The Omega Factor(36)
Other than Tallard, his diocese had been relatively free of abuse allegations. Not a single substantiated case had arisen during his tenure, which he liked to remind Rome about. His public comments had always been focused on zero tolerance, along with a respect for secular authority to charge, try, and sentence abusers. So far, Tallard had vehemently denied all of the allegations. The church had quietly arranged for him to have competent counsel, but everything was now in doubt. To this point Tallard had smartly remained silent. Clearly, the video had been obtained by coercion. But by who? Victims? Zealots? And why send it to him with the rather cryptic For your excellency’s eyes only. You, of course, will not find it enlightening. But others will.
Really?
Was the statement about enlightenment meant to convey that Tallard had already privately confessed his sins? Vilamur had heard Tallard’s confession himself, every word protected under French law as confidential. Only two people knew that had happened. Had Tallard confessed that too? An admission not recorded? One that others would learn?
He had to know.
So he’d changed back into his black suit and collar and left the church right after the ceremony ended, driving away from Toulouse. He’d called his office and instructed that his appointments into midafternoon be canceled, manufacturing a story that one of the bishops needed to speak with him. The drive from Toulouse to Béziers was about two hundred kilometers, four-laned highway most of the way.
It took him only two hours to make the journey.
The house north of town had been obtained by Tallard’s lawyer as the perfect out-of-the-way locale where nobody would pay the disgraced priest any attention. The farmhouse sat amid the dense local forest, with few neighbors. Tallard had been told to not venture out except to buy food, which should be done from different stores each time. No patterns. No routine. No consistency where the press or a victim might recognize him. He’d also been told to grow a beard and mustache to further complicate things. So far all of the deceptions had worked. Not a word had appeared about Tallard in the media or on the internet. Everything possible had been done behind the scenes with the authorities to delay the trial for as long as possible. It had not helped that the French government recently pledged to toughen laws on child rape. That move came after a massive online movement saw hundreds of victims share accounts about sexual abuse within their families. A draft bill had already started being debated in Parliament. Thankfully, that was months or years away from becoming law, if ever, and the local prosecutor was a friend, with a cooperative personality.
He found the farmhouse and parked out front.
He’d never thought a trip here necessary. He’d been kept informed of Tallard’s case covertly, along with a report on all activities—which, to this day, had been minimal.
The day was warm and sunny. Before leaving the car he removed his white collar. Better not to announce his profession so openly. He stepped out and approached the front door and noticed it ajar.
He stopped.
This was foolish. He should not be here. But it had to be done. He was the only one who could make this inquiry. Especially considering that someone else apparently knew all about this problem.
He stepped to the door and knocked.
No reply.
“Louis,” he called out. “Louis.”
He pushed the door inward, which squeaked on its hinges. He stared into the small unlit den, everything all awry, as if from a struggle.
Then he saw Tallard.
Bound to the kitchen table, the body limp, head dangling down from one edge, the mouth and eyes wide open, the tongue protruding.
He stepped inside and approached the table.
Tallard was dead.
Which solved a whole host of problems.
And he would be thrilled by the fact except for what lay atop the body.
Two crosses. Made of wood. Both painted yellow.
The color brought context to the message.
When the Inquisition came to southern France to eradicate Catharism, repentant first offenders were ordered to forever wear a yellow cross on their clothes, called las debanadora, which meant in Occitan “reels” or “winding machines.” The term came from the Cathars comparing the cross to a reel and line, by which the wearer could be hauled in at any time for a second offense.
And that meant the death penalty.
Its presence here, eight hundred years after the fact, lying atop a Catholic corpse, was meant as a signal.
The other yellow cross, lying beside it, completed the message.
Many mistakenly called it the Cathar cross. The image was for sale in every tourist shop across the Languedoc as a supposed Cathar souvenir. But it had nothing to do with the Cathars. It was the Cross of Occitan. The heraldic design was first used in the coat of arms of the counts of Forcalquier, in the twelfth century, and by the counts of Toulouse on thirteenth-century coins and seals. It later spread to other provinces. Such a cross, upon a blood-red background, still made up the flag of modern-day Occitania. It was also found in the emblems of Midi-Pyrénées, Languedoc-Roussillon, and Hautes-Alpes, as well as in countless cemeteries and at country crossroads.
Old and new.
Atop the body of a sexual deviant. A priest of the Roman Catholic Church. He closed his eyes.
Dear God.
What was happening?
Chapter 23
Carcassonne
Bernat’s phone signaled an incoming call from Andre. He’d stationed the young man outside Father Tallard’s farmhouse, among the trees, to wait and watch.