Death After Midnight

DEATH AFTER MIDNIGHT

by

Dean Fetzer

PUBLISHED BY

GunBoss Books on Smashwords

Death After Midnight

Copyright © 2011 Dean Fetzer

www.deanfetzer.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No undead beings were harmed in the writing of this novel and all dogs and cats are extremely well looked after.

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ISBN 978-0-9561581-3-0

www.deanfetzer.com

To my Mom, thanks for the encouragement

* * * * * * * * * *

Rennes-le-Chateau, Southern France, January 17th, 1917

The demon glared menacingly at him from under the font as he entered the tiny church, its plaster fangs dripping with malice.

Bérenger Saunière dipped his fingers in the font and crossed himself as he bowed towards the Magdalene and the altar. The saints and Stations of the Cross crowding the walls of the tiny church seemed to loom over him in the dim light cast by the few candles Marie, his housekeeper, had lit at dusk. It often felt as if the walls were getting closer.

He bowed again when he reached the railing separating the altar from the rest of the church, and then turned away.

The hem of his cassock swished over the stones as he stepped up to enter the tiny sacristy to the right of the altar and moved towards the cabinet in the wall. He lit a candle on the table before taking the small key on a chain from around his neck and unlocking the cupboard.

Finding the hidden notch with his thumbnail, Saunière slid the bottom of the cupboard back and removed an object swathed in a silk scarf. He unwrapped it, the small Madonna glinting in the candlelight. Tawdry pilgrim rubbish, he thought with a smile. Or, at least that is what they will think.

A small sound came from the main body of the church. Saunière stopped for a moment, listening. Nothing now. He shrugged to himself and re-wrapped the statuette. Probably just the roof beams settling again, he thought. They often made little noises since the renovation work had been done.

A gravelly voice came from behind him as he went to put the Madonna back in her hiding place. Je prendrai cela, the voice said. I’ll take that.

Saunière, the Madonna still in his hand, turned to the doorway to see a large figure looming out of the darkness. The light from the candle did little more than make the form’s eyes glitter disconcertingly. Saunière thought he saw a red glow for just a second before the figure moved.

Qui êtes-vous? Que voulez-vous? he asked, hating the trembling in his voice. Who are you? What do you want?

The Madonna – what else? The gritty voice seemed surprised at the question. Give it to me.

No – it is not mine to give, Saunière objected, raising a hand unconsciously to the start of the benediction. He clutched the Madonna to his chest with the other.

The man swatted Saunière’s hand out of the way. "I do not like to be spoken down to – especially by a priest. I will take the statue. Now."

Saunière had never been a brave man, merely a fortunate one. Whatever reserves of bravery he’d saved for this moment, however, came to the fore and the rounded little man pushed the figure back away from the doorway.

As startled as affected by the force of the push, the figure tripped over the step, falling backwards. The crunch of his head hitting the stone flags of the floor was loud in the tiny church.

Saunière stood there for a moment, frozen, staring at the still form sprawled down the step. It didn’t move. Cautiously, he stepped down from the sacristy. The figure still did not stir.

Clutching the figurine, Saunière edged slowly past the man, watching for any movement. He reached the aisle in front of the altar, crossed himself and backed another couple of steps before turning towards the door. He’d have to find a new hiding place for the Madonna.

There was the faintest whisper behind him.

Not looking back, he moved as quickly down the short aisle as his girth would allow and out of the church, leaving the door open in his haste. Puffing, he fled across the dim courtyard, out into the garden, the bare branches of the apple trees whipping his face in the darkness. He ran up the stairs to the walkway around the edge of the garden, his heavy breathing creating clouds of fog in the wintry moonlight, and turned left to the Magdala tower, intent on securing the door against the thief in the church.

The Madonna in one hand, he fumbled with the latch of the door. The latch suddenly released, opening inwards into the faint light cast by the moon through the rooms window.

Fearfully, Saunière glanced over his shoulder, seeing nothing in the gloom. As he turned back to enter the tower a sharp pain caught him in the back of the neck, knocking him forward. Strong hands caught him and the statue before they hit the ground.

Tsk, père, that wasn’t nice. The man lowered him to the tiled floor. I will take the Madonna, now.

Bérenger Saunière felt another quick twinge of pain in his neck before he lost consciousness. The Madonna was lifted from his fingers.

Au revoir, père. The figure stepped away into the darkness and was gone.

Marie Denarnaud, the housekeeper, found Saunière there in the door of the Magdala tower. When he had failed to return to the house before midnight, she had gone looking for him.

He never regained consciousness and died five days later.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hungry ghosts

Émile’s leg was still bothering him as he stepped out of the door to his shop. The bell chimed as he slammed it shut.

He locked the door behind him and turned to the heat-drenched pavement. There weren’t many passers-by for the time of day, the town shutting down for lunch. Madame Bresky passed, on her way to confession. Bonjour, Monsieur Bastien! she called.

Bonjour, Madame, Émile replied, Ça va?

Bon, Monsieur, bon, she answered. Vous?

Ça va, Madame, ça va. I don’t know anything else to be anymore.

Émile turned and walked down the street, doing his best not to limp – there really was nothing wrong with his leg – to his local café and sat at a table in the shade of a big sycamore. He unfolded his paper and rattled it. The waiter, Édouard, appeared moments later hovering expectantly.

Bonjour, Édouard, vin rouge, s’il vous plaît, Émile said. Red wine: he needed one or two glasses to get through the pain of the day.

He looked down at the offending member, his right leg, and spat. He hated the leg with a passion. If only he could be rid of it somehow. A false limb must be so much better than this horrible flesh, blood and bone construct. Body Dysmorphic Disorder combined with some form of Alien Limb Syndrome – basically a feeling that a limb is not a part of one’s body – as one specialist had described it when Émile’s mum had taken him to numerous quacks, trying to make him ‘normal’.

As long as he could remember, the limb had felt like it belonged to someone else. Émile had learned a long time before not to mention this, however; people’s reactions could be quite unpredictable. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to return to his paper.

Émile, why so glum? Édouard placed a pitcher of red wine and a long-stemmed glass on the table in front of him.

Émile started. Merci, Édouard, he replied before picking up the glass pitcher. Slow day, and no tourists to make money from. He smiled up at Édouard.

Édouard frowned. You need a holiday, my friend. Everyone else is off. Édouard gestured at the empty tables around him. He patted Émile’s shoulder and wandered off.

The paper contained little of interest – war, famine, taxes, politics; they all seemed so distant and unimportant to a small-time antiques dealer from Limoux. Émile scanned the articles before folding the paper up and picking up his wine.

He lit a Gauloises, combining the cool smoke with the alcoholic fruitiness of the wine. He exhaled, staring blankly across the hot square without really seeing it.

Émile looked at the few others seated outside the café enjoying the June sunshine. Since Célestine had left him, he hadn’t really wanted much to do with anyone. They just didn’t seem important. It affected some like that. He thought briefly of his mother, who had been a depressed person most of her short life; he hadn’t really shown that sort of aptitude for melancholy until recently.

He sipped his wine and stubbed out the cigarette. He sighed, finished his drink, picked up his paper and started to get up.

Émile.

Startled, he knocked the glass off the table. Merde! he swore as the glass shattered on the pavement. He looked up into incredibly pale eyes, almost icy white. They stared through him as if they were seeing the Pyrenees stretched out miles behind him. Oh. Paulette.

Paulette waved her long blonde hair back from her face distractedly without taking her eyes off whatever she saw in the distance. Do not go back to your shop, Émile. She turned to go. It will only be trouble.

What? Never? he asked her with a half-smile.

Paulette looked back over her shoulder and frowned at him. Her pretty young face belied the ancient knowledge in her eyes. "Don’t be silly, Émile. Do not go back today." Her eyes actually focused on him for a second, before she turned and walked away.

Émile stared at her as she went; Paulette – village psychic, witch or madwoman – depending on who you spoke to. Everybody tolerated her, the more superstitious believing she saw the future.

She sees ‘something’, all right, Émile thought with an odd smile.

He paid Édouard. Émile still owned his mother’s house, but often stayed over the shop. It was easier that way. Glancing uneasily in the direction Paulette had gone, he started off. Maybe it would be a good idea to avoid the shop this afternoon. It’s not like anyone’s been that interested in antiques today, he thought to himself.

* * * * * * * * * *

Heads you win…

Stel knew The Head must be nearby if Tempe was in Florence. She sat outside a café and ordered a latte while she waited.

Tempe had approached her when she entered the Mercado. Stel.

Distracted, she nearly walked into a stall full of hams, cheese and mushrooms. Damn! Temp… what are you doing here? she asked.

He smiled absently, his dark features illuminated by those oh-so-white teeth. Working of course, Stel. Are you…? He gestured at the market.

Stel nodded, clenching her teeth. That infuriating grin still had the power to annoy her. I shop here, Temp, she replied, tucking a stray length of brunette hair behind one of her elfin ears.

Can I see you later? he asked, looking vaguely over her shoulder, but she knew he was seeing everything going on around them.

I can’t, Temp. Stel turned away sharply. Not now. She left him standing there, finding her way to the café.

Catching a glimpse of herself in the reflecting chrome of the espresso machine, she almost didn’t recognise the heart-shaped face with intense green eyes, slight nose and pink bow of a mouth of her own reflection. Shaking her head to clear it, Stel took a drink of too-hot coffee and grimaced, her mirror image stubborningly repeating back the gesture.

It hadn’t been good to see Tempe again.

The Head had found her sleeping rough on the streets of London. Not unusual, pimps being what they are. She was seventeen, brunette, lithe and not quite out of teenage awkwardness. But he wasn’t exactly a pimp.

Within two weeks, The Head had Stel in a private club getting close to a person of interest – a ‘mark’ –with far too much money and a predilection for rough sex. All Stel had to do was keep him occupied long enough for Tempe to access his voda – his mobile access unit – and pull the codes for his trading accounts.

More champagne, my dear? The old letch smiled his greasy grin, smoothing his greying hair back with one hand.

Stel smiled back. Sure, handsome, she replied, finding it difficult to look at him. She was still rather new to this. Stel tossed the ends of her blonde wig over her shoulder and tried to look coy.

Oh hello, John, her companion said as an old man wandered by. He used to run the Bank of England you know. When there still was a Bank of England, of course.

Stel didn’t even glance at the man, but smiled. Oh, you do know the important people, Ethan, she simpered, sounding completely false to herself. Ethan didn’t seem to notice.

This caviar is delightful, isn’t it, my dear? Ethan was one of those people who didn’t remember names.

Having only taken her first ever mouthful moments before, and trying to turn a grimace into a smile, Stel agreed. Yes, Ethan. I’ve never had caviar before, you know.

Ethan turned a surprised look on her. Really? Oh, it is so refreshing to meet someone whose palate is still untarnished! This is only the grey Sevruga, I’m afraid; one does have to watch the pennies. Still, it has a lovely, buttery flavour.

Stel managed to choke a bit more down, gulping at her wine. Yes, Ethan.

One of the waiters winked at her. She nodded once, very slightly, to acknowledge the signal. Are we going to stay here all night, Ethan? I’m ever so tired. She turned her dark green eyes on him and fluttered her lashes just a touch, as The Head had taught her.

Not at all surprised by such forwardness, Ethan beamed. Of course, my dear, of course. We’ll go shortly.

He scooped up the last of the caviar before choking down the rest of his sparkling wine – one is on a budget, you know – and waved at the waiter.

Stel signalled to the waiter for another latte, her morning shopping trip blown by seeing Tempe. What was she going to do about The Head?

* * * * * * * * * *

Dead again

Hospitals smell of death. I don’t like visiting them, much less being kept in one against my will. Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice. Again.

Alicia has just been. I like her company, but it doesn't do her any good to find me strapped into the frame of a Resuscitation Unit™.

Another sign of sloppiness (or age) on my part – the bastard had a soft-recoil multi-gun, almost impossible to avoid, even for me. I took three through the left lung and two in the right leg. Bastard.

I did manage a couple of shots of my own, my trusty Glock 66 taking care of business. I hate druggies.

Alicia reminds me of my age, too. You’re not getting any younger, Jaared, she scolds. I thought that desk job was going to slow you down some. She’s the Chief Medical Examiner, Forensics, for The Company in Central London, and fairly hard-nosed with it. I like her for that.

I grunt. The Company doesn’t squander its resources, Alicia. I’ve been on active duty since I lost two Contractors in that immigration fiasco last month. I shift, trying to get comfortable, but not managing it in the soft restraints. Hospitals.

Commander Sen, laid up by a moron with a gun. How amusing, she tsks, clearly not amused. I’ll send Kate and Morag over to take care of you if you’re not careful.

Morag doesn’t like me much after I spazzed on your kitchen floor – she’s always hovering behind me like I’m going to collapse at any minute. I groan softly. Besides, I think Skeet’s back from ‘Nam this week. She’ll look after me.

I can sense her disapproval. I’d hardly call Skeet the nurturing type, she ventures.

So? Maybe I’m not attracted to maternal women. I pluck at the restraints, trying to avoid this conversation.

Alicia knows something’s wrong. She’s had enough, has she? she tries again.

I try to glare, but it’s difficult when all you’ve got left of your eyes is scar tissue. No, it’s not like that. I don’t know – things have been a little… tense… lately.

I know when you’re lying, Jaared, she answers softly. What happened?

I shrug. What always happens. The Job. No life. I don’t know, Alicia, I really don’t. Liar.

Liar. Alicia hasn’t minced her words much since Stephen died. So you tried to get yourself killed instead?

I never ‘try’ to get killed, I sulk. It just happens. You’d never believe sometimes that I’m almost one hundred and seventy years old, particularly when I sound this petulant. Besides, how was I to know he had a multi-gun? He was only supposed to be a chicken-shit user, not a wired one.

Skeet has gone to Vietnam to ‘find’ herself. A pointless exercise – as I could have told her. You rarely like what you find. The older I get though, the less I can tell someone like Skeet. You’ve got to make your own mistakes. God knows I keep making my own.

I got a new girl and I got a new job at the same time. And I got my partner killed.

Now, I’m mostly a desk jockey, unless I have to go into the field, like I did two days ago. With this result, I’m obviously a little rusty. And I’m no longer sure about the girl.

Skeet’s a freelance mercenary I met awhile back. We’ve been seeing each other for about eighteen months and things have been good. Lately, I don’t know… maybe she’s bored. When the job in ‘Nam turned up, she jumped at the chance. No matter how many stories I told her about snakes, insects, humidity and people trying to kill you, she was good to go.

And I let her.

* * * * * * * * * *

The only thing to do when it’s hot – siesta

The house was quiet and a little stale in the afternoon sunlight. Dust motes danced in the sun that slipped through the gaps in the curtains.

Émile threw his keys on the table in the hall and went through to the kitchen. He drew a glass of water from the tap and sat down at the kitchen table. The heat of the day felt oppressive. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief and stood up again.

The shadowy living room was much as his mother had left it, with a cramped sofa, a rather soft chair, a small table in the corner and the glass cabinet with her collection of unusuals. The fireplace dominated the room. It was much cooler here than in the kitchen.

Putting his glass down on the table, Émile ignored it all and slumped on the sofa for a moment before lifting his legs onto it and closing his eyes. The offending leg throbbed sullenly in the heat.

Émile rubbed his temples. What the hell am I doing? he asked no one. When no one answered, he sighed and tried to empty his mind. He fell into an uneasy sleep.

Émile woke with a start and sat up. The light was long gone from the room. He’d obviously slept longer than he thought.

The knock on the door came again. That was what woke him. He fumbled for the glass on the table, took a drink and then used his fingers to splash a little of the liquid on his face. One moment! he called.

Wiping his face, he tried to cudgel his slow-moving brain into activity. Finally, he stood up and went through to the door. He fumbled with the lock for a moment before it opened.

Oui? he asked, as the gap widened, revealing an earnest young man in a police uniform. Oh, bonsoir, François, it is you.

Bonsoir, Émile. I am afraid someone has broken into your shop, François said, a glint of excitement in his dark eyes.

Émile sighed, rubbing his eyes. I suppose you want me to come with you?

Well, the door needs to be secured for the night, Émile. I do not think you want to leave it open to anyone who might find it, do you?

Émile sighed again. No, of course you are right. Just let me get my keys.

He went back to the bathroom next to the kitchen and splashed some water on his face. Dark eyes stared back at him from the mirror, his face belying his thirty-eight years, looking wan and a bit haggard in the bluish light from the fluorescent tube. Still dark haired – with a bit of natural curl to it. Gallic nose. French peasant stock – but not unpleasant to look at. When he wasn’t so tired.

Going back into the kitchen, he took a long drink of water straight from the tap. Then he wiped his face on the kitchen towel – a habit his mother had hated. Pardon, Maman, he muttered.

Émile returned to the hall, picked up his keys and went to the door. Okay, let’s go.

* * * * * * * * * *

Two heads are not necessarily better…

A large black man approached Stel’s table. Buongiorno, signorina! Sunglasses? Prada, Gucci, Ferragamo, Fendi…

Stel glanced at the piece of proffered cardboard with pairs of sunglasses wired to it. Nessun grazie, signore, she replied.

Brilliant white teeth shone out from his dark face. Such a beautiful lady, you should have some excellent glasses! he announced.

Getting slightly irritated, Stel waved him away. No! Go away! Vada via! she hissed at him. The waiter was looking her way now and wondering what the problem was.

Before she could say or do anything, the vendor thrust a pair of sunglasses into her hand. È niente, signorina, he said as he wandered away from her table. It’s nothing.

Confused, Stel looked at the sunglasses in her hand. Ferragamo knock-offs, she presumed. Then she noticed the bit of paper wrapped around one of the temples. Frowning she unwrapped it and read the short message scrawled across the middle of the underside.

Do not get involved in things you might regret later.

Ethan was staying at one of the shabbier hotels off Piccadilly, not the grand fortifications on Park Lane. Whether it was a sign of decreased circumstances or he was simply a frugal investor, Stel had no idea.

As they walked through the foyer, no one gave them a second glance. Stel still felt conspicuous in the blonde wig, but managed to smile nervously at Ethan as they approached the antiquated lift.

Tempe had relieved Ethan of his voda almost as soon as they’d left the club. Now it was Stel’s job to distract the mark.

Just this way, my dear, Ethan muttered as they left the lift and headed for his door.

Tempe and The Head already knew which room he was in and were monitoring the situation accordingly.

Ethan fumbled the card key into the lock and swore when it didn’t open right away. Bloody thing. He tried again, and this time heard a click.

Stel entered the room feeling decidedly trepidatious.

Would you like a drink, my dear?

What? Oh yes, please, Ethan. Anything to stave off the moment a little longer – plus more lovely anaesthetic. Brandy and American, please.

Miffed at the delay, he went to the mini-bar. Very well, one brandy and American coming up. He poured the drink and a whisky for himself and turned to her. There you go, my dear. To propitious meetings.

Cheers, Stel returned, the sweetness of the ginger ale cloying in her throat.

Ethan knocked back his whisky and smiled. Preliminaries over, now for some fun.

Stel blanched, but managed a fearful grin.

Stel half-laughed to herself at the memory of her first job. It’s funny how even the ones who claim to like it rough are still rather traditional – boring even. Ethan was no exception, although with a bit of a twist.

He undressed her slowly, enjoying her obvious apprehension as well as the sight of her pale body. The curve of a breast, a nipple; her smooth skin and flat stomach; the dark hair running down between her legs. His hands never stopped touching her.

Once she was completely naked, he led her to the bed and laid her down on it. He didn’t try to kiss her and when she leaned up to kiss him, he pulled away with a frown.

Pushing her down on the bed, he tied her hands to the headboard with silk scarves, one at either side, and started caressing her body. Stel did what every whore does and lay back thinking of somewhere warm and sunny.

Still touching her, he removed his shoes and his tie before unzipping his fly. Stel stifled a smile at the size of his manhood, being only a few inches long even fully erect. Pretending she was in the throes of passion, not revulsion, she closed her eyes.

Fondling his small dick, Ethan removed a long knife from his coat. Still pretending, Stel didn’t know anything about what was happening until she started to feel stinging sensations coming from her stomach flesh. He was making tiny cuts. Here we go, here we go, here we go, he chanted softly.

Stel’s eyes flew open at the pain and saw the knife. She started to scream. Ethan reached up and stuffed her panties in her mouth. Stel struggled against the scarves, trying to pull away from the knife, her muffled screams going nowhere.

That’s better, I don’t want to listen to you, he muttered. I’ve got to do my work.

The point entered her skin again, making small, shallow cuts. Intent on his business with one hand and his dick with the other, he never looked at her face. The knife started to move down her belly towards her pubis.

Stel screamed again, struggling harder, convinced she was about to die horribly.

Ethan lay halfway across her legs, mistakenly thinking he was in control. With one final heave, Stel managed to get one foot free of his torso and kick him in the head.

The other mistake he’d made was leaving her stilettos on.

Pervert. If only she’d known. She did wonder sometimes if The Head had known what he was sending her into. She thought he probably did.

* * * * * * * * * *

If I’d known it was going to be like this, I’d have paid more attention

Alicia laughs. Oh, don’t you sound sorry for yourself, now? Come on Jaared, cheer up. You’re about to be discharged. Come to mine for a few days – I’ve already got Dickens at the house, so what’s another guest? You can share the guest room.

Apparently Dickens has been holed up in her spare room as she’s got two Staffordshire Bull Terriers who’d eat him for breakfast – Porgy and Bess, like the musical. I like them, but they’re not exactly my cat’s cup of tea. Is he okay? I ask, suddenly in worried parent mode.

I can feel her nod. Of course. My mutts worried about him being in there for the first day, but they’ve left him alone since then. He just acts like he’s dying to go outside whenever I go in there, she finished.

He probably is; he doesn’t like being confined to the house very much. I sigh. Okay, we’ll be out of your hair as soon as we can, I relent.

When you’re better, I’ll get you home myself, she says sternly, and not a moment sooner, you hear?

Yes, Ma’am.

When she’s gone, I reflect on my friendship with Alicia. Why people like Alicia insist on looking after an asshole like me, I’ll never know. I’m one hundred and sixty-nine years old and you'd think I could take care of myself. I know I'm blind, but I'm not exactly like other blind people.

I’ve been blind for over ninety years now but most people I meet never realise I can’t actually see them. I don’t know why, but I don’t suffer much from the deprivation. That clichéd ‘sixth sense’ blind people are supposed to have, I guess. But I think it’s more than that somehow. I’ve been able to sense things about the world around me I don’t think the average blind person knows how to feel. Most sighted people can’t walk through a dark room without bumping into something, even if they live there. I walk through life without bumping