She noticed a few of the words on the top page, the writing in Occitan decipherable. From this comes the basis for our service to God, in that we may fulfill His works, or rather, that God may consummate through us that which He proposes and wishes to be done.
Another message?
But what was it He wished done?
Beláncourt kept his attention on both women.
Simone was twenty meters away, across what appeared to be a shallow pond of water bulging from a stream that pierced the chamber. Vitt was much closer, a few meters to his left, in front of him.
Neither woman carried a weapon.
Both had flashlights.
He stepped a little farther into the chamber, the feeling of gnawing emptiness that he’d grown accustomed to there, in his stomach.
Fueling him.
“My dear ex-wife,” he said with contempt in his voice, “decided that she wanted to be Cathar. The one true religion, she called it. She made that choice on her own and I went along. I did not interfere, recognizing that her beliefs were heartfelt and personal. Of course, I considered the whole thing a dead belief. Gone. Its concepts a thing of the past. But I was wrong.”
“Yes, you were,” Simone said. “We are far from dead. There are believers everywhere. Men and women who want to lead good lives. Who want to achieve everlasting happiness. Who have no need for a pope or bishops. I watch over them.”
He looked at Vitt. “She’s their Perfecti. Their priest. Their special one. That all happened after we split. She became much more fanatical.”
“You watched her?” Vitt asked.
He nodded.
“Strange thing for a man to do who hates his ex-wife,” Vitt said.
“Not at all. I’ve simply been waiting for this moment. True, I could have denied her many petty things. Some tiny disappointments.” He shook his head. “But that would not have been as satisfying. I knew she was after the great Truth. I knew that a Book of Hours with a rose design on the cover could lead the way. So I waited for this moment, ready to deny what is most important to her.”
“It won’t replace that child,” Vitt said.
Simone’s limbs trembled with rage.
“You never understood a thing,” she called out. “You thought that bringing a child into this world was something of joy. Of happiness. It’s not. It’s cruel to bring a child into this physical existence. Cruel to subject him or her to the evils that Satan tempts us with in this world. The joy only comes from leaving this hell. I saved our child that pain. He or she is now with the God of Good.”
“You sucked our fetus from your womb,” he said. “It was twenty weeks old. Defined. A person. Alive. You slaughtered a living being. You played God and decided who would live and die. You imposed your idiocy on both me and that unborn child.”
His voice cracked and she heard the same emotion that had passed between them years ago when she told him how the pregnancy had ended.
He’d thought it a miscarriage.
But she told him the truth.
“I will have those pages,” he said. “Or by God I. Will. Kill. You.”
Cassiopeia was becoming concerned.
The situation was escalating out of control. A lot had passed between these two, and what should have been a private matter for them to resolve had now become a war in which she found herself, literally, right in the middle, a hostile face on either side, both conveying silent menace.
One armed.
The other not.
She should have brought a gun, but there’d been no indication of that level of trouble. And traveling around France with a loaded, concealed weapon was anything but legal. Not that laws necessarily were an issue for her. They certainly weren’t for Beláncourt.
“Do you need that gun?” she asked, staying calm. “We’re not armed. There’s no threat here, except from you.”
“The threat level depends on Simone’s cooperation.”
She was afraid of that.
Simone stared down at the backpack on the ground, a meter or so from the water’s edge.
She’d come prepared.
Her gun lay inside.
After the encounter in the cathedral she knew that Roland was not going to back away. He’d made his intentions clear, which was exactly why she’d risked the personal encounter inside the church. It was important she knew exactly what she was facing. And the visit had confirmed that her ex-husband was on the offensive. She’d known him for over twenty years. He’d not become a billionaire by being timid. He knew how to get what he wanted. Their last encounter, just before the annulment was granted, had been anything but amicable. His last words to her emphatic. Someday, somehow, you will pay for what you did.
But his words rang hollow then and now.
She was not afraid to die. Not in the least. But she was afraid to fail, and it was important that she escape this underground vault and bring The Truth back into the light.
Go with God, although He knew fully and foresaw from eternity the fate of all His angels. His wisdom and providence did not make His angels become demons. They became demons and things of evil by their own will, because they did not wish to remain holy and humble before their Lord. They wickedly puffed themselves up in pride against Him.
So true.
Now she knew what had to be done.
Beláncourt aimed his gun toward Simone. “Come over here and bring those pages.”
His ex-wife did not obey.
Nothing new there.
Their marriage had battered itself to a standstill with plenty of cruel, blunt words. Toward the end they’d little more than shared space, the cursory enjoyment of each other fading to nothing. He knew of wives who wore away their husbands. Others who made a cockold—jealous, suspicious, agonized fools whose work suffered and reputations declined. Simone had gone to the farthest extreme and killed their baby.
Bad marriages, though, were seldom fatal.
Yet this was something altogether different.
A choking urgency enveloped him, sending electric spasms to his muscles and brain, urging action. He readjusted the gun’s aim at Cassiopeia Vitt. “How about I shoot her first? Would you like that, Simone? Does your precious Truth sanction you allowing someone else to die for your beliefs? Oh, I forgot. It actually does, since you killed our child. But this woman is not a child. Not a Cathar.”
“You would kill her?” Simone asked.
“With no hesitation.”
Cassiopeia could not decide if Beláncourt was bluffing. Unfortunately, there was little she could do about any of it since she was totally exposed and unarmed. Neither was a good situation. So—
Be patient.
That’s what Cotton would say.
Wait for your moment.
Simone steeled herself.
For one who knows fully all things that shall come to pass is powerless, in so far as He’s self-consistent to do anything except that which He himself has known from eternity that He shall do.
She was meant to resurrect that which had been lost. Why else had the God of Good sent her along the path she’d taken the past decade? It all made sense. Especially now, with The Truth in hand. Only two things stood in her way.
Time to deal with the first.
“All right, Roland. I’m coming over.”
She bent down to get her pack.
“Leave it,” he called out.
“I’m placing these pages inside. I don’t want anything to happen to them. If you don’t like that, shoot me.”
He hesitated, then said, “Okay. But slowly.”
She opened the flap and slid the thick bundle in, hoping not to cause them any damage. Vellum was tough, but not invincible. The bundle projected from the top, not fully able to go inside. She switched off her light and set it inside the pack. Then she lifted the backpack and cradled it across her chest with both arms, her right hand near the open top.
The weight of defeat settled on her shoulders like a cloak.
But she shook it off.
Roland watched her from the shadows, visible in the penumbra of Vitt’s flashlight. She took one step, then slipped her hand into the pack, gripped the gun, and fired across the water.
Cassiopeia saw the gun and heard the shot at the same instant. There was no time to avoid any of the consequences and she heard the bullet thud into Beláncourt’s flesh.
He slumped over.
Simone fired again.
Beláncourt collapsed and smacked the floor hard, his gun clattering away. Cassiopeia realized her light was providing the target, so she extinguished the beam, plunging the chamber into darkness and blotting everything from sight.