Chapter #11The French Disease by: Seuzz   Freeman is sitting at an outside table at the coffee shop when you arrive. He puts out his cigarette and stands with an outstretched hand as you approach. "I see French literature is not the only French habit you've picked up," you josh, indicating the cigarette. You ignore the cigarette and sit down heavily opposite him. "Now, Professor Freeman, the Grail."
"Yes," he says. "I'll be teaching a course on medieval French literature next term, and I'd like to give them some of the archaeological background on it."
"To disabuse them of 'Indiana Jones' type thinking, I hope!" He laughs. "I suppose at the least you'll tell them there's no indication that it was a cup, let alone the cup our Savior used at the Last Supper."
"What do you think it was?"
"I think there was no such thing," you retort.
"But based on its descriptions, which are ... ambiguous."
"I deal in facts, professor, not mythology. That's your department." He smiles again. "Well, Hancock thinks it was the Ark of the Covenant itself, but Hancock is an entertainer, not a scholar. Atlantis and Martians, indeed!"
"I'm not familiar with this Hancock fellow," he says.
"Well, there's not much to say, and I'm blessed if I can follow his reasoning." You smile back at him. He's a handsome man: mid-thirties; straight, raven-dark hair; cut stylishly to curl behind his ear and over his collar; a sharp nose and chin, firm jawline; his dark eyes flash intelligently over even, white teeth.
"Is he an archaeologist," Freeman asks.
You laugh. "He's a journalist, some fellow who used to write for ... oh, I don't remember who. Went all cracked and decided to play Indiana Jones."
"And he thinks the Martians were behind it all?" He laughs.
"Something like that. The Man in the Iron Mask might be mixed up in it too. You have any thoughts about him?"
Freeman regales you with some of the more outré speculations about Dumas' original—really? a Moroccan dwarf?—and then asks you again about Hancock.
This isn't a profitable conversation. The man seems nice enough, and either he is the real thing or as a golem his task is to distract you. Still, you decide to play along and speak dismissively of Hancock's tedious and laughable theory about Martian astronauts, the sages of Atlantis, the Egyptian priesthood, the renegade antics of Moses, and the peregrinations of the Ark from Jerusalem to Egypt to Ethiopia to Rheims. As you talk, he takes out another cigarette and lights it expertly. His eyes gleam with amusement and professional camaraderie.
You've not gone long before you realize that something is wrong. There is something fascinating about the way the smoke curls from the fag end between his fingers. Almost too late you catch the telltale twitching of his fingers ...
"Phil! Old boy!" you call over Freeman's shoulders; it feels like claws scratching at your eyeballs as you tear your gaze away. You stand up uncertainly and totter past Freeman to wave at the disappearing back of you know not whom. "I'm so sorry," you say, turning back to him. "I've just spotted a fellow who's been avoiding me for the past week. But if we could—" You fumble at your watch. "If you care to join me at my house tonight, I have a number of sources I could show you that you might find illuminating. Cast a light into the thinking of the Grail author's contemporaries." You frown. "I won't be home until five," you mutter. "Shall we say six?"
He is agreeable, and again you ignore his hand as you hurry away.
* * * * *
You give him an hour and then drive back home. You smile to see a strange car out front. You weren't sure if he would take the bait.
You slowly approach the car and peer in, but there are no bags or satchels in either the front seat or the back. Possibly he intended a surprise of his own for you, so you slowly approach the gate and go up the front walk. The front door is closed, so you circle around the French doors leading into the living room. They open at your touch and you step in.
You listen, and there is the sound of running footsteps; something invisible, you sense, stares at you from the doorway. You smile in relief, and step forward, boldly dismissing it with a wave. It retreats grudgingly.
A noxious smell greets you as you step into the foyer. Freeman is standing in the doorway to the library, his back to you. He seems rooted to the spot, and on tiptoes you sneak up behind him. "Boo!" you shout, and he shrieks like a hysterical woman.
With a burst of laughter you step past him, being careful not to touch onto the rug that has him trapped; it is not just the "bear trap" sigil you mean to avoid, but the stain of ordure and piss that puddles by his feet.
"Oh my dear fellow," you chortle as you turn to confront him. His face is a chalky-green; his eyes are bloodshot, and he trembles all over. "What a time you must have had of it, stuck there with only the gwarcheidwad for company. He doesn't play nice, does he? You must have excited all his ingenuity when you refused to run. Bless my soul!" You shake your head.
His lips peel back and his teeth almost look like fangs themselves, but he can only gibber incoherently. You sit insolently on the edge of a desk and regard him with contempt. "Do speak up, professor. Get a grip."
He shudders all over, and then with a bestial growl he speaks. "What do you want?"
"I haven't decided yet, actually," you admit. "Beyond getting rid of you." You feel very sober, suddenly. "You've hurt a great many people. People I don't care about, particularly," you add with a shrug. "But you're too dangerous to let go on this way."
"You'll go on, though," he says in an accusing tone. "It's so tempting, so delicious, isn't it?"
"Yes it is," you admit. You regard each other thoughtfully.
"Maybe we could ... work together?"
"Like scorpions in a bottle?" You shake your head. "I don't believe that. I know you don't believe that, and you know I don't believe that. There's no use pretending we don't understand each other perfectly."
Again you regard each other. Then you reach into a drawer and draw out the knock out powder. "Goodbye, Professor Blackwell," you say as you shake some into your palm. "You've had a pleasant run. Shall we be trotting home again?" You blow the powder into his face. "But answer comes there none," you murmur as he sinks insensibly to the floor. "And this is scarcely odd, because it looks as though I've won."
* * * * *
You spoke truly when you said you hadn't decided what to do. First, though, of course, you drag him down into the basement and relieve him of his clothes and the mask of Jack Freeman. The latter you examine carefully; it appears to be a normal mask, but you lay it aside. You then recharge the Blackwell mask with the original's most recent memories and take everything upstairs so you can ponder your next steps.
He's left a real mess for you to clean up. The real Jack Freeman is dead, his body lost somewhere in the countryside. There is, however, a local businessman, Samuel Orson, that he captured and turned into a modified golem. It's probably a bad idea leaving any of Blackwell's slaves running around, and you need to dispose of Blackwell himself. The safest thing to do is kill him, but there are ways of turning him into a slave.
But the great question is whether to continue exploring the Libras. The book itself, you now know, is damaged, and most of its pages now inaccessible. Should you press on with Blackwell's research, hoping to find some way of restoring the enslaved businessman and destroying the last of Blackwell's work? Or should you just leave things as they are and find a new situation for yourself?  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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