely coincidental.
While the focus of the novel is erotic, gay fiction, there are no sexual scenes at all in this chapter. However, I must add the caveat: If you are not of legal age to read, hold, or download works of this genre, please move on. If possessing, reading or downloading works of this genre is illegal where you live, please move on.
My thanks to all who wrote wishing me a Happy Christmas and a Happy New Year. My best wishes for a good, happy and prosperous New Year to all my readers.
Thanks as always to my editor, Peter, who is looking for a good slope to ski. Me, I prefer the clubhouse and sitting around the fire with my good friends, Justerini & Brooks.
Aurora Crusade
Copyright 2007
Chapter Seven
The Chateau de Lamer, Saturday 28 August 1976 - 10:39 PM EST
The shuttered windows of the stone mansion were oblong patches of darkness against the pale whiteness of the stones. Were it not for a chink of light shining through the slatted shutters of the windows in the wing that formed one side of the forecourt, the place would have been deemed deserted. In a way it was. The household staff had long since returned to their homes in the small village that clustered about the tall, stone gates flanking the cobblestone road leading to the great house. Madame, the General's wife was also gone, accompanying her sister on Sylvain Beauharnais' last journey.
Alex Grinchsten brought the car to a halt at the double doors of the house. He glanced around, seeing nothing but darkness. His eyes slid obliquely to look at the bulky form of Chef sitting beside him. "No security," Alex observed quietly. "No cops?"
In the back seat, Brendan Lascelles spoke. "The general is lawyered up. He's refused to give a statement on the advice of counsel. He claims he's done nothing wrong. So . . ." His voice trailed into silence.
"The police are investigating an allegation of wrongdoing," supplied Chef. "Unless and until charges have been filed there is no need to guard the general." He shrugged expressively. "He is not a flight risk, at least not yet," Chef continued.
Alex gave Chef a questioning look. "Is that why we are here, to make sure that he doesn't become a flight risk?" he asked.
Chef shook his head. "No." He lapsed into silence, staring straight ahead. Exasperated at the old man's silence, Alex growled and asked forcefully, "Are you going to tell us why we're here?" He glared at Chef. "Or are you just going to surprise us?"
Expelling a great breath of air, Chef placed his hand on Alex's arm. "What I will do will become apparent soon." His hand tightened lightly on Alex's arm. "Before we go in . . ." He paused and then said slowly, "Alex, this is not your fight." He turned his head to look at Brendan. "Nor is it yours. I will understand if you wish to stay in the car."
"You're not going to . . . to shoot him?" gasped Brendan, who knew that in there was a small-calibre pistol in the pocket of Chef's uniform.
"No. I will cause him no harm at all," replied Chef.
"Then what do you intend to do?" demanded Alex, his voice rising slightly.
"Let me explain," began Chef. "There are things happening as we sit here, things that could, will . . ." he corrected himself, " . . . result in the death of men. They are guilty of high crimes and misdemeanours. Some of them are Knights of the Order. These men betrayed their oaths, and betrayed their fellow knights." Again his hand tightened around Alex's arm. "The Grand Master has called for a Bar of Justice. The sentence is automatic if their guilt is proved . . . death by hanging."
Brendan's eyes widened. "You mean, uh, you will actually execute them?" he asked, his voice shaking.
Chef shook his head. "I will not, personally, put the rope around their necks. In a way, however, I will be executing them though. I will sit in judgement, I will decide if they live, or die."
"You are the judge, the jury . . .?" began Alex.
"No. There will be a tribunal of knights. They will judge them; they will decide their fate. I am merely a part of the tribunal," said Chef. He then looked at each man in turn. "You are not of the Order."
Alex stared at Chef and then his narrow eyes grew narrower. "So we're free to step aside, then?"
"You are," confirmed Chef. "Nothing is asked of you that will cause you pain or hurt, or set badly on your conscience. I am not asking that you accompany me into the house, and I am not asking you to participate in any way when the Order, and its agents, bring the men responsible to true justice."
" 'True Justice'?" asked Brendan, his voice calm.
"Let us be frank, my young friends," returned Chef. "Each and every one of the men we will punish, and we will punish them one way or another, has money, has power and powerful friends. So far as the general is concerned, there is no guarantee that he will ever be brought to trial." Chef paused and growled. "Or if he is, that he will be convicted."
Alex started and began, "But . . ."
"Alex, we have an uncorroborated accusation by a minor," interrupted Brendan. "I know how the system works, and how lawyers can take hamburger and make porterhouse steak!"
"A strange allegory," rumbled Chef, "but apt." A grim smile formed on his broad face. "But you at least understand what I am worried about."
"I think I do," replied Brendan. He turned to Alex. "Look, the kid made an accusation. Maybe there's medical evidence, maybe not. A good lawyer can explain why Achille's butt is bruised, and the general has a team of great lawyers. Even if, for argument's sake, it can be shown that something sexual happened, and the general is arrested, he'll be out on bail within hours."
"You can bank on that," added Chef. "Remember, dear Alex, that the system works for those with money . . ." He paused. " . . . And powerful friends."
"You think that his friends will see that this whole matter is brushed under the carpet?" asked Alex, his disbelief palpable.
"That is a possibility," responded Chef. Then he remembered an incident, five years past, when a young Naval cadet had been foolish enough to tell one of his friends what had happened during a night of drunken lust. The night seemed to grow darker as the shadow of Signal Hill loomed over the stone buildings of the estate. Chef's voice was soft as he said, "Many of the general's so-called friends will abandon him - they are the ones who fear the implications of his friendship. Others, however, will do what they can to obstruct and delay the inevitable, because it suits their purpose. I am thinking that the general knows where a lot of the bodies are buried."
"Which he will exhume if the wolves are snapping too close at his heels," said Brendan.
"Quite so," said Chef.
"But we can't stop that from happening," Alex began to argue. "The general is no dummy! He'll use every sneaky trick he can think of, or his lawyers can think of, to save his ass!"
"Of course he will," returned Chef blandly. He looked first at Alex, and then at Brendan. "Which is why I am here. I shall impart some simple truths to him." He shrugged expressively. "I shall destroy him and all the angels in Heaven, and all the devils in Hell, will shrink away when his name is mentioned."
"You're not going to kill him?" asked Brendan sceptically.
"I am not a murderer, nor am I an executioner," responded Chef. "There are many ways by which to destroy a man. When I am finished M. le General shall be a stench in the nostrils that none of his self-serving friends will bear."
"But the others, the knights?" hinted Alex.
"They have betrayed their oaths," replied Chef. "Later we will visit such a one. His guilt is foredoomed and he will be punished according to Rule of the Order." His voice was heavy as he added, "Death by hanging. Deus Vult!"
Alex and Brendan exchanged a look. The old man was offering them fair warning of what was to come. If they wanted out, now was the time to say so.
"Um, Chef," said Brendan slowly, "is Philip, I mean, is Phantom aware of what is going on, of what is going to happen?"
"Phantom is the Prince of the Order," intoned Chef. "He is aware. All of the young knights are aware."
Brendan thought a moment. He had found his brother again, and was determined never to lose his love as he had done in the past. He had deserted The Phantom and he would never do it again. "I'm in," he said simply.
"This thing will not end tonight," cautioned Chef. Another warning.
"I'm on leave," countered Brendan. "When I left Regina there was beer in the fridge, cigarettes on the table and money in the bank. There's no reason I can see to hurry back."
Alex, who was under the impression that Brendan Lascelles was newly married, wondered briefly why the hulking young man was not in any great tearing hurry to return to his bride. Then he dismissed the thought. It was Brendan's business, after all, and if Brendan thought that sticking with Chef - and his brother - was more important, so be it.
For his part, Alex had no intention of walking away. Michael Chan had sent him on this mission to mind and protect the young knights and, so it seemed, the interests of the Order, so he would see it through to the end. He also had heard enough about the cabal of evil that preyed on young boys. Alex would do what he had to do, even though he had questions and doubts. He had no idea how far down the road Chef would lead him, and by definition the young Knights. In the end, Alex dismissed his doubts. He had accepted Michael Chan's shilling. Chef was Michael's representative here now and so Alex would follow him.
Pushing open the door of the car, Chef struggled out and stood erect, staring at the house. "I wonder what secrets those stones hold?" he asked himself. He walked forward and gestured for Alex and Brendan to follow.
"Uh, Chef, you do know that the door might be locked?" asked Alex.
Chuckling, Chef reached out and turned the doorknob. "This is the country, Alex," he said. "Country folk are very trusting." He turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open. "They never lock their doors," he finished as he entered the house.
As the door closed behind the three men a match flared and died in the deep shadows. A ruby dot glowed a deeper red and Hercule Beauharnais took a deep drag of his cigarette. He had no idea what the fat old man and his two young companions were doing here. He did not care, really. He cupped the cigarette in his hand, hiding the glowing end. He would wait until the men left. He had all the time in the world to do what he had come to do.
He took another drag on his cigarette, his narrow eyes never wavering as they started at the small square of light. Soon, soon his time would come and he would do what he had come to do. Soon he would retrieve his honour, restore his family's name, and wipe away the black stain that besmirched the shade of his beloved, golden-haired son, his fils d'or, his Sylvain.
The Chateau de Lamer, Saturday 28 August 1976 - 11:09 PM EST
The room was stifling. The heavy wooden shutters, designed to keep out the snows and winds of winter, were tightly closed. In the fireplace a paper conflagration sent heat radiating throughout the chamber, the flames flickering in shadow off of the birds eye maple that panelled the walls. The drawers of the antique wooden file cabinet and the desk gaped open, empty now. The wall safe, normally hidden behind a particularly hideous oil portrait of Madame, was open, and except for bundles of bank notes, empty of any incriminating paper. The general was burning his papers.
General de Lamer was no fool. He had not come so far, or gained such power, by being a fool. Everything he had done had been documented, words put to paper detailing meetings, words spoken, agreements reached. There were other documents as well: financial statements from his bank in Switzerland, records of transfers of money sent, and received from Germany, from France, from all the "safe havens" Stennes had assured the general could never be traced.
The general threw a small bundle of ribbon-tied papers into the fire. He watched as the paper blackened, first around the edges, and smiled tightly as the bundle began to burn furiously, his involvement with the Aryan Brotherhood reduced to grey smoke tendrils.
Looking around the room he used as a study, the general nodded. He had destroyed much, but more needed to be consigned to the fire. He had been very careful in his involvement with Stennes, true. Still, there were papers that could be embarrassing. He left the fire and began searching through the files in the cabinet. His lawyers had managed to keep the minions of the law away. That would change soon enough. They would come with search warrants. When they did there would be nothing for the police to find.
Engrossed in his search, the general did not hear the door open. He sensed a presence and look up to see the grim, unsmiling face of Alex Grinchsten staring back at him. Behind the thin young man was another, larger and heavier, and behind him was another, wearing the dark blue "walking out" uniform of the Garde Royale. Without thinking, the general darted toward his desk.
Alex, all his training and instincts honed to perfection was quicker. His hand reached out and grasped the general's wrist, twisting it and causing the man to groan and grimace as a bolt of pain raced up his arm.
"I'll break it," warned Alex, his thin lips barely moving. He thrust the general toward a dark red leather chair. "Sit!" he ordered brusquely.
Wordlessly, Chef moved across the room and settled against the top of the desk. His old eyes looked about, paused briefly at the pile of ashes that glowed in the hearth and shook his head. "Check the desk," he ordered Brendan.
In the upper drawer was a pistol. "A 9mm Browning," said Brendan.
"Leave it," replied Chef. He regarded the general a moment. "In his day the general was a bully. He was also a coward."
"Who are you?" demanded the general angrily. "What are you doing in my house?" He made to rise from the chair but Alex's hand held him back.
Chef said nothing and continued to stare at the visibly angry general whose eyes suddenly narrowed. "I know you," he hissed venomously.
Chuckling, Chef shook his head. "You know of me, you do not know me," he replied placidly.
The general suddenly sat back in the chair. "A cook!" he exclaimed. He smiled icily. "I remember now, from the old days. You were a cook in Admiralty House, in Esquimalt." He sniffed as if to say, "A lower form of life not worth my notice." His cold eyes bore into Chef. "I knew how to deal with trash such as you!"
Chef did not take umbrage. He sighed and regarded the general a moment. He had no time to duel verbally with this piece of excrement. His eyes fell on a rather plain piece of silver, a tray that was sitting on the side table behind where the general was sitting. Chef recognized the small oval piece. "I have been many things, general, but I at least was never a thief."
The general's face became suffused with anger. "How dare you . . ." he began.
"I dare because I speak the truth," snapped Chef. "I wonder how many more pieces of Admiral Sturdee's silver I will find if I go looking?"
The general's eyes darted about the room. "It was a gift," he exclaimed.
Chef snickered. "From yourself, to yourself. But no matter." He crossed his arms across his ample chest. "I have not come to examine the extent of your thievery."
The general's eyes narrowed. "Why have you come?"
"Stennes. Where is he?"
"I don't . . ." began the general, his face losing its colour. Chef had touched a nerve.
"Please, I know that the German was here. I know that a young boy accompanied him. Where did they go? And do not insult my intelligence by lying." The general did not lie because he did not reply.
Chef sighed. "Very well." What the general did not know was that chef had more than enough information, from Achille, and from what The Gunner had learned, to know that Stennes and his catamite were in Toronto. "We have people in Toronto who will find them."
The general's eyes widened. "How could this fat creature know that Stennes had gone to Toronto?" he asked himself. Still he said nothing.
The general's reactions gave Chef the insight he needed. The man would not speak of Stennes, or of the business they had conducted together. He remembered Hercule and asked, "Tell me about Sylvain."
For the first time the general showed emotion. "Sylvain? What about him?"
"He has been coming here since he was what, 12 years old? I know that you like your boys young, so tell me, how many times did you rape him?" Chef glared at the general. "How many times did you take that innocent lad to your bed?"
The general's caustic, vicious laughter filled the room. He slapped the arm of the chair. "Is that what you think?" he asked, his laughter rising. "Oh, my poor dear man! What a fool you are if you think that I so much as touched that little whore!"
Without warning Alex snarled and his hand reached out to clutch the general's throat. He did not know Sylvain, but he did know The Phantom, and Alex knew that Sylvain, for all his faults, was beloved of the young man who was the Prince of the Order. Such a boy, so loved by The Phantom, could not be a whore!
"Do not harm him!" Chef growled as he waved Alex away. "Contain yourself!" Alex slowly released his hand. "This cocksucker . . ."
The general, for the first time afraid, rubbed his neck. "I never touched Sylvain!" he declared. "He was a money grubbing little whore!" he repeated. "I gave him everything! He betrayed me!" the general whined.
"He came home to his friends, and told the truth," returned Chef. "You used him, though. You never give something and expect nothing in return. What was Sylvain to you?"
"Exactly what I said," snarled the general. "I originally took him to be my heir, but he did not have the will to . . ."
"He didn't have your low morals or your lack of principles," snapped Chef. "What did you do to him?"
"He was supposed to be here for my guests." He smiled evilly. "Some of them enjoyed the taste of a boy his age." He shrugged. "It helped with business."
Chef scowled. "You never used him?"
"No! Only once, the last time he was here, and I did not tell him to sleep with the Anglais boy!" The general smiled smugly. "What do they say about birds of a feather?"
It was all Chef could do not to slap the smugness from the general's face. He ignored the general's crudity and asked, "Sylvain had nothing to do with your business with Stennes?"
The general shook his head. "Sylvain was a schoolboy! He had no part in my . . . business. He was nothing more than a mercenary little boy!" he finished dismissively.
For the first time the general felt that he had the upper hand. The fear he had felt when the three men first came into his study was gone. They were not here to kill him, of that he was sure. The old cook, for whatever reason, wanted information about Sylvain . . . and Stennes. Glancing at the smouldering fire the general smiled thinly. What little evidence there was had been reduced to a pile of ashes.
Chef saw where the general was looking and a flinty smile formed on his lips. "You are thinking that you have destroyed all the evidence. You are thinking that proof of what you have done . . ." Chef waved his hand airily. " . . . Has gone up in smoke." His face grew cold. "Fool!"
The general saw the ice in Chef's eyes and the fear returned. "What, what do you mean?" he demanded, his voice low and raspy.
"Do you really think that the papers you burned tonight are the only . . ." Chef suddenly raised his hand, his forefinger extended. "One. The banks you used to transfer money to and from Europe keep records. This money you used to finance the Aryan Brotherhood. Special Branch - you do remember them, don't you? - are aware that someone of very high rank has been suborning the military. Do you really think that it will take them long to find out just who?"
The general paled. He had used the various neo-Nazi organizations to foment racial intolerance, to imbue the Armed Forces with a sense of distrust and to ensure that when the day came that Quebec had her own army and navy that the men would be pur laine, true Quebecois and not some half breeds.
Chef's second finger pointed upward. "When you were a general you had aides, secretaries, bum boys for all I know." His face broke into an evil grin. "Their names, their present whereabouts are a matter of record. While some might scurry into the woodwork, do you really think that they will keep silence just to save your sorry ass?"
The general's face grew paler. He had used some of his more compliant aides to courier money, and instructions to his agents in the subversive organizations he supported. Then there were the clandestine meetings between his imbedded agents in two of the army's regiments. He knew the man in charge of Special Branch, an Anglais, who was tenacious and impervious to threats and bribes. Special Branch stopped at nothing to attain its ends.
". . .You are also no doubt thinking that your friends will help you," Chef was saying. "I would not count on it. Most will desert you for they will not want to be associated with you." He smiled grimly. "It has happened before, and for far less a reason than diddling silly, avaricious little French Canadian boys!"
The general was forced to consider his friends. His alliances were built on mutual greed, and mutual thirst for power. Many of his so-called friends were politicians, and being politicians were users, bent on increasing their power base and gulling the electorate. Their shunning him could be countered by the information he had on them. They might not support him now, but they would not, could not, add fuel to the fire that threatened them. They might do him damage, but if he told his secrets - and he would - he could do them much more harm. The smugness returned to the general's face. His fair weather friends would grimace but they would protect him. They had no choice, and he would remind them of it at every opportunity.
Chef saw the look and his ring finger pointed rigidly toward the plaster ceiling. His eyes bore into the general and his words were ice. "There are powers at work in this country that you have no knowledge of, general. Powers that will destroy you."
The general looked nervously at Chef and swallowed. "You are going to kill me!" he gasped, the look in Chef's eyes giving proof that the old man was capable of doing just that.
A low chuckle escaped Chef's lips. "Kill you?" he asked absently. "Hardly." Once again his eyes flared. "You are not worth the trouble." Chef shook his head. "No, my dear General de Lamer, neither I nor the people I represent will have a hand in your death." He waved his hand dismissively. "Had you been a Knight I would cheerfully put the noose around your neck and hang you from the nearest tree!"
De Lamer remembered his conversation with Stennes the morning Sylvain had left. "Knights!" he snorted derisively. "A bunch of dirty old men who paid well for the little boys that Stennes sold to them!" He laughed roughly. "Do not threaten me with dirty old men!"
Chef looked evenly at de Lamer and shook his head. "Sadly, part of what you say is true. However, the times have changed and a new Grand Master has been installed. He knows all about your so-called 'business' with Stennes, all about your patronage of neo-Nazi organizations." Chef's voice was, if it were possible, even colder, as he said, "The Grand Master knows of the knights who betrayed their oath. He knows of Simpson, of Willoughby, of Hunter." He saw the general start and continued on.
"Mon cher general, the new Grand Master knows a great deal. The day will soon come when he will settle with those who have betrayed the Order." Chef stood and motioned for Alex and Brendan to leave. He regarded the general a moment. "Your day is not yet come. Your blood will not be on my hands, or on the hands of any knight. Your destruction is at hand, however, and it will be horrible."
The Chateau de Lamer, Saturday 28 August 1976 - 11:31 PM EST
"Can he do what I think he can do?" asked Brendan as he and Alex followed Chef down the dark corridor and out of the chateau.
Alex, his thin lips set, nodded. "There are many ways to destroy a man," he said with emphasis. "Chef knows them all," he finished bluntly.
Up ahead, Chef turned and gestured impatiently. "Hurry up, we have a plane to catch!"
"A plane?" asked Brendan. "Where are we going?" He walked around to the side of the car and opened the passenger door.
Alex stood and looked at Brendan across the hood of the car, his eyes narrow. "We are going to begin to return honour to the Order."
As the door leading to the courtyard closed with a soft thump, Hercule Beauharnais stepped from the shadows of the dining room and into the dimly lit corridor. In his hand he held a double-barrelled shotgun.
The general sat with his head in his hands, pondering morosely the words of the strange, fat old man. Self-preservation was uppermost in the general's mind. He was well aware that he had enemies - powerful enemies that would delight in seeing him dragged in chains through the streets. He also had powerful friends who would, albeit reluctantly, use their influence to see that he did not fall too far. It was in their interest to see that the general was 'protected' as far as possible. They knew that the general had garnered much information over the years and that what he knew could not bear the light of day. As the saying went, the general knew where all of the bodies were buried.
The general was, of course, not quite out of the woods. Achille, the little sneak, could be brought to heel. His father, the Intendant, would see to that, just as he had seen to Achille's brothers keeping their mouths shut. It would cost money, a great deal of money, but then the general had money. The deeper he thought of things, the more the general convinced himself that while there would be a period of embarrassment, money and influence would keep him out of jail. He was worried about Special Branch. He had never been able to infiltrate the intelligence branch. Far too many members of Special Branch were Navy and his quick adoption of "Unification" rankled. He had no friends in Special Branch.
Still, there might be a way. Everybody had secrets. The general had gone to great lengths to ferret out the secrets of the mighty. The same must hold true for Special Branch. He had heard the whisper of a rumour that Rick Maslen, the officer in charge of Special Branch, shared a house with one of his investigators, a slim, boyish redhead named Britnell. There might be something there, the general thought, and he would have to find a way to determine the truth of the rumour.
Smiling to himself, the general rose from his chair and walked to his desk. There had to be a way out and . . .
The click of the hammers of the shotgun being drawn back jolted the general out of his reverie. He looked up to see his brother-in-law, Hercule, standing in the doorway, levelling a shotgun at him. Remaining outwardly calm, the general moved slowly to his desk.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. He knew that Hercule was angry over the loss of his son. He also knew that Hercule was a gentle man, a farmer, who might bluster and threaten, but who deep down did not have the will to kill a man. "And put down the gun."
Hercule had not known what to expect when he confronted the general. Certainly not smugness. "You killed my son," he declared with quiet passion.
His eyes dropping to the open drawer of his desk, the general shook his head slowly. "He killed himself. He drove into a rock!" he declared. He moved his hand slowly downward.
"You perverted him! You corrupted him!" yelled Hercule. "You made him into . . ."
"He was what he was," sneered the general. His hand touched the handgrip of the Browning. "I merely used his . . . shall we say talents . . . to both our advantage?"
"Bastard," hissed Hercule.
As his fingers slowly curled around the grip of the pistol the general growled, "Bastard? You dare to call me a bastard?" He smiled contemptuously. "When the corn withered on the stalks because the rains did not come, who sent you money for seed? When you needed new equipment to make your farm work more economically, who sent the tractor, the baler?" As his hand gripped the pistol tightly, the general continued, "Shall I go on?"
Hercule could not deny that he had accepted the many 'gifts' that the general had sent his way. Every word that the general had spoken had been true. Hercule had taken the bribes, for that is what the gifts were, and closed his eyes. He had sent his son to stay with the general, and in a way he had contributed not only to Sylvain's corruption, but also to his death.
Sighing, Hercule nodded. "Oui. I took the things you sent me, the money. Perhaps one day God will forgive me for what I did."
The general laughed caustically. "Forgive? God has nothing to forgive you for! Sylvain came to me wanting the things that only I could give him!"
"I did not teach my son well," replied Hercule as his finger tightened on the shotgun triggers. "I should have taught him that all the wealth in the world is not worth the loss of honour." He closed his eyes briefly, willing the tears that were forming to subside. "You gave Sylvain much, that is true, but you stole his honour." When he opened his eyes he saw the gun in the general's hand.
Smiling tightly, the general pointed the pistol at Hercule. "It would seem we are at an impasse." He nodded with his chin toward the shotgun. "Be reasonable my friend. Put the gun down."
"No," grunted Hercule. He looked evenly at the general. "You may kill me, but I will surely kill you."
"For what?" the general demanded. "Killing me will not erase the past. What is done, is done."
"You called my son a 'money grubbing little whore'," spat Hercule.
The general's eyes widened. He had had no idea that Hercule understood English.
"Yes, mon general, I understood what you said," said Hercule. "When the War came I knew what I must do. In the Army I learned to speak English, not much, but enough to understand." He shook his head grimly. "Unlike you, who spent his career behind a desk, pushing paper and making life miserable for your soldiers, I saw war. Unlike you and your patron in Ottawa I answered the call. I did not hide in the militia; I did not shirk my duty. I saw men die and tonight I will see another man die." With that, Hercule pulled the triggers of the shotgun.
The force of the blast threw the general's body backward, his face obliterated, his chest a gaping hole. His dying body landed in the fireplace and the embers of destruction began to nip at the cloth of his suit coat.
Hercule did not hesitate. He dropped the shotgun to the floor, spat contemptuously at the shredded corpse of General de Lamer and hurried from the house. He hurried to where he had hidden his car, got in, and left, driving slowly down the darkened, unpaved lane that divided the village. Once free of the houses he sped up, and pointed the nose of the car toward the autoroute that would take him north, north to home, north to Chicoutimi, north to where his cold son lay waiting to say goodbye.
The flames advanced down the cooling body and found new fodder, the ancient carpet, filled with the dust of a century. Slowly the fire devoured the warp and woof and crawled toward the locked, wooden chest against the far wall. As the fire grew in intensity, the wood darkened, then charred. One corner of the oaken chest fell away and the flames found new fuel for their hunger: neatly stacked packets of rifle cartridges and shotgun shells and eventually, in the corner, a small canister of black powder.
The Chateau de Lamer, Saturday 28 August 1976 - 12:32 AM EST
In the village the people slept or went about their nightly business, the thick, stone walls of the chateau, and its double paned windows having contained the sharp blasts. Only when the village toper, needing to relieve his bladder, stepped from the smoky confines of the village hall, where he had been drinking biere and playing checkers, looked up and saw . . .
The old man's excited cries brought the people from their beds to stand in their doorways or peer through second floor windows, their fingers pointing to the dim glow that had formed over the copse of trees that separated the chateau from the neat, stone houses and church.
Eyes widened, voices rose in alarm as neighbour called to neighbour. Le chateau was on fire! Doors flew open as the men hurried to the engine house where the pompiers, the volunteer firemen, donned turnout gear and started the pump, an apparatus so old that the engine had to be started with a hand crank.
With bell clanging sharply, the pump navigated the lane, followed by every little boy who had managed to escape the clutches of his mother, wailing women and the Intendant, whose grave and concerned demeanour hid his inner feeling of relief. With the chateau in flames, and hopefully le General with it, he could beat Achille into denying everything. He also thought, with typical Gallic logic, that with le General dead there would be no one around to answer questions concerning his conduct. After all, the graveyard held no wagging tongues.
As the mob turned into the courtyard of the chateau the bell in the spire of the village church began to toll, sounding the tocsin of alarm. It was too late for, as the pompiers jumped from their apparatus and began to pull the hoses frantically from the wide bed, a huge explosion shattered the still, humid air, and the roof of the wing collapsed. The destruction of the Chateau de Lamer, ancient seat of authority for generations, had begun.