The Omega Factor(11)
He did not wait for a headshake in reply.
“They were after the Perfecti,” he said. “The few remaining devoted Cathars. Men and women who were not willing, under any circumstance, to swear an oath, let alone one of fidelity to the Catholic Church. So those who refused to provide information on the Perfecti were dealt with harshly.”
He motioned and Andre ripped the tape from Tallard’s mouth. The man worked his jaw, swallowed a few times, and sucked in repeated deep breaths. Then the priest yelled, “What do you want?”
“Justice,” he said.
“For what?”
He allowed his gaze to bore in. “For the evil you have done.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“We do not kill.”
A puzzled look came to the priest’s face. “You’re Cathar?”
“We are,” he said with pride.
“That religion died centuries ago.”
“Unfortunately for you, that attempt to exterminate us failed.”
Relief flashed through the bound man’s eyes. “Cathars deplored violence. In every form.”
“True,” he said. “But that does not mean we are merciful.”
Chapter 5
Nick landed softly, the rubber soles on his shoes aiding with the impact. No one had seen him roll over the side of the stone wall, the dark sky above him constantly strobed by blue and red lights. Thankfully, the commotion was farther down the quay and the darkness had provided ample cover. But the whole river could be lit to the night in a matter of minutes. The boat with the laptop was still drifting away on the current. He had to follow, so he crept over to a small wooden dinghy tied to the concrete walk that edged the water. He released its mooring lines and pushed off, glad to see two paddles lying inside.
There’d been no need to kill that woman. None at all. Yes, one hand had been concealed and, once revealed, a moment of indecision had occurred. But even if she’d been armed none of those policemen had been in any danger, considering the number of loaded weapons aimed her way. She’d been shot on impulse. And from stupidity. She was far more valuable alive. Now whatever she knew had died with her. He was licensed and sanctioned to carry a weapon among member states, fully trained in its use, but he rarely toted one. If the truth be told, he hated guns.
And for a good reason.
Which only a few people knew.
He’d carried a weapon in the army and the FBI, never firing it in the line of duty. Thankfully he’d discovered that in his current job guns were more a nuisance than a source of protection. They raised more questions than were ever answered. So far he’d managed just fine without one.
He hoped Kelsey was okay. This was not the reunion he’d envisioned. Not even close. But what had he expected? Kelsey was a full-fledged, vow-taking daughter of Christ. A sister in the Congregation of Saint-Luke. After their breakup he’d learned what he could about the religious order, trying to understand what happened. Kelsey had always been a devout Catholic, but she’d kept her beliefs close, sharing them only when appropriate, cautious when expressing herself. He’d always chalked that hesitation up to just being a private person when it came to religion. So he’d never fully realized the depth of her devotion.
Until the end.
“I have a calling,” she said to him. “One that has been talking to me for some time. One I’ve ignored. But I can’t any longer.”
“What are you saying?”
“I can’t marry you. I plan to take my vows and become a nun.”
Another man? Another woman? Okay. He could deal with that. But God? What could he have said that would not have sounded selfish? Though he’d been stunned beyond belief, he’d accepted her decision and, together, they’d canceled the wedding. Two weeks later she began her postulancy. Now she was Sister Kelsey MacKenzie Deal.
Instead of Mrs. Kelsey Lee.
More sirens wailed in the distance. This was turning into a busy night for Ghent police and fire.
Since moving to Paris he’d often fantasized about exploring the corners of Montmartre or having lunch atop the Eiffel Tower with someone special. Perhaps even visiting the haute-couture maisons on Avenue Montaigne, the elegant boulevard that bound together the houses of Dior, Chanel, Valentino, and Louis Vuitton along with an exorbitant collection of high-end jewelers. Paris was all about fashion and romance. No one could visit without some feeling of having come home, its dingy grandeur one of the few sights left in the world that truly stirred emotion. So far he’d found no one to share those sights and sounds with.
But he wasn’t giving up hope.
Maybe one day.
Ahead, the motor to the boat he was pursuing cranked.
Not good.
No way he could keep pace by rowing.
Luckily, the boat barely puttered along. Surely trying not to attract attention. There were speed limits within the city. The banks on both sides of the river were lined with houses, shops, and restaurants. Portions were lit. Others not so much. He’d passed three boats out for the night, both low to the water, designed to fit beneath the many bridges that provided only minimal clearance.
He grabbed the oars and decided to add a little speed to his drift. The current was helping, but only enough to keep him barely moving. He kept his gaze locked on the boat about fifty yards away. Its occupant seemed unaware of being followed. Otherwise they would have used their horsepower advantage and sped away. Thankfully, the ever-increasing darkness blotted him from sight.