Carolyn Jourdan - Nurse Phoebe 02 - The School for Mysteries (10 page)

Chapter  21

“I would like to ask a favor of you,”
Le Seigneur
said to Phoebe. “Would you mind escorting Nicolas to our media people? You’ve done a superb job with him so far. I am confident that he will remain safe in your care. The facility is less than a hundred miles from here.”

“Media?” Nick asked, nearly as terrified at the idea of being interviewed in front of television cameras as he was of being caught by whoever was chasing him.

“The only solution to your problem is to get the fruits of your research out to the world. We have friends who can do that for you. You will be quite satisfied with their results, I assure you. Families who own castles are generally extraordinarily savvy about media.”

Nick and Phoebe both wondered what he meant by that, but didn’t have the courage to ask any more questions because they were afraid of what the answers might be.

“I have no doubt that the formidable Ms. McFarland will ensure your safe arrival.”

“Of course,” Phoebe heard herself say, although she didn’t want to do it. This job was turning out to be a lot harder than she’d expected.

“Please allow me to provide you with fresh clothing,”
Le Seigneur
said, gesturing that they should accompany Arabella.

Phoebe saw Nick flinch at the wardrobe possibilities, but she agreed and thanked her boss before Nick could make any wisecracks.

“May I suggest you avail yourselves of our bathing facilities, as well,” said Ms. Devlin-Forrest, in a tone that allowed for no refusal.

A Sufi named Hakim brought them fresh clothes. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was wearing the dervish attire of flaring cream-colored robe with cream-colored leggings, a terracotta-colored hat that looked like an inverted flowerpot, and a red sash.

Nick wasn’t exactly comfortable in the thin scrubs he’d been given by Charlie but he was also reluctant to give them up. He dreaded having to wear a turban or some other attention-getting headgear. He didn’t think he could pull off a look like that, even under threat of imminent death.

He was relieved to see that the pile of neatly folded clothes given to him consisted of Calvin Klein undergarments still in their plastic wrappings, jeans in the correct size, an expensive looking black cashmere turtleneck, and a pair of very stylish black tennis shoes.

The stack of clothing for Phoebe included black leggings, a luscious charcoal gray cashmere tunic, and a pair of black Chanel ballet flats. A hot shower improved Phoebe’s outlook tremendously. Another muffin and a large glass of milk made her feel ready to take on the world.

Nick was looking a lot better, too, even with his Technicolor black eye. The shiner hadn’t been as obvious in the first few hours, but now it was remarkable with splotches of purple, blue, green, and yellow.

The clothing they’d been given fit both of them perfectly. It was the best either of them had looked in years.

Before they left, Nick and Phoebe returned to
Le Seigneur
’s room and stood beside his
bed. “These catastrophic events that upend our lives are not random,” the old man said. “Quite the opposite. The very events we tend to dismiss as
accident
or
coincidence
are in fact the most crucial meetings with our destiny that will bring us into contact with the companions necessary in order for us to perform our most significant life tasks.”

He waved them closer. He took their right hands and said some words over them in a language Phoebe didn’t recognize. “Please bend down,” he said, then he rested his palms on the tops of their heads in blessing.

Phoebe could feel great warmth, even heat, from his hand. Then he took a deep breath and let them go, giving them a last sweet smile before lying back on his pillows, looking exhausted.

“Don’t worry,” he said to Phoebe, “you may come back tomorrow morning and resume your nursing duties. This afternoon, however, Nicolas’ predicament must take priority.”

It would take a few hours, but later Phoebe would wonder at
Le Seigneur
’s use of the word
may
. Had he been giving her permission to return, or a warning that she might not live to return?

“Ms. Devlin-Forrest will give you directions to our Media Division.”

Arabella escorted them to her office. She handed Nick a hand-drawn map and a sheet of paper with directions neatly typed on it. She handed Phoebe a nylon travel wallet on a long lanyard and told here there was a cell phone inside that she should use instead of her own.

“If you encounter any difficulties with the Media Division,” Arabella told her, mention the name
Archangel
and that will smooth your path.”

Chapter  22

Nick sat in the passenger seat of Leon’s little truck and scanned the map he’d been given by Arabella. Phoebe got in on the driver’s side. She gave a last glance toward the innocent looking boulders that utterly camouflaged the house, looked out over the spectacular view, and then turned the little truck around and headed down the pea gravel road.

Phoebe tried not to think at all as she backtracked until they reached the concealed entrance to the
Tunnel to Nowhere
. “Check this out,” she said.

Nick was suitably astonished by the mechanism that allowed them to enter. When they emerged from the public end of the tunnel Nick read out the directions that guided them farther across the mountains, deeper into North Carolina, on a route that was so complicated Phoebe doubted she’d be able to remember it.

They spoke very little. They were both simply overwhelmed. Any conversation about
Le Seigneur
and the wacky
School for Mysteries
would be totally speculative and too bizarre to for either of them to stand at this point. After a couple of hours they caught sight a city in the distance. Phoebe guessed they might be somewhere near Asheville. But she was so thoroughly discombobulated by recent events, she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it was Santa Fe.

It didn’t matter anyway because they weren’t going into the town. The route marked on the map indicated a turn onto an unmarked dirt track that, once it was out of sight of the road, became a well-maintained one-lane road through a dense woods.

After several miles, the lush vegetation gave way to a more manicured forest, and finally to a woodland that gave the impression of being staged. It was so picturesque, it looked as if each tree had been carefully chosen and placed to its best advantage.

Phoebe got a creeping sense of where they might be headed mere seconds before they topped a small rise, and she could see their destination. Her guess had been correct. Chateau St. Cloud was unmistakable—a full-size faux Renaissance French castle built in the early 1900s. The house was so large and opulent that its construction had seriously drained the wallet of one of the richest men in the world.

It was a regional attraction that Phoebe had visited a couple of times, once as a child and then again as a teenager. Neither time had she’d noticed that there was an access road that approached from the back. It was just one more revelation that led her to realize that there were indeed worlds within worlds and that when she’d woken up yesterday morning, she’d innocently stepped out of one and into another. Surprise!

They followed the road until it dead-ended into the base of the imposing stone wall at the back of the house. The house was what you might call a split level, except it was built on such a grand scale that the ground level on the back of the house was at least fifty feet lower than the front. The front rose at least four stories above the main entrance. So the tallest peaks in the flamboyant roof loomed well over a hundred feet above where they sat in their extremely humble, forty-year old, smoking, Datsun sub-compact pick-up truck.

Approaching a massive, sheer, blank stone wall was less worrisome now than it would’ve been had Phoebe not already experienced the light at the end of the infamous
Tunnel to Nowhere
and the fabulous house hidden amongst the boulders. So, Phoebe sat passively at the end of the track and waited.

“What the hell are we supposed to do now?” Nick asked.

Phoebe said nothing, then after only a few seconds, a huge door opened. It was made of perhaps ten of the gigantic stones that made up the wall. The opening was irregularly shaped to reflect the joints between the rocks. A man in the costume of an early nineteenth century chauffeur waved them inside.

“Different theme, “Nick said, “but still with the costumes.”

Phoebe had to laugh. “All the people who work in the house are dressed up in costumes. The whole place is a historical reenactment.”

“It’s a castle! Shouldn’t they be mincing around in doublets and hose, with swords?”

“That would make sense, but no, they’re dressed to reflect the time the house was built, in the Gilded Age. The Titanic niche generates a lot more revenue these days than the French Renaissance.”

“I can’t take much more of this,” Nick said. “It’s all so crazy, it’s eclipsing my previous neuroses.”

“Yesterday was hard on both of us,” Phoebe said, “the helicopter, the hospital. And today, it’s not even noon and we’ve already had a secret tunnel, my new job started, a coed nondenominational monastery for mysteries, and now a time-travelling chateau on the wrong continent.”

Nick snorted.

“We hardly know each other but, trust me, this hasn’t been my typical week either,” she said. “We’re both doing the best we can. That’s all anybody can do.”

He sighed and got out of the truck. The chauffeur clicked his heels, bowed, and valet parked the vehicle with as much formality as if it had been a Rolls Royce. In fact he parked it next to a row of half a dozen of them. It looked like a timeline of Rolls Royces, from one that looked brand new, to a slightly older one, then a vintage one, and finally to an antique that had an open-top compartment over the chauffeur that exposed him to the weather while his precious passengers would remain dry.

They turned to see a young man coming toward them from the dark recesses of the cavernous garage. He looked like a tourist. He was wearing cargo pants and a t-shirt that said,
More Caffeine Please
.

“Ms. McFarland, Mr. … ?”

“Nick. Just call me Nick.”

Phoebe stepped forward and said, “Hello, I’m Phoebe. We were told to come here, but I’m afraid we’re pretty confused about what happens next. It’s been … hectic.”

“Understatement of the year,” murmured Nick.

“No prob. Stuff happens,” he said. “I’m Xander, but you can call me X. If you’ll come with me, we’ve got a team set up and they’re waiting for you in the conference room.”

They had a team set up and waiting?
Okay
.

X took them to an elevator and they were whisked upwards. The doors opened onto a hall with curved walls that came to together in a point at the top, like a gothic arch. They must be in the attic, Phoebe thought, right up under the peak of the roof.

The hall itself was dimly lit but there were bright slashes of light coming in from the sides at regular intervals through dormer windows in each room they passed, most of which had the doors left wide open to share the light and the view. Phoebe tried to catch a glance through any of them to help orient her as to where they were, but she could see only sky. Apparently they were
very
high.

They continued down the hall until Xander said, “Here we go.”

This time he opened a door into a room furnished like a comfortable club, complete with leather sofas, easy chairs, and a huge fireplace. The room was double-height and had a mezzanine level with a fabulously ornamented railing that around three sides. The balcony was reachable by way of a metal spiral staircase.

Three young people were already there, engaged in rapid conversation. They were holding either gigantic phones or teeny tablets. Phoebe wasn’t sure which.

One of them was getting a hot drink from an extraordinary machine that looked like something out of a steampunk Starbucks. “Would either of you like something?” he asked. Nick asked for a black coffee. Phoebe wanted a hot chocolate.

Phoebe casually moved closer to a window and peered out, still trying to discern where exactly they were in relation to the vast and eccentric design of the chateau. She could tell that the room jutted out from the main structure and was four or maybe five stories off the ground. She suspected it was in the top of the central spire, perhaps above the main entrance.

Although there was no door giving access to it, there was a narrow balcony around the outside of the room with an intricately carved stone balustrade. She wondered why anyone would want to be out there. Was it just part of the French Renaissance decoration or was it some sort of medieval fire escape?

She leaned closer to the glass and looked down. People were coming and going directly below her. They looked very small from this distance. She felt herself getting dizzy and turned around to face into the room. Phoebe hated heights.

X introduced them to the half a dozen young people now assembled and said they were an emergency referral from the
Archangel
. That certainly got the staff’s attention. All chitchat and fiddling with electronic devices stopped instantly.

They convened around a coffee table on the couches and overstuffed chairs. A girl who looked too young to be in charge of a meeting of anything but a squad of cheerleaders looked at Nick and said, “Okay, so give me your elevator pitch.”

Her request was greeted with befuddled silence.

“Your sound bite?”

Nick remained unable to speak. The request obviously baffled him. Twelve years working alone in his frigid basement home office in Cleveland apparently made it difficult to condense his findings into a single sentence. Of course he’d had no time to prepare, he’d been heavily drugged quite recently, was agoraphobic even on a good day, and he’d had very little time to recover from a harrowing near death experience of skydiving sans parachute.

Phoebe tried to help. “As I understand it,” she said, “he’s discovered a root cause of war.”

Several of the media team nodded as they typed on tiny keyboards or used stylish styluses to scribble on screens. “Go on,” urged X.

Phoebe looked at Nick, hoping he’d pick up the ball, but he didn’t.

“He knows how to prevent wars in the future, too,” Phoebe said. “It has something to do with taxes.”

“Tariffs,” Nick corrected.

Phoebe could feel the interest level plummet. It was as if the room temperature had suddenly dropped forty degrees. Before they were all rendered insensible by the cryo-freeze of boredom she rushed to add, “He’s apparently right because people are trying to kill him.”

The room warmed up again immediately, and erupted with excited responses, “Fantastic. That is
so cool
!”

Phoebe gave the team a quick overview of the previous twenty-four hours. Her story was received at face value with unquestioning acceptance. Dropping the name of the
Archangel
was apparently the secret password to being taken very seriously indeed, no matter what you were talking about.