Chapter 30

I ran into the house, grabbed my phone and dialed 911.

“911,” came the female voice on the other end of the line. “Please state your emergency.”

“My wife has just been kidnapped by a bunch of drugged-out nuts in a weird cult!” I shouted into the phone.

“Sir, please calm down. Where is your wife now?”

“She’s in the back of a black stretched limousine. They just grabbed her and took off with her. We’re in a gated community, so if you hurry, you can catch them!”

“Sir, what is your name and where are you located? I’m also going to need your wife’s name and physical description.”

I gave her the information, then waited impatiently, pacing the floor. About fifteen minutes later, my phone rang. The call was from an unknown number. I answered.

“Hello?”

“Sir, this is Detective Longstreet, with the Police Department. Did you call 911 and report your wife kidnapped?”

“Yes! I did! Did you catch them? Is Jenny safe?”

“Sir, falsely reporting a kidnapping is a serious matter,” he began, but I cut him off.

“Falsely reporting?” I snapped. “I didn’t falsely report anything. They grabbed my wife and dragged her into their limo and took off like a bat out of Hell.”

“Yes, Sir. Here’s the thing. We spoke to your wife. She said she wasn’t kidnapped and was there of her own free will. She claimed you were abusing her and keeping her prisoner. She said they were helping her get away from you.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Are you sure it was my wife?”

“Yes, Sir. She presented two forms of ID, including her passport. She had her luggage in the trunk and tickets for, uh, for Europe. She said she was going on tour with the band. She said that she was leaving you, and you couldn’t take it, so you called 911 to report her kidnapped.”

“That can’t be right! I didn’t know anything about it! They’re controlling her! They use drugs and, uh, hypnosis to control her! They’re manipulating her!”

“She said you would say that.”

“This is insane!” I shouted.

“Sir, we’re going to need you to come in and answer some questions.”

That was the last thing I wanted to do. “If you need to talk to me, you can talk to my attorney.” I gave him my lawyer’s name and phone number, then hung up.

I sat down at the kitchen table with my head in my hands. Jenny was going to Europe.

Europe.

 

Chapter 31

 

Paris

July 1789

The stench was nearly unbearable as the six men trudged through the sewer’s filth beneath the streets of Paris. An iron gate blocked the way before them, secured with a heavy padlock.

Guillaume d’Anville, his face concealed behind a cloth mask, intended to block the putrid smells, turned angrily to their guide, Arnoux de Saint-Maximin.

“It’s locked!” d’Anville shouted. “You said it was open!”

“It was open! I swear it!” Arnoux responded. “I came out through this gate myself but a week ago.”

The older man, Roman de Guerre, holding the lantern spoke, his voice gruff, “Well, it’s locked now. We’ve no choice.”

He pulled a pistol from his belt, pulled the hammer back, and pointed the barrel into the heart of the lock. “Stand back!” he declared, then pulled the trigger.

There was a bright flash of light as the black powder ignited and the report, so loud in the constrained space of the underground passage that the entire group was stunned and momentarily deafened. It worked. The shot destroyed the lock.

De Guerre recovered quickly and removed the shattered lock, then forced the rusty gate open.

“I can’t believe we are breaking into the Bastille,” he said, though no one could hear him over the ringing in their ears. “I spent eight years trying to get out of the place, and now I cannot wait to get back inside.”

He stepped forward but was stopped by d’Anville’s hand on his shoulder. “I cannot believe we are breaking into the Bastille,” the younger man said. “You spent so long trying to get out.”

“What?” de Guerre shouted, hands tapping his ears.

“What?” d’Anville shouted back.

“Come on,” snapped Arnoux, “this way!” He took the lantern from de Guerre and entered the passage, quickly disappearing around a bend in the passage. The other men moved to follow him before the light faded altogether.

The passage rose gradually and became dry, leaving the sewers and their foulness behind, yet the stench remained, clinging to their boots and clothing as if they had been sprayed by the foulest of skunks.

They reached a four-way fork, and Arnoux hesitated, unsure of the direction. “It looks different when you are in a hurry to leave than when slowly sneaking back in.”

Another of their number, named Gibellin, grabbed Arnoux by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “Listen, you! If you’re lying to us, I’ll gut you and leave you down here to rot!”

“I swear every word is the truth!” Arnoux proclaimed. “I saw the keystone in the Marquis’ possession. He told me what it was. I knew the importance of it immediately.”

“You’re certain de Sade has it still?” asked Guillaume d’Anville.

“It was his prized possession,” Arnoux explained. “The only time it was not in his hand was when he hid it in a hole in the wall so that the guards would not find it. He also hid it from her.”

“You saw her?” de Guerre asked nervously.

“In my dreams almost nightly, but sometimes she would appear in the flesh,” Arnoux replied, staring into space. “De Sade’s taste was more deviant, so while she lay with me, her minion Lazarus would come and rut with de Sade. She asked after the key, suspecting he either possessed it or knew where it was. He never told her. Leverage, he called it.”

“We don’t have time for this,” a fourth member of the party stated. His name was Jacques Villeneuve. He was one of the older of the brethren of their Order. He had served under Lafayette during the American Revolution and had been raised to Master Mason by the future first American president. Everyone deferred to his authority, though de Guerre was technically in command.

“It is this way,” Arnoux said, pointing down the center passage. “I’m certain.”

They continued, and after several minutes, the passage ended in a wall of cut stones. Arnoux knelt and waved the lantern back and forth while staring at the wall. “Here!” he whispered. “Remove these stones. But be quiet. This wall opens into a storeroom behind a guard station. Be ready to take out the guards quickly, before they can sound the alarm.”

Two of the strongest men pushed and shoved on the stones until they slid forward into the emptiness of the room beyond. When there was sufficient space, they crawled through the hole, one by one, and came up inside a small storage room lined with half-empty shelves and a couple of barrels. Once they were all through, three of them drew swords, and Arnoux slid a cover in place to block the light from the lantern.

“On three,” de Guerre whispered. The men tensed.

“One. Two. Three.”

De Guerre kicked open the door, and then men charged out into the guard room. There was no one there. The room was dark and appeared to have been abandoned.

They stood there, dismayed. The cells around them, too, were empty.

“What is the meaning of this?” whispered de Guerre.

“Show us to de Sade’s cell,” barked d’Anville.

“This way!” Arnoux said and headed off down the corridor. He stopped at the third door, which stood ajar. “Here, this was the cell he occupied.”

De Guerre pulled the door open. It creaked loudly and came to rest with a thump.

“Where are all the prisoners?” Jacques Villeneuve asked. “Where is the Marquis de Sade?”

“They must have closed this part of the prison,” d’Anville surmised. “The Fifth Estate has threatened to storm the Bastille. Perhaps the authorities became alarmed”.

“If de Sade is gone, then so too is the key!” protested Gibellin.

“Not necessarily,” said Arnoux as he crossed the small, dank cell and knelt. He ran his fingers along the wall, searching. “Hold the lantern so that I can see!” he demanded.

Arnoux tapped on a large stone, and it echoed hollowly. He stood and began kicking at the rock, which cracked and gave way. “It is plaster!” he announced. “It took him months to make.” He cleared away the debris and snatched the lantern, and directed the light into the hole.

“It is here!” he declared, then reached into the open space and retrieved a bundle that looked like a ragged roll of rags and paper. He held it close to his chest.

“What in the name of God is that?” d’Anville asked.

“His masterpiece! One-hundred and Twenty Days in Sodom! De Sade worked on this for years, writing in secret!” replied Arnoux.

De Guerre shoved him out of the way, “We didn’t come for a book! Where is the key!” he knelt and reached into the hole and felt around. He found something and grabbed it, then slowly withdrew his arm.

He stared at the disk he held in his hand. It was ancient, made of brass and carved with strange writings and a large pentagram on one side and a six-pointed star on the other.

“The Key of Solomon!” shouted Brother Jacques. “We can defeat them at last!”

Everyone, save Arnoux knelt, crossed themselves, and bowed their heads in prayer.

 

Chapter 32

I stared at the old brass disk, remembering. I knew what to do. I googled the tour schedule for Her Demonic Majesty. They would be playing in Paris in three nights.

I retrieved the burner phone and called Krieg as I went on the Internet and booked the earliest flight to La Guardia.

“Where are you?” I asked when the older Templar answered the phone.

“New York. I am planning on returning tonight.”

“Don’t. They’ve taken Jenny. Book us two flights to Paris. I’m landing in La Guardia at 3 PM. If you can get us out of New York tonight, all the better.”

Several hours later, Krieg and I, two modern-day knights, sat side-by-side on an overnight flight from New York to Paris. A thousand years we had waited, preparing and watching for the signs. I gripped the Key of Solomon tightly in my fist, and mentally prepared for battle. We were ready.

The time for war had come.

THE END OF CHAPTER EIGHT