Houston paused, discreetly silent near them. He strained to decipher what Monsard told her.

The impact of her father's words made her stiffen. She turned to Houston. "Not a celebration."

In the hotel's spotlights, Houston saw how white her face became.

"A wake," she said. "A vigil. All the villagers are paying their respects."

"To whom?" Pete's curiosity became unbearable.

"Pere Devereaux. Il mourut," Monsard continued.

"What? Did he say Devereaux? The priest?"

"The priest is dead," Simone wailed.

Houston shook his head in absolute incomprehension. "No. No, that can't be." He blinked down at the smooth, worn steps. "We were so close," he moaned.

"Vieux," he heard Monsard explaining, pity in his voice. The next few sentences were garbled. Then, "Malade," he heard.

Simone pivoted. "The priest was old. The priest was sick," she said, her eyes stunned. "No man was more loved, respected. He'll be sorely missed."

"But how?"

"A young priest found him in the sanctuary. He'd fallen on the floor. The authorities suspect a heart attack. You saw how weak he was, how hard it was for him to breathe."

"Another day. We only needed one more day." Pete rubbed a hand across his eyes.

"Forget I said that. Sure, another day. I bet he wanted many other days."

"He was so tired. In a way, it was a blessing."

"Not for him, and not for us." Pete's energy had now completely drained from him. The hotel's steps seemed to tremble. "So d.a.m.n close."

He started toward the lights beyond the hotel's entrance, so accustomed to the measured cadence of the tolling that unconsciously his mind continued counting one through five. But this time, on the beat of five, no vibration resonated through the night. The echo of the final bell note dimmed, diminished, died.

Except for m.u.f.fled voices from the guests, from villagers who'd gathered in the misty park, the night was silent.

"G.o.d have mercy on him," Houston said. He swallowed dryly and entered the hotel.

Simone followed. "I have to speak with you."

He didn't understand. He followed her beyond the counter and the elevator toward the hallway that led toward her father's rooms in back.

She stopped so shortly that he almost b.u.mped against her. They were at a closed door near Monsard's. "You don't sense it? You don't understand?" she said.

"Sense what?"

"The priest is dead, and all you feel is disappointment? Why aren't you suspicious? I am. Didn't we agree there was far too much coincidence? The priest was our last hope, and just as we determine to confront him, we discover we're too late. He dies. I can't believe our timing. I won't accept bad luck."

"But he was sick."

"Which made it easy."

Houston felt an eerie chill.

"The sanctuary. By himself. A pillow on his face. A sudden fright. A little pressure on his chest. Too many ways. No evidence. Pete, who would ever know?"

"The inquest "

"This isn't a city. Things are done the old way here. No autopsy. A simple medical report. A decent burial."

"But we can't prove "

"I feel it. I can sense it. After everything that's happened. I don't have another choice. I have to act as if that priest was murdered. Don't you see it's obvious? Whoever's after us is coming back to clean up the details."

"It never ends. Simone, you can't stay here alone."

"And you can't either. But my father is a greater man to fear than any enemy.

He'd never let us share a room. His moral sense would be offended. He won't tolerate dishonor."

"We can talk to him, explain to him."

She shook her head emphatically.

"Then he can chaperon," Pete said.

"And put him in our danger?"

Houston's stomach seemed to drop. He tried to think. From down the hallway he heard footsteps in the lobby as the guests came back inside. "We can't speak here," he said.

"In my room. We can leave the door ajar to satisfy my father." She reached quickly for the doork.n.o.b and went in. He followed, smelling perfume and the freshness of her hair. He felt again as if he was with Janice, not Simone, and seemed to topple through a hole in time and land ten days ago, upstairs, when having listened to Monsard explain about Pierre de St. Laurent they'd gone back to their room ... and found the steely whisker-stubbled stranger waiting for them.

It was happening again. No, Houston told himself. No, I'm not seeing this. I've lost my mind.

Because the same man now was waiting for them. With the same square jaw, the same thin nose and short dark hair combed straight from right to left. The same black clothes crew sweater, wool pants, crepe-soled shoes. He lay on the bed exactly as he had before.

But with the difference that his chest was blood from neck to belt. The sheeny velvet spread was pooled with scarlet. Blood streaked down the ground-floor windowsill where he had crawled in, falling, leaving streaks of gore across the rug.

Simone began to scream.

Part 3

Chapter 24.

Her scream was like a sharp steel spike that shattered Houston's skull. He recoiled from the force. She'd put her hands up to her face, her shriek escaping through her fingers. From behind her, Houston grabbed her shoulders, spinning her to face him. "No," he said.

She kept on screaming.

"No," he said again. He shook her. He was conscious of too much. The shouts, the running footsteps in the hall. The rigid fine-boned flesh beneath the sweatered shoulders he was gripping. And the absolutely panicked look on her face as she took down her hands, her features wild, contorted.

Now he felt the guests surge in. He heard their gasps. But he concentrated on Simone. He pulled her toward him, hugged her, felt her tremble against his chest. He glanced once more beyond her toward the horror on the bed, and shock gave way to anger. He would find the man who'd done this. He would make him scream the way that she had screamed.

Monsard was near him. "Someone get a doctor!" Houston shouted. But they didn't understand him.

"Un medecin!" Monsard blurted.

Several guests ran out. Houston moved Simone, giving her to Monsard. He faced the room, the b.l.o.o.d.y figure on the bed, and feeling nauseated, mouth sour, he moved forward.

He felt stunned. The man was breathing not much, chest in shallow motion.

Houston watched the eyelids flicker. He'd a.s.sumed the man was dead, but now he heard the wheezing gasps, the air that whistled weakly past drawn lips, a mucous death rattle.

Houston approached cautiously, not wanting to touch the blood that pooled across the velvet spread. He leaned down toward the injured man. The sweater had been sliced straight up the middle; Houston saw the b.l.o.o.d.y shirt. He saw the obscene mangled flesh and had to face the wall. His vision swirled. He gripped the headboard to prevent himself from falling. "A doctor's coming," he said to the man.

There was no response.

"Hang on. We'll get some help for you."

The nod was almost imperceptible.

"You can hear me?"

Now the eyelids trembled in response.

"Who did this to you?"

Houston strained to listen, but the words were slurred. "Who?" Houston said again.

"Find Charon."

Houston paled. The man had bled so much he was babbling. "I don't know what you mean. A man named Charon did this?"

"Verlaine. Find Verlaine."

It made no sense. Pete shook his head, dismayed. Switching from cla.s.sic myth, the man now raved about a nineteenth-century poet. "You know someone called Verlaine?"

"No, you don't. . ." Blood foamed from his lips. His eyes were frantic.

"Where's the doctor?" Houston shouted to the crowd inside the door. They stared at him, uncomprehending. Then he saw Mon-sard push through them, leaving with Simone.

Pete swung to face the dying man. "You've got to help me. What about "

"Le blanc," the man blurted.

Houston didn't understand why he had switched to French. "The white?"

The man writhed in delirium. "Not white. Le blanc. Had to kill me."

"Stab you? Why?"

"I killed the priest. I smothered him."

"But "

"Knew too much. He might have told."

The man coughed hard. His wound gaped wider. Houston gagged.

"Betrayed me."

Houston strained to hear the liquid sounds.

"I'd seen you, talked with you. I was the link."

"With who?"

"With all of them. Verlaine and Charon."

Madness.

"They didn't trust me. Charon didn't trust me. Listen to me!" The demand was so intense that Houston shuddered from the unexpected force. The man had pushed his elbows against the bed to raise himself. His back was arched. "Listen to me!"

Houston was appalled. The man's face drained, became the color of cement. "Le blanc. Verlaine. Find Charon."

"Save your strength."

"No time." The voice was weak again. The breath was sibilant, like wind. "He used me one last time. But he feared that you would find me."

Houston heard voices from the hall. "Vous en allez! Vous en allez!"

A dark-haired man entered carrying a doctor's bag. He was followed by the town policeman.

Houston's heart beat faster. He turned quickly to the injured man. "I told you," he said. "Hang on. The doctor's here."

But Houston only needed one quick look. The face had changed again, a.s.suming an awful stillness. "No, wait. You haven't told me," Houston pleaded. "There's too much to know."

The room was hushed.

Pete shook the man. "The doctor's here. Wake up." He leaned so close that blood soaked through his clothes. "Don't die!"

He was pushing at the ribcage when a hand settled on his own. He saw bristled hairs, and turned, beseeching, but the doctor's eyes contained no hope.