C. Palov - Templar's Quest

Finn removed his Oakley sunglasses and hooked them on the collar of his T-shirt. Perusing the joint, he wondered how Aisquith made a living. Granted, he didn’t know a lot about the book trade, but common sense told him that a dark, unkempt shop wasn’t the kind of place that attracted a clientele. Who the hell liked the smell of mildew? Not only were the floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered in a visible layer of dust, there were unwieldy stacks of books haphazardly arranged on the floor, just waiting for an unsuspecting customer to plough into. To quote his great-uncle Seamus, the place was ‘a slipshod shipwreck’.

Kate cleared her throat. Probably because, like Finn, she’d just swallowed a mouthful of dust motes. ‘Gosh … it’s been a long time. No doubt you’re surprised to see me.’

Aisquith folded his arms over his chest. ‘Baffled to say the least. In your lettre de rupture you succinctly stated that you never wanted to see me again.’

‘I sent that letter sixteen years ago,’ Kate retorted, an exasperated edge to her voice. ‘In hindsight, conveying those sentiments in a letter was terribly unfair to you. However, I was young and inexperienced.’

‘A poor excuse, given the nature of our relationship.’

Standing ringside, Finn quickly gathered that Kate had once shacked up with the dishevelled bookstore owner, and the prick was still royally pissed off that she’d given him the shaft. You go, girl.

‘And including those lines of poetry from Yeats was unconscionable,’ the prick continued. ‘ “In courtesy I’d have her chiefly learned; Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned.” ’

Finn sidled a few steps closer to Kate, a show of moral support. ‘I don’t know. Sounds like a classy “Dear John” letter to me.’

‘And who might you be?’

‘The name’s Finn McGuire. I’m Kate’s new BFF.’ He didn’t bother extending his hand.

The Brit gave him the once-over. ‘A diminutive of Finnegan, I take it?’

Sorely tempted to tell Aisquith where he could shove it after he took it, Finn belligerently tilted his chin. ‘What can I say? My mother had a wicked dark humour.’

‘She must have, to have named you after a dead character in a James Joyce novel. But that’s the Irish for you.’

‘Irish- American ,’ he corrected.

‘Mmmm … indeed.’

What the fuck did that mean?

‘So, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?’

Kate hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘I, um, need your help, Cædmon. I’ve just made a long, arduous journey and –’ Eyes bloodshot, cheeks flushed, she stared pleadingly at her old swain. By anyone’s standard, she looked plenty pitiful. ‘Please, Cædmon. I didn’t know where else to go.’

Hearing that, the red-headed Brit instantly dropped the sarcastic attitude. Like he’d just had a deathbed conversion, he placed a solicitous hand on Kate’s shoulder. ‘Of course. Anything. Christ, I’m such a bastard. Arrow to the heart. Wounded to the quick. All that.’

And Kate complained about him not speaking in full sentences. This Aisquith guy had it down to an art form.

‘I’m sorry. I probably should have called ahead or sent an email, but we’ve been on the run. Figuratively speaking, of course.’ A red splotch instantly materialized on each freckled cheek. Two guilty bull’s eyes.

Removing his hand from Kate’s shoulder, Aisquith waved away the botched apology. ‘Doesn’t matter. For you, the door is always open.’ As he spoke, he glanced down at his unbuttoned shirt. ‘Forgive me. I’ve been under the weather.’ He fumbled with one of the middle buttons. ‘A touch of la grippe, as it were.’ Calling it quits after just the one button, he clapped his hands together. ‘Right. I’ll get us some refreshments. A glass of sherry perhaps?’ No sooner did he make the offer than Aisquith noticed the clock hanging on the adjacent wall. ‘Oh, bloody hell! It’s still morning.’

‘Would it be too much to ask for a cup of tea? I’m in dire need of a pick-me-up.’ Visibly sagging, Kate lowered her knapsack to the floor.

‘No doubt I have a canister somewhere. Please make yourselves comfortable.’ Aisquith gestured distractedly to the two leather wingback chairs shoe-horned between a pair of towering bookcases. Hospitality dispensed, he ambled towards an open door in the back of the shop, disappearing from sight.

With a weary sigh, Kate seated herself in the nearest chair. A wilted flower in a dusty pot.

‘I don’t know how to break it to you, Katie, but your pal looks like one of those guys who lives under the bridge in a cardboard box.’

‘You heard him, he just got over a bout of the flu.’ Though quick to come to the Brit’s defence, her brow furrowed. Like she wasn’t entirely convinced of what she’d just said. ‘While he may not look his best, I’m certain that Cædmon can help us to decipher Jutier’s tattoo as well as the symbols on the Montségur –’

‘Don’t breathe a word about the medallion,’ he interjected, cutting her off at the pass. Although Kate thought that if they deciphered the symbols on the medallion they’d gain some valuable insight, which would help him track down the Dark Angel, he wasn’t entirely convinced. ‘I can’t put my finger on it, but I’ve got a hinky feeling about your ex-boyfriend.’

‘Don’t be so paranoid. Cædmon is utterly harmless. For goodness’ sake, he owns a bookstore.’

‘Speaking of which –’ Craning his neck, Finn glanced at several of the hand-printed tags affixed to the front of the shelves. ‘Let’s see, we got The Illuminati , The Knights Templar and something called The Merovingian Bloodline .’ He turned towards a second bookcase. ‘Ooh, here’s a good section: Extraterrestrials , Alien Abductions and, not to be excluded, The Faery People .’ Smirking, he glanced at his companion. ‘We’re talking conspiracy theorist of the first magnitude. What do you wanna bet Aisquith wears an aluminium foil shower cap?’

Kate shot him a chiding frown.

Point made, Finn walked over to the front door and pulled back the curtain that hung at the glass. Standing stock still, he perused the street in front of the bookstore. Little more than a single lane, the jumble of old-fashioned shops looked like something out of another time period.

While he had no proof, he had a gut feeling that Dixie and Johnny K’s murderer was here in Paris. Somewhere. And I aim to find him.

‘So long as the authorities don’t get a hold of my ass,’ Finn muttered under his breath, able to hear a police siren bleating in the near distance. Between the flight crew at Dover and the airmen at Mildenhall, too many people knew that he’d left the US in a very unusual manner. Some people would do anything for a buck. And that included ratting out ‘a buddy’.

We can’t blow this joint fast enough.

Finn let the curtain fall back into place. Turning on his heel, he walked back to the niche.

‘A cup of tea. A little chitchat. Then we’re getting the hell out of here,’ he said to Kate in a lowered voice. ‘And don’t volunteer anything. Just follow my lead, okay?’

‘Whatever,’ she retorted testily, beginning to look and sound like a cranky kid on a long trip.

She wasn’t the only cranky one. From the get-go, Finn had been opposed to bringing Kate Bauer to Paris. She was a distraction, plain and simple. But he knew that if he’d left her in DC, she’d likely wind up dead.

For better or worse, sickness and in health, she’d become a 115-pound anchor around his neck.

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