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Practice at the barn turns into a free for all |
Hounds of Hell Chapter 5 Roughly fifty kilometers outside of Paris, less than five from the Timothy Lynch estate, The Hounds of Hell were concluding a session in the barn they renovated for recording and practice. Over the original, double-doored entrance, Dante and his significant other, Beatrice, had insisted on painting, in large brushstrokes, the famous phrase, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Air-conditioned to maintain instrument-protecting, low humidity levels, and a constant temperature of 72 degrees, the practice studio contained state-of-the-art equipment, including cork floors and wall-to-ceiling, sound-absorbing tiles. "Where are you going to come up with a nun to open the book on stage?" Adolph wondered. "I mean, it's a great idea, 'D', but from what Delaflote said, you and the Archbishop didn't exactly become bosom buddies." Damien shot an annoyed glance at his security chief. "What was I to do?" Francois asked. "He asked me about our meeting with the Cardinal. He has a right to ask questions. He is the manager of the band, no?" Turning back to Adolph, Damien replied, "I wouldn't say our chances are dead. Cardinal Dubois may still provide a recommendation as to who might help us find someone to present the book onstage. I'd say we have two chances - slim and nun." He paused, his eyebrows rising as he waited for a reaction. "Get it? Slim and N-U-N?" Jezebel and Salome got it right away, but their high-pitched, nervous laughter indicated they didn't want to be the only ones who did. They turned around to see what Delilah thought and saw her nodding in appreciation of Damien's wit. Dante leaned forward, draped over his Ludwigs, laughing his ass off. His black, Les Paul still strapped about his neck, Lucifer cackled at the joke along with Pilot, who smiled from behind his Hammond B-3 organ. He pointed at Damien, letting him know he heard the joke and liked it. From the far side of the practice stage, Cain peered at everyone quizzically, wondering what had been said. He couldn[t hear anything over the buzzing and hum of the big amplifiers. "You go boy!" Jezebel shouted out, clapping her hands. "You so funny, Big D." "Yeah, pretty funny, Big D," Adolph applauded, half-heartedly. "When your singing days are over," he drawled, "there'll be a spot for you on the comedy club circuit, for sure. I'll come see you at The Chuckle Hut." Judas walked up, his beret tilted at a jaunty angle on his shaven head, "Damien, we gotta talk. If you do this, ain't nobody gonna come to one of your concerts again . . . ever. You'll be through. You'll give rock and roll a black eye and a bad name from which it might never recover. I can’t have that on my conscience, man." Damien turned to leave, not wanting to lock horns with Judas, but something made him turn back and say, "You're wrong, Judas. I'll be more popular than Sinatra, Elvis, and the Beatles, combined. I'll become the musical messiah, the man who eliminated the scum and found a way for the meek to inherit the earth." "Oh, please." Judas objected, looking as if he might be sick at any moment. "Please tell me you're jokin'. Tell me this is just a stupid publicity stunt that you and 'Hitler' dreamed up." He paused, and suggested, "Can't we go somewhere and talk about this without everyone standin' around gawkin'? Just you and me?" The two men stared at each other while everyone watched. Damien nodded, "Okay, just us." He and Judas removed their earpiece monitors and microphones and laid them on a table by the sound-mixing board. Then they trotted down the stairs of the stage and trudged out of the barn together, out into the bright sunlight. They strolled past the parked eighteen-wheelers that transported the band's equipment, past the cars of the band members, understudies, and roadies, out into a grassy field where several long, wooden picnic tables were flanked by benches that sat beneath the comforting shade of a tall oak tree. "I remember the first time we sat out here," Judas remarked, choosing to sit on the same side of the table with Damien. The soft, summer breeze rustled the branches of the venerable oak, waking a couple of songbirds above that began to twitter happily. "Peaceful, isn't it?" "Yeah, very." Damien agreed, gazing in the direction of the birds for a moment before continuing. "You had just joined the band. Adolph had given you a hard time. You stormed out of the barn like you weren't ever coming back." "You came after me," Judas added. "or I might not have. I coulda gone back to Memphis that night and I woulda been just fine, or maybe I'da gone down to New Orleans." “Yeah, maybe. But you came home with me, instead.” Judas reached into his shirt pocket and lifted out an old, black box of matches that advertised Pete Fountain's Club in red letters. Sliding the box open, he pulled out the remainder of a half-smoked doobie. Lighting it with one of the last two white-tipped matches, he took a big hit before passing it over to Damien. Damien asked,” You sure this isn't a mortal sin?" He smiled and took a hit. "Hey, God made it, I just rolled it. So how could it be?" Judas watched as Damien took a second, larger hit before passing the joint back. Starting to exhale, Damien coughed and choked on the smoke that expanded in his lungs and tickled his throat, still raw from singing during practice. Raising a hand to show he was okay, he managed to say, “Whew, that’s good shit. A little harsh, but good.” Judas patted his back and said, “Take it easy there, Big D. We ain’t The Hounds without you. You got the golden throat, you got the pipes. You coulda always replaced me, but we ain’t nothin’ without you." Having recovered sufficiently, Damien said, “I don’t want to replace you, Judas, and you know it. You chew a good sax, but you know you mean more to me than that.” Watching from a considerable distance, at the barn’s entrance, Adolph shook his head. Standing beside him, Jezebel offered to help, “I could turn him ‘round, you know. Get him to forget all about Judas, if you like. He ain’t totally gay. He’s just, just…” she fumbled for the right word, which Adolph happily supplied. “Sensitive.” “Yeah, but no.” Shaking her head back and forth, Jezebel's dreadlocks whirled like helicopter blades. "That ain’t the word. Perverted comes closer, but that ain't right, neither. He has a certain...Je ne sais quoi, he’s some different kind o' horn-dog, that’s all. 'D' is just different." "Being different is what makes a star, Jez. 'D' is different, no doubt about it." "Yeah, he's different, alright." Jezebel nodded, as she and Adolph watched the two lovers in the distance. Judas stood and walked over to lean against the trunk of the centuries-old oak, under which they had been sitting. "You can't go through with this thing, Damien. I can't be a part of it." "My mind's made up. I want to change the course of history. I have to tell you, Ju, I'm a little disappointed. I thought you'd see the big picture, here." "The big picture, here? Are you kidding? Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? Oh, my God!" Judas grabbed the sides of his head with both hands. "This is playin' out just the way it happened in the Bible with the real messiah and Judas! Judas felt Christ had become too full of himself. The washing of the feet thing pushed him over the edge." Damien had never heard of the washing of the feet thing, but he knew what he felt compelled to do. "I want to save the world." He spread his arms out wide. "I don't know if The Book is putting this whole idea in my head, or not, but it makes sense to me. Too many good people end up damned by the influence of those that are beyond saving. This levels the playing field. It provides what so many have prayed for: tangible evidence of God's plan!" Damien looked at Judas as if he couldn't understand why he had any problem with his plan. Gazing up, through the branches of the old tree, the beatific expression on his face resembled a portrait of the messiah, or a person who required immediate care in a mental ward. He whispered, "The judgment is coming." "I'll tell you who's comin'," Judas replied, "your nanny, that's who." Coming from the barn, Judas spied the French security chief walking towards them at a quick pace. Annoyed, but also somewhat amused by the comment, Damien objected, "He's not my nanny." Judas stood up and waved at Delaflote. "He's over here! You're in time! I haven't killed him yet!" As Francois got closer, Judas shouted through his cupped-together hands, "You can slow down. We ain't got The Book, so neither one of us been sucked into hell." Breathing a bit hard as he arrived, Francois looked at Judas as if he had lost his mind. "Sacré bleu! What was all that yelling about?" "Just havin' some fun, but did you know Damien refers to you as his nanny?" Judas laid it on thick. "If I was you, I wouldn't allow him to mess with me like that. You supposed to have some kind of dignity, bein' a security chief and all, right?" Not knowing what to think, Francois stared at the band's leader, who stammered, "I never. . ." Damien didn't know what to say. Pointing a finger at his employer, Francois observed, "May I say, this is quite different from working for Monsieur Lynch. He did not possess a sense of humor, you know. With each passing day I am becoming more familiar with your ways." "We do have our fun," Judas asserted, his arms folded proudly in front of his chest. "Now, you obviously came out here for a reason? What's on your mind?" "Actually I came out here because I've been told you two are forming an American-style baseball team. I'd like to be on it, if you don't mind. It would make me feel more like part of the team, perhaps help me to fit in better with the rest of the band." "Who told you we were putting together a ball team?" Damien asked. In a classic portrait of suspicion, one of his eyebrows rose while the other sank low. "Pilot and Cain. They instructed me to ask which one of you is the pitcher and which one is the catcher. They told me to say I would prefer to play the field." Their eyes threatening to bulge out of their sockets, Damien and Judas exploded into side-splitting laughter. When they could breathe again, they heard a commotion from across the meadow. The rest of the band, including Adolph, the roadies, and invited guests rolled about on the grass in front of the barn, in hysterics over how well their little joke had worked. "Let's go kick some ass," Damien suggested. The trio headed back to the barn, trying to appear as menacing and angry as possible. On the way, Delaflote turned and said, "Pardonnez moi, monsieur Faust. You do not really call me your nanny, do you?” Chapter 6 In Damien's penthouse suite, Francois Delaflote squinted into an ornately framed oval mirror, hanging above a pink marble sink with golden faucets. In his right hand he held a plastic bag filled with ice cubes. "I can't believe Adolph punched me. I did not expect punches to be thrown. Look at this eye! I am embarrassed." "You didn't exactly let him get away with it," Damien replied. "Where'd you learn all that martial arts stuff? You're lethal, man." "Long before I became your bodyguard, I protected the lives and valuable possessions of other, very wealthy people." Delaflote turned around to face Damien and pressed the bag of ice against his right eye. "It is my profession. You would not want a sissy-boy protecting you, would you? Not for what you are paying?" "I was impressed with the fact that you didn't bust anyone up. You just kept taking everyone's feet out from under them until they left us alone. You move like, damn, like lightning for an older guy. How old are you, anyway?" "Merci beaucoup, but I am not that old. Being outdoors a lot, the sun and wind have caused me to age prematurely." "Yeah? So how old are you? Let's see..." Damien peered at his bodyguard. "No gray hair, it's all jet black, but you have a little bit of a receding hairline. Thirty-eight? Thirty-nine? Forty?" "Pardonnez moi, monsieur, but it is not proper for an employer to ask such questions." "Oh, give me a break. C'mon, I don't care. I mean it isn't like you're fifty." "I am fifty-three, monsieur." Damien's mouth hung open. Delaflote's visible eye widened, the eyebrow above it arching, while the other side of his face remained covered by his hand, holding the ice bag. "So, now that you know how old I am, Monsieur Faust, are you going to find a younger bodyguard?" "Francois," Damien's head bobbed with approval, "After the little demonstration you put on in front of the barn, I think you're a keeper. You're a force majeure, like my own secret agent, or something." "Oui, with a black eye." Coming through the opened door to the bathroom, both men heard Adolph's voice. "Damien? Woo-hoo, Messiah? Savior? Are you back there?" "Yeah, I'm back here, Adolph! I'm in the bathroom!" "You stinkin' up the joint, takin’ a holy shit, or is it safe back there?" Adolph's Texas drawl sounded closer, as if he were coming down the hall. Upon reaching the bathroom, Adolph peered in and flinched when he saw the security chief. "What're you doin' back here?" "Tending to my eye. How is your arm?" "Hurts, that's how. You didn't have to throw me down like that, you know." Adolph's right arm was in a makeshift sling. "You coulda broke it." "It is not broken?" Francois sounded surprised, or perhaps disappointed. "I don't think so. Just twisted. Hurts, though. Hurts like hell." Francois lowered his ice pack so Adolph could see his handiwork. "You throw a good right." "Oooohhh-wee! That's gonna be real pretty, come tomorrow," Adolph nodded. "I uh, I probably shouldna lost my head and slugged you like that." Relieved to see Francois and Adolph conducting themselves like adults, Damien joked, "So what's up, 'Hitler'?" "I'll tell you what's up," Grimacing, due to a jolt of unanticipated pain in his arm, Adolph pressed his hands together as if ready to pray, "We still need to get us a nun." Damien reached up with his left hand and rubbed his blonde beard. "You're right," he agreed. "What have you done about that?" "Well, I scanned the yellow pages, but didn't see any listings for Nuns Are Us. I think we should go around to the various churches and post notices. Let everyone know we're searching for someone to go onstage to help us get rid of sinners, worldwide. That ought to get a few nibbles." "Let me ask you," Delaflote seemed concerned, "What are you going to tell the auditioning nuns when they begin to ask questions?" "As little as possible," Adolph answered, folding his arms in front of his chest. "Mon Dieu! You are not going to tell them about The Book, and what it can do?" "Not unless I have to. We just need some skinny old hag to go on stage, open that sucker up, and stand in the spotlight. She ain't got no lines to learn." Adolph turned to Damien and said, "I think you had something you were gonna play over the speakers, right 'D'? Some ominous, poem-like thing." Damien nodded and said, "Yeah, it's kind of spooky and gothic sounding. Sets the stage for the shit hitting the fan." Francois shook his head. "You men are playing with forces you don't understand, but that is not what most concerns me." "Oh?" Adolph wondered. "And what is it that concerns you even more than these forces we're playin' with?" "Keeping all of you safe. Keeping you from harm's way and keeping The Book from being stolen before the concert ever happens." "Wait a minute. You think someone might try to steal The Book?" Damien asked. "I am certain of it, monsieur. I am not sure why I feel strongly about it, call it intuition, but I am certain someone will try." ~ ~ ~ Opening the door to his office at one, the next morning, Damien found his Chief of Security and two other men bent over a large, leather-bound, wine-colored book with engraved swirls of gold on the cover. "Francois, what's going on? Who are these people?" The crate in which The Book had come lay opened on the edge of Napoleon's desk. "I thought you and I were going to open that crate together," he complained. "I haven't even seen—" Raising a hand, to politely interrupt, Francois responded, "Monsieur Faust, these men are from the Louvre. They have come to take measurements for the reliquary I previously suggested." "At one in the morning?" Damien sounded as if he found the idea more than a little tough to swallow. Seeming not the least bit ruffled by his employer's sudden arrival, or his plainly expressed doubt, Delaflote continued. "We are going to need something unique to properly and safely display The Book." One of the two men from the famous museum, whose name tag on his gray jumpsuit identified him as René, held an expensive Nikon camera. The other fellow, whose name was Mustafa, was bent low over The Book, scrutinizing it as if it were a diamond; squinting into a jeweler's monocle that he held up to his right eye. "Gentlemen," Delaflote introduced his boss," this is Damien Faust, the famous lead singer of The Hounds of Hell and the owner of the relic you are examining." Neither man appeared impressed, both failing to even glance in Damien's direction. His discontent abundantly clear as he struggled to maintain his composure, Damien asked, "May I speak with you, Francois?" "Un moment, Monsieur Faust." Delaflote turned to the two men and cautioned, "Do not open The Book," he pointed. "Do not even lift the cover — not for any reason. Comprennez vous?" When all he received were a couple of vague nods he asked again, a bit louder. "Comprennez vous?" Once they closed the door and were alone in the hallway, Damien unloaded. "What kind of bullshit is this?" "What do you mean, Monsieur?" "What do I mean? Opening the crate without me at one in the morning, that's what I mean. You didn't mention anything about anyone coming..." Upset to the point that he didn't know what to say, Damien stood with his fists planted against his hips, waiting for Delaflote's response. "I am only one man, monsieur. If I am to protect you and your band and serve as your bodyguard, I cannot remain here twenty-four hours a day. If someone came into this office intending to steal your prize, I am comfortable with the fact that your alarm system would make a loud noise, but I am not so sure that the noise would be sufficient to stop a professional thief." "So what are those guys doing in there?" Damien pointed. "And why couldn't they be here at a normal hour?" "As I attempted to tell you, monsieur, they are taking measurements so that a clear, bullet-proof, virtually unbreakable case can be constructed to perfectly fit and display The Book. As for them being here now, instead of during the day, they work long hours at the Louvre. If I had wanted them here during the day I would have had to wait another week, maybe two, but because I am very concerned about a potential theft, and because I don't mind working late on your behalf, I wanted to get this done as soon as possible." "Well, okay." Damien glanced at the door as if he could see through the milky, colored glass. "But what's up with the guy taking pictures of The Book?" "Photographs help the design engineers at the Louvre create an aesthetically appropriate enclosure and they can be use for insurance purposes." "For insurance purposes?" Damien failed to see the benefit. "What good is insurance?" His face became flushed. "What good is money if The Book is stolen? It can't be replaced." "No, no, monsieur. They are required to provide a documented, pictorial record of The Book's current condition so you cannot claim they harmed it in any way during their work." "Oh." The anger in his voice began to fade. "Would you like for me to tell the men to stop and leave, monsieur?" "No." Taking on the appearance of a punctured parade balloon, Damien's erect, combative posture began to sag. "No, don't send them away." "Are you sure? Because I could still—" It sounded peculiar to hear the usually cock-sure, Damien interrupt with a sheepish, "Yeah, I'm sure." Hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, he started to walk away, but stopped and said, "In the future, try to do a better job of keeping me informed, will you? I think I'll hit the sack. When I get up, do you think it'd be okay if I go in and look at it?" His hand already on the doorknob, Francois looked over his shoulder. "Together, monsieur. We can look at it together." He released his grip on the doorknob and turned back around. "Don't forget, I've seen what The Book can do. I know, you told me your soul is not blemished by mortal sin, but I have promised to protect you, so I can't take any chances that I might end up regretting. I left Timothy Lynch alone with Bradley Herrington and The Book. I still regret that error in judgment. You need your rest. We will look at your birthday present when you get up." Damien nodded and headed for his bedroom. Francois reentered the office, where the two men from the Louvre continued to inspect The Book. As soon as he came in, the man with the camera, René, spoke up. "Monsieur Delaflote, with the measurements and photographs we have taken, we should have no problem constructing the reliquary, but how are we supposed to make a perfect copy of this thing if you won't let us open it?" "You do not need to open it. It contains no writing on the pages. They are all blank. Thin-milled, gilt-edged, blank pages." Still hovering over The Book with his jeweler's monocle, Mustafa wondered, "Then what would be the harm if we were to open it?" "I am paying the Louvre a considerable sum for your services, gentlemen. If you feel you cannot fully comply with my requests, no matter how strange they may seem, I shall have to find someone who displays more respect for the parameters I set." Disappointed with not being allowed to look between the leather covers, Mustafa removed the monocle from his eye and straightened up to ask two final questions. "Why should you require a copy, anyway, if the pages are blank? And, I do not mean to pry, but how did you get that black eye?" Delaflote smiled thinly and replied, "Normally I appreciate curiosity." He paused, allowing his statement to resonate before repeating just the first word for added emphasis, "Normally. . ." "But," Mustafa nodded, "I must assume, not in this case. René and I are nearly finished, Monsieur Delaflote. We have some papers for you to sign." Before he could respond, a beeping noise caused Francois to glance at his watch. After turning off the alarm, he said, "Get the papers ready for me to sign. First, however, if you will excuse me, I've been waiting until nine in the morning, Japanese time. I need to make a call to Tokyo." He pulled what appeared to be a folded piece of notebook paper from his pants pocket. After unfolding it, he fished his I-phone from his jacket's breast pocket and dialed the number scribbled on the paper. As the phone on the other end began to ring, he stepped out of the office, for privacy, and closed the door behind him. ~ ~ ~ In Tokyo, Tatsuo Takahashi walked away from the breakfast table just as the waiter arrived with his order. Pressing his BlackBerry against his ear, an impatient scowl spoiled the normally composed features of his chiseled face. He motioned to Keiko, his young bride of less than a month, to let her know he would return to enjoy his meal as soon as he got rid of the unexpected caller. "Who are you, and how did you get this number?" he demanded, sounding on the verge of hanging up. "My name is Francois Delaflote. I came across your number among the notes I found in Bradley Herrington's home." Takahashi sounded less angry, but retained an air of annoyance. "What were you doing in Herrington's home and why are you calling me?" "Looking for answers. Trying to figure out what happened after he purchased a certain, rare item from you. I worked for Timothy Lynch as his Chief of Security." "I'm at a restaurant on the roof of a hi-rise, trying to have breakfast with my wife," Takahashi complained. "Can you call back, later?" "I only have one, simple question for you at this time, Monsieur. After that, I promise not to bother you again." "What do you want to know?" Shielding his eyes from the sun, Takahashi surveyed the surrounding skyscrapers; a menagerie of glass and steel. "During the time you possessed The Book, did anyone ever attempt to steal it?" "Why do you ask?" Detecting a further softening in Takahashi's tone, Delaflote explained, "I've been engaged to guard The Book and its current owner. As an item of religious and historical significance there may be those that —" Takahashi interrupted. "There was a break-in." "Excusez-moi? Did you say a break in occurred?" Delaflote hadn't expected to hear these words so freely offered, especially after nearly being hung up on. Takahashi said it again, "There was a break-in, a little over a year ago. Shortly after a Bishop or a Cardinal from the Catholic Church came to see me." Takahashi turned towards his wife. Her face reflected growing impatience, prompting him to tell Delaflote, "Wait a minute." He returned to the table, lowered the phone and shrugged. "Keiko, this is about The Book." "Hounds of Hell? Is that your publisher?" "No, not my novel, honey, I mean The Book. The one I sold to that butler." "Didn't you say he died?" She sounded confused. "That's what this is about." Takahashi pointed to the phone and turned away from his wife. Raising his cell to his ear again, he stepped away from the table and said, "Sorry about that. You said you knew Bradley Herrington?" "I did," Delaflote replied, relieved to hear the interest Takahashi exuded. "Quite well, actually." He glanced in the direction of the office, thinking he noticed a brief flicker of the lights from inside through the opaque glass in the door. The idea crossed his mind that he shouldn't have left the men from the Louvre alone with The Book. "Did someone try to steal The Book from him?" Takahashi asked. "Monsieur Herrington did not possess The Book long enough, I think, for any plans of theft to develop. Tell me about the break-in." "It happened shortly after a book signing event in Rome. I was questioned by several Catholic Priests and Cardinals. They didn't want to know about my novel, Hounds of Hell, they wanted to know about The Book. They wanted to know what I knew. It was as if they were testing me to see if I really had personal knowledge of it, or if I had written about it based solely on legend and hearsay. Each one of them asked me where I kept it." "Did you tell them?" Delaflote asked. "No, of course not. But maybe I should have, because two days after I left Rome, my condo in Tokyo was ransacked. Thankfully, my wife, still my fiancée at the time, traveled with me and wasn't home. We were notified of the break-in by my condo's security department and then by the police." Suspecting that nothing would have been taken, Delaflote still had to ask, "What did they take?" "Nothing. I kept The Book in my bank." "What makes you think the Church might have been involved?" "When I returned to Tokyo and went to the bank to be sure The Book was still there, it was like, I don't know, like it told me." "It told you?" "I know. That probably doesn't make much sense to you." "Au contraire, mon ami, I assure you that it does. It makes very good sense, indeed. What made you sell it?" "I'm not sure. It scared me. After I wrote Hounds of Hell I made up my mind to get rid of it, but I never did. Then, when Bradley Herrington came along . . ." Delaflote filled in the blanks, "It seemed like the right thing to do, no? Like The Book approved of it." "Exactly." "May I ask, Monsieur, how you came to acquire —" "Uh, wait a minute." Takahashi interrupted Delaflote. Turning back around to reassure his wife that he was almost through, he saw that she was gone. "Oh no," his shoulders slumped. "I'm in trouble now." Her chair was pushed back from the table and her napkin lay on her plate. "What has happened?" "I think Keiko got tired of waiting for me. She left. I need to go." "Call me, anytime. I believe we still..." The line went dead before Francois could finish his sentence. This time, through the glass in the door, he distinctly saw what he thought he had seen earlier. The lights in Damien's office flickered again and dimmed, dramatically. The same thing happened in the Timothy Lynch chateau. The damned fools from the Louvre had opened The Book! To continue reading click on the following link:
I always appreciate hearing from readers. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see. Contact me here, on the writing.com website by emailing me at georgelasher@Writing.Com or come check me out on Facebook. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625773285&aid=36414 |
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