The Forest Bull (The Fearless) Read online

  She kissed Don’s head, which now rested on his long forearms that were folded inert on the table, and stretched once. All of his fear and love and the remains of his broken soul now surged through her in flashes, his body a husk, hers fully engorged and already in motion to her next charitable act. She left the house and Don, but she took his life with her.

  Mother was right. One cannot overstate the importance of being a good listener.

  Florida

  Fat raindrops woke me in the morning. The noise it made on our aluminum awnings had a jarring effect, regardless of how many times I had heard it. Smelling coffee and eggs, I moseyed to the kitchen. Risa was up and had been productive, but was now on the couch, lolling a bit next to Gyro, who occupied three cushions to her one. Wally was missing, so I filled a mug and took it to her door, tapping lightly and entering.

  Wally was partially nude, in a tangle of covers and limbs that needed to be bordered by crime scene tape. She slept as if dead, and, like any good corpse, she cared little for her position. There was a slight stirring as I sat on the bed and a thin glint from her right eye betraying a state of awareness, so I wordlessly held the cup to her. Grumbling, she accepted.

  “Give me ten minutes before I report, you goose-stepping martinet,” she protested, struggling to a sitting position. I caught a ghastly whiff of morning breath as she exhaled, belched, and coughed in a series of actions that were befitting an aged cat.

  “Agreed. See you at the table, gorgeous. And scrape your tongue before you come out of the bathroom. Do it for the children, if not me,” I commanded in my most authoritative tone. Closing the door, a shoe hit the frame and fell to the floor. I had been answered and counted myself lucky to have emerged from her lair unscathed.

  Wally shoved an irritated Gyro off a cushion and wedged underneath the beast, pulling her legs up as he re-settled his head on her lap, looking at her in adoration. She smoothed his ear and sipped her coffee, grimacing. Risa and I waited until she pulled the cup away. We were impatient, despite her under-caffeinated state.

  “Clashes with toothpaste,” Wally grunted, but she kept drinking. “So, I found our unlucky caterer. He was rather smart, actually. He’s pre-med. He was also sober the morning he found the body. I think he looked it over a bit before he called the police. Quite talkative, that one.”

  Wally was a master at the hair-twisting, eye-batting flirtation method of peeling details and facts from sometimes reluctant targets. Yazin, as it turned out, was neither reticent nor immune to her charms. He told Wally more than he realized he knew.

  “Yazin not only found the body, but he gave me a general description of the killer without realizing it. I’m not even certain the police are aware of the connection, but he worked the charity event and the cleanup crew that came in the next morning to break down tables and load the truck. Yazin is Moroccan, and he swears he heard a Moroccan woman speaking French at the party. Her accent was very faint, but he described it as a woman of the upper classes who spoke French as her second language, probably after Berber. He was very specific. Physically she was thin, dark hair, striking. Yazin caught an impression of money; it was something he couldn’t quite articulate, but he felt certain.”

  She swigged her cooling coffee and continued.

  “Yazin didn’t remember seeing the victim at the party, but that’s hardly surprising given the high wattage of the attendees. From the pictures I’ve seen, the trophy wives were stacked in layers. With all that silicone and Chanel No. 5, it’s miraculous that he didn’t sprain his neck staring. He’s practically a kid, but, thankfully for us, an observant one with a great memory. He was able to give me even more details about the condition of the body. And here’s where his medical training really comes into play. The body was buried in the sand, intentionally. When he checked for a pulse, he noticed two visible wounds. One was in Arnaud’s navel. Clear fluid ringed the hole, and there was irregular swelling. There was a bit of blood running down his chin, and, when Yazin looked in, he saw a round puncture right through roof of his mouth. He had been buried like he was being . . . saved. Or protected.”

  As she finished and expounded on the boy’s experience with the departed, Risa, who had been briskly taking notes, paused for a moment.

  “I can’t read Berber, but I can read French. Let’s see if the Moroccan news has any footprints left by this killer. And then, let’s bury her and see how she likes it.”

  From Risa’s Files

  Broward Sherriff’s Office Records 911 Transcript

  911: What is your emergency?

  Kenneth Myall: I’ve been robbed, I think. And I’m hurt.

  911: What’s the address? Who hurt you?

  Kenneth Myall: I’m at the Lauderdale Beach Club . . . *unintelligible* move my, my hands

  911: What apartment, sir? Who hurt you? Can you tell me the number?

  Kenneth Myall: She’s gone, she left the door open, the water is running

  911: Are you in the water? Are you inside? I have police on the way. Are you inside?

  Kenneth Myall: She made me sleepy, and now I’m, the water is coming up, please

  911: Police are in front of the building. What floor, sir? What number?

  Kenneth Myall: *unintelligible* bit me and put me in, in the water, I, I,*unintelligible*

  911: Sir? Sir? Please talk to me, stay with me, sir . . . sir?

  Kenneth Myall: ( sound of water running and footsteps)

  911: Sir?

  Kenneth Myall: 911? This is officer Callister. We are administering CPR to the victim; he drowned in the tub, or he bled out, trying to get a pulse. Send ambulance. He has a . . . bite wound.

  911: Bite wound? Ambulance on the way, Officer.

  “Look at this.” Risa stood in front of me, quivering with urgency. She had a small stack of printed sheets. I glanced at them. They were written in French.

  “I assume you’ll translate?” She nodded and waved me over to the table. The sun was at zenith and she looked like she hadn’t slept all night. Wally was nowhere to be seen, but Gyro’s leash was missing, so I knew I slept through her taking the beast out for a walk. I poured orange juice and sat down, as instructed. Risa frowned slightly at the top page, continuing her translation internally. I waited.

  “These are three different news items from French language papers in Morocco. Two of them are nearly identical, with one exception.” She paused and pulled a one-page map of Morocco from under the newspaper articles.

  “We start in Rabat, north of Casablanca. I know you’re disappointed, but that’s where I found something unusual.” Risa knew my love of the classic film bordered on insanity. I appreciated her nod to my excellent taste and remained silent.

  “Rabat is the capitol. So, like the unfortunate Arnaud, a doctor was found murdered, partially buried near the beach. The reason this crime was deemed newsworthy was that he was a visiting Frenchman who had been very well received. He was free with his care and took a special interest in sick children. He was successful, too, so, when he was found with puncture wounds, it was assumed that he had been stabbed. A relatively swift manhunt was conducted by a local Imam who thought highly of the doctor, and a suspect was caught and beheaded. Then another suspect was caught and beheaded a week later.”

  “I take it there was no trial?” I asked, imagining that justice of that speed would be a bit more streamlined than I was used to seeing.

  “Correct. This brings us to our next lucky contestant, in the city of Tangiers. This time it was a French shipping magnate who was known to be one of the most skilled smugglers in the area. He had half the city on his payroll, and the other half trying to buy their way on. You guessed it--he was supposedly stabbed and buried, face up, in the sand in between two pilings where fishing boats anchored. This time, there were no suspects, although that may have been due to the frenzy of crime that followed his death as local criminals rushed in to fill his highly profitable shoes.”

  She was handing me the pages as she finish
ed her translations. She slid the last sheet across the table to me. I noticed she had her own copy of the same newspaper. This page was in Spanish, something we could both read.

  “Read this and tell me what you make of it. I’ve read it, and I want to see if you see what I see.” Risa was excited. I knew that look. It boded well for our efforts.

  I took several minutes to read the item, carefully making mental notes at salient points that practically screamed look here to my investigative nature. Our killer had gone across the strait to Spain. She had seduced and attacked a wealthy, elderly glass importer and led him to the beach. She was, according to the hysterical language of the victim’s son, a demon of some sort.

  But the old man had lived. He was Moroccan, a widower, and had a single child. His son, a vain, jealous man, followed them to protect his father, not from altruism, but greed. He saw women as a threat to his inheritance. That is how, in the dying light on a Spanish beach, the son watched his father be mounted by a woman with a dagger extended from her stomach, poised to drive it into his gut. The son stalked up behind her and brained her with a wine jug, splitting her head and then freeing his father. The old man was unable to walk and remained so for three days. He had been injected with something. In his mouth. When the police went back to find her body, it was gone, presumably with the tide. The son said the dagger was attached to her, somehow, and looked like the stinger on a bee. With this tale, the details of Arnaud’s horrific death were becoming clear. Done with my read, I asked Risa, “What does this last line describe? I can’t translate it.”

  “The old man recovered and named the woman who attacked him. He said she held a needle in her mouth and poisoned him. And he saw the ‘arrow’ protruding from her body. He was never taken seriously, but, when he was able to speak well enough, he called the woman al-Ribat. The Archer.”

  “That’s an apt name for her. Have you found evidence of this al-Ribat anywhere else, other than here?” I wondered why the immortal was moving.

  “Oh, yes. And that’s what makes me think there is much more to the story than one immortal killing lonely men on beaches. The last sheet has mention of her being named as a person of interest in the disappearance of an antiques dealer in Marseilles. It isn’t by name, but it’s her. I know it. But you need to see one more thing.”

  Risa rearranged the papers. She tapped the top corners of each. “One other thing. Look at the dates of these reports.”

  I whistled softly. If there was ever any doubt of who we were dealing with, it was gone in that second. The first murder, 1947. The second, 1948. The third attempt in Spain was in 1948, too. But the story in France was from less than a year ago.

  I closed my eyes, thinking. I could sense Risa watching me.

  “There are only two reasons for such a drastic move. She was either on the run from something--” I started.

  “Or she was being called home” Risa finished. “But by whom?”

  While I was online, reading, the Baron called. He was wearing glasses perched on the end of his nose and a yellowed newspaper article lay on the desk, folded crisply.

  “Ring, good evening. I hope I’m not interrupting,” He trailed off, mannerly to a fault. I was glad he had called, and told him.

  “We’ve made progress in the past day. It seems that there is movement among certain immortals that we believe are tied to murders here in Florida. I’m not the analytical type, but I am curious. A killer from Morocco has crossed the Pond, so to speak, and is operating here. She’s different. She isn’t anything we’ve seen before.”

  “How so, may I ask?” The Baron raised a brow.

  “She works near the coastlines. She’s a predator, no doubt, but she doesn’t feed on women. She has been altered, physically, in a way that is new to us. Her nickname ‘al-Ribat,’ along with her description, is unsettling. I can’t decide what she wants other than death.”

  “The Archer? A very specific nickname.” It did not surprise me that the Baron understood the term. He seemed to be a polyglot of the first order, despite his secluded home.

  “This woman, she preys on men. Yet I have information that refutes your belief that she wants to kill,” he said as he unfolded the old, ragged news cutout. “This is from a French newspaper. Printed in 1948--such a busy year for the world, don’t you think?” he asked, smiling.

  It had been a chaotic year. The world had not taken a sober breath after the orgy of violence from the Second World War. Indochina was becoming a cauldron of hate. Greece, Eastern Europe, and the emergence of Israel had stoked the hot embers of war into another act of mass bloodshed. Mankind had not tired of the horrors of butchery, even after the most destructive event humanity had ever created.

  “A woman was charged with assaulting a gem trader over a disputed purchase. The victim was a known cheat, so it isn’t surprising that he would receive some form of comeuppance. “

  “Was she prosecuted?” I was curious to see how an immortal would react to the banality of human law.

  “No, sadly. She escaped after the victim died. He survived the initial assault but was unable to speak or move. He lingered in a Lisbon hospital, dying in silence after three days of agony.” Cazimir glanced at the clipping, refreshing his narrative.

  “Does it mention a cause of death?” I had to know.

  “It does, but obliquely. You see, there was only one visible wound on the victim, Senhor Lorea. His navel had been violated. And, when he died, as a man of questionable breeding and character, he had no family to claim him. So, an inquisitive physician named in the article cut him open.” Cazimir paused, his mouth a grim line.

  “What was inside him?” I wasn’t certain I wanted to know. To be victimized so intrusively was disturbing to me, even though it happened before my birth. This entire event felt personal.

  “Three stones. Unremarkable, gray in color. Of no value at all. They were coated by his body in a furious attempt to expel the alien objects, like an oyster crafting a pearl. They crumbled upon examination by the investigating doctor, a Senhor Coelho. He said that they were soft, more like dried leather mixed with dust.”

  There was something about the doctor’s discovery that disturbed me at a visceral level. I created and discarded lines of inquiry quickly, trying to glean a purpose for the attack. It was the idea that something had been intentionally inserted into the man and the victim further degraded by having objects left behind. Like he had been colonized. The disregard for his humanity was total.

  While I had been ruminating on the crime, the Baron sat patiently. “Cazimir, is there anything else of note in the article?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Most certainly, Ring. I am confident you will find one fact fascinating. You see, she was charged, but she escaped after charming a youthful jailer into an unplanned release.” A mirthless smile curled his lips. “But bureaucracies can be useful at times, and the record of the allegations remains, despite her absence. I’ll email the newspaper, as well as the court documents, but you may begin with the most important fact of all--Sandrine DeStot. Her name.”

  And with that, the search for Elizabeth narrowed in our favor.

  Saturday night arrived, and the girls began their usual preparations for a special kind of evening out. Dressed in demure attire, they wore little makeup and jewelry. Their hairstyles were modest, and their heels were low.

  They were going to evening Mass at St. Maurice’s on Stirling Road, as they did on occasion. The reasons for attending were varied, but, in Wally’s estimation, legitimate. An inveterate sinner, Wally’s Germanic and Latin heritage demanded that she atone for her foul language while driving. Risa, a caring friend, chose to support this decision by attending a Catholic Mass, despite not having a gentile bone in her body. This tradition served a multitude of purposes. Wally was able to experience a religious catharsis fewer than three miles from home, which was both convenient and beneficial to her soul. It was also an opportunity for her, and, by default, Risa, to gain the high ground on me and my u
nrepentant Protestant spirit. Wally appreciated the fact that Saint Maurice led a Roman legion to honor. Risa found the protection of Saint Maurice given to swordsmiths a fascinating and noble attribute. The fact that the priest was a dashing forty-year-old ex-professional volleyball player from California had little to do with their interest in hearing Father Kevin call the catechism in his robust baritone. Of course, I chose to ignore their base reasoning for such a shameful dalliance with the Holy Spirit, but only to promote harmony in our home.

  I also got the house to myself for two hours each week, which I used to the fullest by sleeping on the couch, eating pizza, and other constructive activities. On this night, though, my restlessness got the better of me, and I decided that research was in order. An idea had been percolating in my mind, so nascent that I had not shared it at all, but the quiet house gave me an opportunity to do some internet searching. I knew that vanity was a hallmark of many immortals. Pride and vanity were two sides of the same coin, an Achilles heel to be exploited when dealing with immortals. Surely, I reasoned, Sandrine had left her mark elsewhere. Given her earliest mention, it would most likely be in print. Her career had been decades long when I was born. That type of trail was difficult to mask in full, especially as the digital age brought dim history to the fingertips of the curious.

  And my curiosity was intense.

  I scrolled through newspaper databases until my eyes were bleary and the screen pulsed with haze. Microfiche news items had been transferred into a grainy torrent of forgotten scandal and crime. The process was cumbersome, as I translated passages from French, Portuguese and Spanish newspapers into small vignettes. The resulting syntax was broken English that I followed to a gradual conclusion.