The Devil's Pact - S01 E228

Story 3 days ago

The Devil's Pact - S01 E228

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 228

"You taxi is here, Monsieur Fitzsimmons," the Concierge of the Chambres D'Hôtes L'Escalette, the hotel I was staying at in Toulouse. I was impatient to get to the Motherhouse and get my hands on the Magicks of the Witch of Endor. I needed the book to defeat Mark and rescue my wife from his clutches.

It had been a long flight when I landed Toulouse with a five hour layover in London, I had been traveling for nearly seventeen hours and I was exhausted. When I check into the hotel I crashed, and just woke up twenty minutes ago, noon, local time. Which was four AM, Friday morning, back in Washington State.

"Merci," I nodded to the Concierge and slipped him a five euro.

He held the door open for me and I stepped into the white taxi. It was a small, European car, one of those tiny vehicles designed for the narrow, medieval streets that crowded European cities and towns. It was a little more than an hours drive to Rennes-le- Château, a quaint village built upon a hilltop, connected by a winding road and the driver, a dusky North African, talked in Arabic on his bluetooth the entire drive.

Finally, we reached the Motherhouse. The building was located behind the Church of Mary Magdalene, an old, stone edifice that was partially overgrown with green vines. The front door was a large, made of wood and bound in iron. On the door frame hung a plaque written in French, English, Spanish, and German described the history of the building. Another sign, handwritten in French, was taped to the front of the door. My French was very rusty, but it seemed to be the phone number of the caretaker who was out.

Sighing in frustration, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number. "Bonjour, Maryam à l'appareil. Je vous écoute," a woman answered in rapid French.

"Do you speak English?" I asked, hopefully. My high school French was far to rusty to converse with someone.

"Yes, I am Maryam," the woman answered in a heavy accent.

"Hi, I'm Brandon Fitzsimmons and I was hoping I could meet with someone at the Motherhouse. There is a book in your collection that I'm just dying to examine."

The voice on the other end thought for a moment. "Very well, Monsieur Fitzsimmons. Tomorrow at, say, 4 o'clock."

"It's very important, can we possibly meet sooner?" asked.

"No, no. I am not in Rennes-le-Château," she answered, in the background I heard something in French being broadcast. I frowned, it sounded like an airport announcement. "Saturday, 4 o'clock is the earliest I can meet."

I sighed, another hours drive to Toulouse and then an hours drive back here tomorrow. "Very well. Thank you for your time, miss."

"Until Saturday, then. Au revoir." The line went dead.

"The captain has put on the fasten seatbelt sign," the flight attendant announced in her British accent.

I was on British Airways flight 3471 descending into Toulouse Blagnac Airport in France on the hunt for Brandon Fitzsimmons.

Thirteen hours ago I took off at SeaTac and I was exhausted. But I couldn't sleep. Every time tried, Mark Glassner's words came back to me. "Doug, Brandon's headed for Rennes-le-Château, the Motherhouse of an order of nuns. The Order of Mary Magdalena. You must stop him from getting a book, the Magicks of the Witch of Endor. Do whatever it takes to stop him."

Do whatever it takes to stop him. What did Mark mean. Did he want me to steal the book before Brandon could get it, delay him, stop him? Or did he want me to kill him? Could kill him? was a P.I. not a hitman. But the more I poured over Mark's words, the more I came to believe I had to kill him. It's clearly what Mark wanted. Do whatever it takes to stop him. What else could that mean? I had watched enough spy movies to understand what was implied. I was scared. I had never killed anyone. Twelve years as a cop and I never fired my gun in the line of duty. But Mark needed it done, and I would make sure it happened.

Fuck, I was so tired when I got off the plane, I could barely fill out the declaration card as I waited to clear customs. And then I stumbled out of customs as a somnambulist creature, barely capable of rational thought. I needed some coffee, badly as i reached baggage claim. I almost walked off with someone else's suitcase, luckily the owner stopped me. "Too many people with black suitcases these days," I grumbled as way of an apology.

olive skin and long, black hair. She spoke rapidly in French and then switched to heavily accented English. "Yes, I am Maryam."

As tired as I was, I found myself drinking in the beauty of the young woman. The woman was listening to whomever she was speaking with and then paused and gave me a considering look. I almost wondered why she was staring, but was too tired. "Very well, Monsieur Fitzsimmons. Tomorrow at, say, 4 o'clock."

I blinked, did she say Fitzsimmons? What a small world. I was here to kill a Brandon Fitzsimmons.

"No, no. I am not in..." the womari's words were drowned out by an announcement over the airport's speakers in french. "...is the earliest I can meet," she finished. Pausing to listen and then, "Until tomorrow, then. Au revoir," She hung up the phone and slipped it Into her pocket, muttering something in French.

A taxi pulled up, finally. I wanted to take it, but some weird sense of male chauvinism rose up inside me and I offered to let the lady take this cab. What the hell, she was pretty. And I'm sure another cab would pull up soon.

"Merci," she replied and then asked, "maybe we can share, no?"

"Sure," I said with a shrug.

"I am called Maryam," she said with a smile, holding out her slim hand.

"Eh, Doug Allard," I answered, clasping her warm hand and shaking briefly.

"American, no?" and I nodded. "How nice, I've always had a soft spot for you Americans."

She slid into the cab and I followed her. "I always thought the French hated us."

"Oh, some do," Maryam laughed. "They are just jealous. Where are you heading, Doug."

"Eh, Rennes-le-Château," answered. "Any hotel there will do."

She smiled. "What a coincidence. I live in Rennes-le-Château." When she said the name, it sound so musical and beautiful, not like my mangled pronunciation.