The Omega Factor(48)

He trudged toward an opening in the crumbling wall. A north wind whipped with no mercy, rushing across him as if angry. Scattered clouds overhead cast shadows. Once he was inside, the walls blocked the wind, offering a feeling of protection, but also one of isolation as nothing could be seen past the stone. A few other visitors had braved the climb and were enjoying the reverent ambience.

He exited the enclosed space through a doorway in the wall, finding a precipice, staring across an emerald-green valley that stretched for as far as he could see, ending at high peaks on the horizon. Patches of light swept across the hillsides. Above, a hawk rode the warm currents. The breeze whipped his hair. He wanted to stretch out his arms and ride the wind too. Where the other side of the pog from which he’d come was climbable, this part dropped in a sheer fall of over twelve hundred meters. As no barriers blocked any approach to the edge, it would be an easy matter to leap right off. The height and grand vista energized him.

Like always.

This was a holy place, despite the tour guides’ lies.

And the perfect location.

To finally confront the devil.



“He is not my child,” the priest said, voice rising. “Please do not say that again.”

Bernat stood outside the rectory, beneath an open window. He’d followed his mother from their home, across the streets of Pau, to here. She’d been upset all morning. When she’d knocked on the rectory door and entered he’d thought her need spiritual and almost left. But something had told him to be sure.

So he’d found the window.

He’d lived in Pau all ten years of his life, enjoying hikes in the nearby mountains and swims in the icy-cold lakes. All had been great until six months ago, when his father suddenly died, his heart giving out. His mother had taken the loss hard but, true to her good nature, she’d rebounded.

But what was she doing now?

“Why do you lie?” his mother asked in her soft voice. “Why hurt me like this?”

“I do not mean to hurt you. I am simply telling the truth. I have no child.”

“But you do. I have kept this to myself all these years out of respect to my husband. With him now dead, it is time for you to know the truth.”

He was shocked at what his mother had said.

It couldn’t be.

“Do you deny what happened between us?” his mother asked. “How could you possibly?”

“Madam—”

“My name is Rene. You called me Rene when you took me to your bed.”

“I prefer to keep this at arm’s length,” the priest said. “Madam, we have known each other a long time. I baptized your son. You have volunteered your services to this parish incessantly. I too have served this parish a long time. Never has there been even a hint of scandal associated with me.”

“Because I kept quiet. I respected you. I respected the church. But I also cannot deny what happened between us. I…loved you. I still love you. How can you stand there and deny the truth?”

A long silence passed, and the sound of distant traffic could be heard. He’d walked down this alley between the rectory and the church many times. He attended school nearby and mass every Sunday. He’d passed this window day after day, never realizing that it opened to the priest. A man he’d both feared and idolized. All of his friends felt the same way. The black suit and white collar that swept into their classrooms from time to time, smiling, speaking to them for a few moments, then leaving. He was Father. The one who granted forgiveness in the confessional and Holy Communion at the altar. A man to be respected and obeyed.

But his father?

No.

His father was dead.

“While my husband lived,” his mother said, “I vowed never to speak of this. And I never have.”

“You should have continued to keep that vow.”

His attention piqued.

An admission?



Bernat walked back through the ruin, toward the southwest and the side from which he’d climbed. The day was waning and the number of visitors dwindling. Precisely why he’d chosen this rural locale, along with its obvious symbolism, as the meeting spot. He stared out at the distant hills, the countryside filled with trees and pastures under a pale sun. Below, the car park remained nearly empty, Andre still in position.

He liked to imagine what happened here in May 1243 when a crusader army arrived below. Ten years of fighting had failed to end Catharism. The pope had threatened a renewed crusade with more deaths and persecutions. Cathars had steadily withdrawn to remote citadels, which began to fall one by one. The fortress at Montségur was last. Nearly impregnable. Rising three stories. Around its central courtyard stood workshops, storage rooms, and stables for horses and mules. The crusaders laid siege and a few hundred Cathars managed to hold them off for nine long months. Finally, on March 16, 1244, they surrendered. Two hundred and twenty Cathars refused to renounce their faith and were burned en masse at the base of the pog, each one dying willingly in the flames.

The thought turned his stomach.

Greed, arrogance, hypocrisy.

The Holy Roman Church was guilty of all three.

Then.

And now.



“What would you have me do?” his mother asked the priest. “I have a son to raise. Alone.”

“Leave here, and never broach this subject with me again.”