Date: Wed, 10 Jan 2007 15:57:35 -0500
From: John Ellison <paradegi@sympatico.ca>
Subject: Aurora Crusade - Chapter 8

Aurora Crusade is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or
dead, or to actual places, is purely coincidental.

While the focus of the novel is erotic, gay fiction, there are no sexual
scenes at all in this chapter. However, I must add the caveat: If you are
not of legal age to read, hold, or download works of this genre, please
move on. If possessing, reading or downloading works of this genre is
illegal where you live, please move on.

My thanks to all who wrote wishing me a Happy Christmas and a Happy New
Year. My best wishes for a good, happy and prosperous New Year to all my
readers.

Thanks as always to my editor, Peter, who is looking for a good slope to
ski. Me, I prefer the clubhouse and sitting around the fire with my good
friends, Justerini & Brooks.

Aurora Crusade

Copyright 2007



Chapter Seven


The Chateau de Lamer, Saturday 28 August 1976 - 10:39 PM EST


	The shuttered windows of the stone mansion were oblong patches of
darkness against the pale whiteness of the stones. Were it not for a chink
of light shining through the slatted shutters of the windows in the wing
that formed one side of the forecourt, the place would have been deemed
deserted. In a way it was. The household staff had long since returned to
their homes in the small village that clustered about the tall, stone gates
flanking the cobblestone road leading to the great house. Madame, the
General's wife was also gone, accompanying her sister on Sylvain
Beauharnais' last journey.
	Alex Grinchsten brought the car to a halt at the double doors of
the house. He glanced around, seeing nothing but darkness. His eyes slid
obliquely to look at the bulky form of Chef sitting beside him. "No
security," Alex observed quietly. "No cops?"
	In the back seat, Brendan Lascelles spoke. "The general is lawyered
up. He's refused to give a statement on the advice of counsel. He claims
he's done nothing wrong. So . . ." His voice trailed into silence.
	"The police are investigating an allegation of wrongdoing,"
supplied Chef. "Unless and until charges have been filed there is no need
to guard the general." He shrugged expressively. "He is not a flight risk,
at least not yet," Chef continued.
	Alex gave Chef a questioning look. "Is that why we are here, to
make sure that he doesn't become a flight risk?" he asked.
	Chef shook his head. "No." He lapsed into silence, staring straight
ahead.  Exasperated at the old man's silence, Alex growled and asked
forcefully, "Are you going to tell us why we're here?" He glared at
Chef. "Or are you just going to surprise us?"
	Expelling a great breath of air, Chef placed his hand on Alex's
arm. "What I will do will become apparent soon." His hand tightened lightly
on Alex's arm. "Before we go in . . ." He paused and then said slowly,
"Alex, this is not your fight." He turned his head to look at Brendan. "Nor
is it yours. I will understand if you wish to stay in the car."
	"You're not going to . . . to shoot him?" gasped Brendan, who knew
that in there was a small-calibre pistol in the pocket of Chef's uniform.
	"No. I will cause him no harm at all," replied Chef.
	"Then what do you intend to do?" demanded Alex, his voice rising
slightly.
	"Let me explain," began Chef. "There are things happening as we sit
here, things that could, will . . ." he corrected himself, " . . . result
in the death of men. They are guilty of high crimes and misdemeanours. Some
of them are Knights of the Order. These men betrayed their oaths, and
betrayed their fellow knights." Again his hand tightened around Alex's
arm. "The Grand Master has called for a Bar of Justice. The sentence is
automatic if their guilt is proved . . . death by hanging."
	Brendan's eyes widened. "You mean, uh, you will actually execute
them?" he asked, his voice shaking.
	Chef shook his head. "I will not, personally, put the rope around
their necks. In a way, however, I will be executing them though. I will sit
in judgement, I will decide if they live, or die."
	"You are the judge, the jury . . .?" began Alex.
	"No. There will be a tribunal of knights. They will judge them;
they will decide their fate. I am merely a part of the tribunal," said
Chef. He then looked at each man in turn. "You are not of the Order."
	Alex stared at Chef and then his narrow eyes grew narrower. "So
we're free to step aside, then?"
	"You are," confirmed Chef. "Nothing is asked of you that will cause
you pain or hurt, or set badly on your conscience. I am not asking that you
accompany me into the house, and I am not asking you to participate in any
way when the Order, and its agents, bring the men responsible to true
justice."
	" 'True Justice'?" asked Brendan, his voice calm.
	"Let us be frank, my young friends," returned Chef. "Each and every
one of the men we will punish, and we will punish them one way or another,
has money, has power and powerful friends. So far as the general is
concerned, there is no guarantee that he will ever be brought to trial."
Chef paused and growled. "Or if he is, that he will be convicted."
	Alex started and began, "But . . ."
	"Alex, we have an uncorroborated accusation by a minor,"
interrupted Brendan. "I know how the system works, and how lawyers can take
hamburger and make porterhouse steak!"
	"A strange allegory," rumbled Chef, "but apt." A grim smile formed
on his broad face. "But you at least understand what I am worried about."
	"I think I do," replied Brendan. He turned to Alex. "Look, the kid
made an accusation. Maybe there's medical evidence, maybe not. A good
lawyer can explain why Achille's butt is bruised, and the general has a
team of great lawyers. Even if, for argument's sake, it can be shown that
something sexual happened, and the general is arrested, he'll be out on
bail within hours."
	"You can bank on that," added Chef. "Remember, dear Alex, that the
system works for those with money . . ." He paused. " . . . And powerful
friends."
	"You think that his friends will see that this whole matter is
brushed under the carpet?" asked Alex, his disbelief palpable.
	"That is a possibility," responded Chef. Then he remembered an
incident, five years past, when a young Naval cadet had been foolish enough
to tell one of his friends what had happened during a night of drunken
lust. The night seemed to grow darker as the shadow of Signal Hill loomed
over the stone buildings of the estate. Chef's voice was soft as he said,
"Many of the general's so-called friends will abandon him - they are the
ones who fear the implications of his friendship. Others, however, will do
what they can to obstruct and delay the inevitable, because it suits their
purpose. I am thinking that the general knows where a lot of the bodies are
buried."
	"Which he will exhume if the wolves are snapping too close at his
heels," said Brendan.
	"Quite so," said Chef.
	"But we can't stop that from happening," Alex began to argue. "The
general is no dummy! He'll use every sneaky trick he can think of, or his
lawyers can think of, to save his ass!"
	"Of course he will," returned Chef blandly. He looked first at
Alex, and then at Brendan. "Which is why I am here. I shall impart some
simple truths to him." He shrugged expressively. "I shall destroy him and
all the angels in Heaven, and all the devils in Hell, will shrink away when
his name is mentioned."
	"You're not going to kill him?" asked Brendan sceptically.
	"I am not a murderer, nor am I an executioner," responded
Chef. "There are many ways by which to destroy a man. When I am finished
M. le General shall be a stench in the nostrils that none of his
self-serving friends will bear."
	"But the others, the knights?" hinted Alex.
	"They have betrayed their oaths," replied Chef. "Later we will
visit such a one. His guilt is foredoomed and he will be punished according
to Rule of the Order." His voice was heavy as he added, "Death by
hanging. Deus Vult!"
	Alex and Brendan exchanged a look. The old man was offering them
fair warning of what was to come. If they wanted out, now was the time to
say so.
	"Um, Chef," said Brendan slowly, "is Philip, I mean, is Phantom
aware of what is going on, of what is going to happen?"
	"Phantom is the Prince of the Order," intoned Chef. "He is
aware. All of the young knights are aware."
	Brendan thought a moment. He had found his brother again, and was
determined never to lose his love as he had done in the past. He had
deserted The Phantom and he would never do it again. "I'm in," he said
simply.
	"This thing will not end tonight," cautioned Chef. Another warning.
	"I'm on leave," countered Brendan. "When I left Regina there was
beer in the fridge, cigarettes on the table and money in the bank. There's
no reason I can see to hurry back."
	Alex, who was under the impression that Brendan Lascelles was newly
married, wondered briefly why the hulking young man was not in any great
tearing hurry to return to his bride. Then he dismissed the thought. It was
Brendan's business, after all, and if Brendan thought that sticking with
Chef - and his brother - was more important, so be it.
	For his part, Alex had no intention of walking away. Michael Chan
had sent him on this mission to mind and protect the young knights and, so
it seemed, the interests of the Order, so he would see it through to the
end. He also had heard enough about the cabal of evil that preyed on young
boys. Alex would do what he had to do, even though he had questions and
doubts. He had no idea how far down the road Chef would lead him, and by
definition the young Knights. In the end, Alex dismissed his doubts. He had
accepted Michael Chan's shilling. Chef was Michael's representative here
now and so Alex would follow him.
	Pushing open the door of the car, Chef struggled out and stood
erect, staring at the house. "I wonder what secrets those stones hold?" he
asked himself. He walked forward and gestured for Alex and Brendan to
follow.
	"Uh, Chef, you do know that the door might be locked?" asked Alex.
	Chuckling, Chef reached out and turned the doorknob. "This is the
country, Alex," he said. "Country folk are very trusting." He turned the
knob and slowly pushed the door open. "They never lock their doors," he
finished as he entered the house.

******

	As the door closed behind the three men a match flared and died in
the deep shadows. A ruby dot glowed a deeper red and Hercule Beauharnais
took a deep drag of his cigarette. He had no idea what the fat old man and
his two young companions were doing here. He did not care, really. He
cupped the cigarette in his hand, hiding the glowing end. He would wait
until the men left. He had all the time in the world to do what he had come
to do.
	He took another drag on his cigarette, his narrow eyes never
wavering as they started at the small square of light. Soon, soon his time
would come and he would do what he had come to do. Soon he would retrieve
his honour, restore his family's name, and wipe away the black stain that
besmirched the shade of his beloved, golden-haired son, his fils d'or, his
Sylvain.


The Chateau de Lamer, Saturday 28 August 1976 - 11:09 PM EST


	The room was stifling. The heavy wooden shutters, designed to keep
out the snows and winds of winter, were tightly closed. In the fireplace a
paper conflagration sent heat radiating throughout the chamber, the flames
flickering in shadow off of the birds eye maple that panelled the
walls. The drawers of the antique wooden file cabinet and the desk gaped
open, empty now. The wall safe, normally hidden behind a particularly
hideous oil portrait of Madame, was open, and except for bundles of bank
notes, empty of any incriminating paper. The general was burning his
papers.
	General de Lamer was no fool. He had not come so far, or gained
such power, by being a fool. Everything he had done had been documented,
words put to paper detailing meetings, words spoken, agreements
reached. There were other documents as well: financial statements from his
bank in Switzerland, records of transfers of money sent, and received from
Germany, from France, from all the "safe havens" Stennes had assured the
general could never be traced.
	The general threw a small bundle of ribbon-tied papers into the
fire. He watched as the paper blackened, first around the edges, and smiled
tightly as the bundle began to burn furiously, his involvement with the
Aryan Brotherhood reduced to grey smoke tendrils.
	Looking around the room he used as a study, the general nodded. He
had destroyed much, but more needed to be consigned to the fire. He had
been very careful in his involvement with Stennes, true. Still, there were
papers that could be embarrassing. He left the fire and began searching
through the files in the cabinet. His lawyers had managed to keep the
minions of the law away. That would change soon enough. They would come
with search warrants. When they did there would be nothing for the police
to find.
	Engrossed in his search, the general did not hear the door open. He
sensed a presence and look up to see the grim, unsmiling face of Alex
Grinchsten staring back at him. Behind the thin young man was another,
larger and heavier, and behind him was another, wearing the dark blue
"walking out" uniform of the Garde Royale. Without thinking, the general
darted toward his desk.
	Alex, all his training and instincts honed to perfection was
quicker. His hand reached out and grasped the general's wrist, twisting it
and causing the man to groan and grimace as a bolt of pain raced up his
arm.
	"I'll break it," warned Alex, his thin lips barely moving. He
thrust the general toward a dark red leather chair. "Sit!" he ordered
brusquely.
	Wordlessly, Chef moved across the room and settled against the top
of the desk. His old eyes looked about, paused briefly at the pile of ashes
that glowed in the hearth and shook his head. "Check the desk," he ordered
Brendan.
	In the upper drawer was a pistol. "A 9mm Browning," said Brendan.
	"Leave it," replied Chef. He regarded the general a moment. "In his
day the general was a bully. He was also a coward."
	"Who are you?" demanded the general angrily. "What are you doing in
my house?" He made to rise from the chair but Alex's hand held him back.
	Chef said nothing and continued to stare at the visibly angry
general whose eyes suddenly narrowed. "I know you," he hissed venomously.
	Chuckling, Chef shook his head. "You know of me, you do not know
me," he replied placidly.
	The general suddenly sat back in the chair. "A cook!" he
exclaimed. He smiled icily. "I remember now, from the old days. You were a
cook in Admiralty House, in Esquimalt."  He sniffed as if to say, "A lower
form of life not worth my notice." His cold eyes bore into Chef. "I knew
how to deal with trash such as you!"
	Chef did not take umbrage. He sighed and regarded the general a
moment. He had no time to duel verbally with this piece of excrement. His
eyes fell on a rather plain piece of silver, a tray that was sitting on the
side table behind where the general was sitting. Chef recognized the small
oval piece. "I have been many things, general, but I at least was never a
thief."
	The general's face became suffused with anger. "How dare you . . ."
he began.
	"I dare because I speak the truth," snapped Chef. "I wonder how
many more pieces of Admiral Sturdee's silver I will find if I go looking?"
	The general's eyes darted about the room. "It was a gift," he
exclaimed.
	Chef snickered. "From yourself, to yourself. But no matter." He
crossed his arms across his ample chest. "I have not come to examine the
extent of your thievery."
	The general's eyes narrowed. "Why have you come?"
	"Stennes. Where is he?"
	"I don't . . ." began the general, his face losing its colour. Chef
had touched a nerve.
	"Please, I know that the German was here. I know that a young boy
accompanied him. Where did they go? And do not insult my intelligence by
lying."  The general did not lie because he did not reply.
	Chef sighed. "Very well." What the general did not know was that
chef had more than enough information, from Achille, and from what The
Gunner had learned, to know that Stennes and his catamite were in
Toronto. "We have people in Toronto who will find them."
	The general's eyes widened. "How could this fat creature know that
Stennes had gone to Toronto?" he asked himself. Still he said nothing.
	The general's reactions gave Chef the insight he needed. The man
would not speak of Stennes, or of the business they had conducted
together. He remembered Hercule and asked, "Tell me about Sylvain."
	For the first time the general showed emotion. "Sylvain? What about
him?"
	"He has been coming here since he was what, 12 years old? I know
that you like your boys young, so tell me, how many times did you rape
him?" Chef glared at the general. "How many times did you take that
innocent lad to your bed?"
	The general's caustic, vicious laughter filled the room. He slapped
the arm of the chair. "Is that what you think?" he asked, his laughter
rising. "Oh, my poor dear man! What a fool you are if you think that I so
much as touched that little whore!"
	Without warning Alex snarled and his hand reached out to clutch the
general's throat. He did not know Sylvain, but he did know The Phantom, and
Alex knew that Sylvain, for all his faults, was beloved of the young man
who was the Prince of the Order. Such a boy, so loved by The Phantom, could
not be a whore!
	"Do not harm him!" Chef growled as he waved Alex away. "Contain
yourself!"  Alex slowly released his hand. "This cocksucker . . ."
	The general, for the first time afraid, rubbed his neck. "I never
touched Sylvain!" he declared. "He was a money grubbing little whore!" he
repeated. "I gave him everything! He betrayed me!" the general whined.
	"He came home to his friends, and told the truth," returned
Chef. "You used him, though. You never give something and expect nothing in
return. What was Sylvain to you?"
	"Exactly what I said," snarled the general. "I originally took him
to be my heir, but he did not have the will to . . ."
	"He didn't have your low morals or your lack of principles,"
snapped Chef. "What did you do to him?"
	"He was supposed to be here for my guests." He smiled evilly. "Some
of them enjoyed the taste of a boy his age." He shrugged. "It helped with
business."
	Chef scowled. "You never used him?"
	"No! Only once, the last time he was here, and I did not tell him
to sleep with the Anglais boy!" The general smiled smugly. "What do they
say about birds of a feather?"
	It was all Chef could do not to slap the smugness from the
general's face. He ignored the general's crudity and asked, "Sylvain had
nothing to do with your business with Stennes?"
	The general shook his head. "Sylvain was a schoolboy! He had no
part in my . . . business. He was nothing more than a mercenary little
boy!" he finished dismissively.
	For the first time the general felt that he had the upper hand. The
fear he had felt when the three men first came into his study was
gone. They were not here to kill him, of that he was sure. The old cook,
for whatever reason, wanted information about Sylvain . . . and
Stennes. Glancing at the smouldering fire the general smiled thinly. What
little evidence there was had been reduced to a pile of ashes.
	Chef saw where the general was looking and a flinty smile formed on
his lips. "You are thinking that you have destroyed all the evidence. You
are thinking that proof of what you have done . . ." Chef waved his hand
airily. " . . . Has gone up in smoke." His face grew cold. "Fool!"
	The general saw the ice in Chef's eyes and the fear
returned. "What, what do you mean?" he demanded, his voice low and raspy.
	"Do you really think that the papers you burned tonight are the
only . . ." Chef suddenly raised his hand, his forefinger
extended. "One. The banks you used to transfer money to and from Europe
keep records. This money you used to finance the Aryan Brotherhood. Special
Branch - you do remember them, don't you? - are aware that someone of very
high rank has been suborning the military. Do you really think that it will
take them long to find out just who?"
	The general paled. He had used the various neo-Nazi organizations
to foment racial intolerance, to imbue the Armed Forces with a sense of
distrust and to ensure that when the day came that Quebec had her own army
and navy that the men would be pur laine, true Quebecois and not some half
breeds.
	Chef's second finger pointed upward. "When you were a general you
had aides, secretaries, bum boys for all I know." His face broke into an
evil grin. "Their names, their present whereabouts are a matter of
record. While some might scurry into the woodwork, do you really think that
they will keep silence just to save your sorry ass?"
	The general's face grew paler. He had used some of his more
compliant aides to courier money, and instructions to his agents in the
subversive organizations he supported. Then there were the clandestine
meetings between his imbedded agents in two of the army's regiments. He
knew the man in charge of Special Branch, an Anglais, who was tenacious and
impervious to threats and bribes. Special Branch stopped at nothing to
attain its ends.
	". . .You are also no doubt thinking that your friends will help
you," Chef was saying. "I would not count on it. Most will desert you for
they will not want to be associated with you." He smiled grimly. "It has
happened before, and for far less a reason than diddling silly, avaricious
little French Canadian boys!"
	The general was forced to consider his friends. His alliances were
built on mutual greed, and mutual thirst for power. Many of his so-called
friends were politicians, and being politicians were users, bent on
increasing their power base and gulling the electorate. Their shunning him
could be countered by the information he had on them. They might not
support him now, but they would not, could not, add fuel to the fire that
threatened them. They might do him damage, but if he told his secrets - and
he would - he could do them much more harm. The smugness returned to the
general's face. His fair weather friends would grimace but they would
protect him. They had no choice, and he would remind them of it at every
opportunity.
	Chef saw the look and his ring finger pointed rigidly toward the
plaster ceiling. His eyes bore into the general and his words were
ice. "There are powers at work in this country that you have no knowledge
of, general. Powers that will destroy you."
	The general looked nervously at Chef and swallowed. "You are going
to kill me!" he gasped, the look in Chef's eyes giving proof that the old
man was capable of doing just that.
	A low chuckle escaped Chef's lips. "Kill you?" he asked
absently. "Hardly." Once again his eyes flared. "You are not worth the
trouble." Chef shook his head. "No, my dear General de Lamer, neither I nor
the people I represent will have a hand in your death." He waved his hand
dismissively. "Had you been a Knight I would cheerfully put the noose
around your neck and hang you from the nearest tree!"
	De Lamer remembered his conversation with Stennes the morning
Sylvain had left. "Knights!" he snorted derisively. "A bunch of dirty old
men who paid well for the little boys that Stennes sold to them!" He
laughed roughly. "Do not threaten me with dirty old men!"
	Chef looked evenly at de Lamer and shook his head. "Sadly, part of
what you say is true. However, the times have changed and a new Grand
Master has been installed. He knows all about your so-called 'business'
with Stennes, all about your patronage of neo-Nazi organizations." Chef's
voice was, if it were possible, even colder, as he said, "The Grand Master
knows of the knights who betrayed their oath. He knows of Simpson, of
Willoughby, of Hunter." He saw the general start and continued on.
	"Mon cher general, the new Grand Master knows a great deal. The day
will soon come when he will settle with those who have betrayed the Order."
Chef stood and motioned for Alex and Brendan to leave. He regarded the
general a moment. "Your day is not yet come. Your blood will not be on my
hands, or on the hands of any knight. Your destruction is at hand, however,
and it will be horrible."


The Chateau de Lamer, Saturday 28 August 1976 - 11:31 PM EST


	"Can he do what I think he can do?" asked Brendan as he and Alex
followed Chef down the dark corridor and out of the chateau.
	Alex, his thin lips set, nodded. "There are many ways to destroy a
man," he said with emphasis. "Chef knows them all," he finished bluntly.
	Up ahead, Chef turned and gestured impatiently. "Hurry up, we have
a plane to catch!"
	"A plane?" asked Brendan. "Where are we going?" He walked around to
the side of the car and opened the passenger door.
	Alex stood and looked at Brendan across the hood of the car, his
eyes narrow. "We are going to begin to return honour to the Order."

******

	As the door leading to the courtyard closed with a soft thump,
Hercule Beauharnais stepped from the shadows of the dining room and into
the dimly lit corridor. In his hand he held a double-barrelled shotgun.

******

	The general sat with his head in his hands, pondering morosely the
words of the strange, fat old man. Self-preservation was uppermost in the
general's mind. He was well aware that he had enemies - powerful enemies
that would delight in seeing him dragged in chains through the streets. He
also had powerful friends who would, albeit reluctantly, use their
influence to see that he did not fall too far. It was in their interest to
see that the general was 'protected' as far as possible. They knew that the
general had garnered much information over the years and that what he knew
could not bear the light of day. As the saying went, the general knew where
all of the bodies were buried.
	The general was, of course, not quite out of the woods. Achille,
the little sneak, could be brought to heel. His father, the Intendant,
would see to that, just as he had seen to Achille's brothers keeping their
mouths shut. It would cost money, a great deal of money, but then the
general had money. The deeper he thought of things, the more the general
convinced himself that while there would be a period of embarrassment,
money and influence would keep him out of jail. He was worried about
Special Branch. He had never been able to infiltrate the intelligence
branch. Far too many members of Special Branch were Navy and his quick
adoption of "Unification" rankled. He had no friends in Special Branch.
	Still, there might be a way. Everybody had secrets. The general had
gone to great lengths to ferret out the secrets of the mighty. The same
must hold true for Special Branch. He had heard the whisper of a rumour
that Rick Maslen, the officer in charge of Special Branch, shared a house
with one of his investigators, a slim, boyish redhead named Britnell. There
might be something there, the general thought, and he would have to find a
way to determine the truth of the rumour.
	Smiling to himself, the general rose from his chair and walked to
his desk. There had to be a way out and . . .
	The click of the hammers of the shotgun being drawn back jolted the
general out of his reverie. He looked up to see his brother-in-law,
Hercule, standing in the doorway, levelling a shotgun at him. Remaining
outwardly calm, the general moved slowly to his desk.
	"What are you doing here?" he demanded. He knew that Hercule was
angry over the loss of his son. He also knew that Hercule was a gentle man,
a farmer, who might bluster and threaten, but who deep down did not have
the will to kill a man. "And put down the gun."
	Hercule had not known what to expect when he confronted the
general. Certainly not smugness. "You killed my son," he declared with
quiet passion.
	His eyes dropping to the open drawer of his desk, the general shook
his head slowly. "He killed himself. He drove into a rock!" he declared. He
moved his hand slowly downward.
	"You perverted him! You corrupted him!" yelled Hercule. "You made
him into . . ."
	"He was what he was," sneered the general. His hand touched the
handgrip of the Browning. "I merely used his . . . shall we say talents
. . . to both our advantage?"
	"Bastard," hissed Hercule.
	As his fingers slowly curled around the grip of the pistol the
general growled, "Bastard? You dare to call me a bastard?" He smiled
contemptuously. "When the corn withered on the stalks because the rains did
not come, who sent you money for seed? When you needed new equipment to
make your farm work more economically, who sent the tractor, the baler?" As
his hand gripped the pistol tightly, the general continued, "Shall I go
on?"
	Hercule could not deny that he had accepted the many 'gifts' that
the general had sent his way. Every word that the general had spoken had
been true. Hercule had taken the bribes, for that is what the gifts were,
and closed his eyes. He had sent his son to stay with the general, and in a
way he had contributed not only to Sylvain's corruption, but also to his
death.
	Sighing, Hercule nodded. "Oui. I took the things you sent me, the
money. Perhaps one day God will forgive me for what I did."
	The general laughed caustically. "Forgive? God has nothing to
forgive you for! Sylvain came to me wanting the things that only I could
give him!"
	"I did not teach my son well," replied Hercule as his finger
tightened on the shotgun triggers. "I should have taught him that all the
wealth in the world is not worth the loss of honour." He closed his eyes
briefly, willing the tears that were forming to subside. "You gave Sylvain
much, that is true, but you stole his honour." When he opened his eyes he
saw the gun in the general's hand.
	Smiling tightly, the general pointed the pistol at Hercule. "It
would seem we are at an impasse." He nodded with his chin toward the
shotgun. "Be reasonable my friend. Put the gun down."
	"No," grunted Hercule. He looked evenly at the general. "You may
kill me, but I will surely kill you."
	"For what?" the general demanded. "Killing me will not erase the
past. What is done, is done."
	"You called my son a 'money grubbing little whore'," spat Hercule.
	The general's eyes widened. He had had no idea that Hercule
understood English.
	"Yes, mon general, I understood what you said," said Hercule. "When
the War came I knew what I must do. In the Army I learned to speak English,
not much, but enough to understand." He shook his head grimly. "Unlike you,
who spent his career behind a desk, pushing paper and making life miserable
for your soldiers, I saw war. Unlike you and your patron in Ottawa I
answered the call. I did not hide in the militia; I did not shirk my
duty. I saw men die and tonight I will see another man die." With that,
Hercule pulled the triggers of the shotgun.
	The force of the blast threw the general's body backward, his face
obliterated, his chest a gaping hole. His dying body landed in the
fireplace and the embers of destruction began to nip at the cloth of his
suit coat.
	Hercule did not hesitate. He dropped the shotgun to the floor, spat
contemptuously at the shredded corpse of General de Lamer and hurried from
the house. He hurried to where he had hidden his car, got in, and left,
driving slowly down the darkened, unpaved lane that divided the
village. Once free of the houses he sped up, and pointed the nose of the
car toward the autoroute that would take him north, north to home, north to
Chicoutimi, north to where his cold son lay waiting to say goodbye.

******

	The flames advanced down the cooling body and found new fodder, the
ancient carpet, filled with the dust of a century. Slowly the fire devoured
the warp and woof and crawled toward the locked, wooden chest against the
far wall. As the fire grew in intensity, the wood darkened, then
charred. One corner of the oaken chest fell away and the flames found new
fuel for their hunger: neatly stacked packets of rifle cartridges and
shotgun shells and eventually, in the corner, a small canister of black
powder.


The Chateau de Lamer, Saturday 28 August 1976 - 12:32 AM EST


	In the village the people slept or went about their nightly
business, the thick, stone walls of the chateau, and its double paned
windows having contained the sharp blasts. Only when the village toper,
needing to relieve his bladder, stepped from the smoky confines of the
village hall, where he had been drinking biere and playing checkers, looked
up and saw . . .
	The old man's excited cries brought the people from their beds to
stand in their doorways or peer through second floor windows, their fingers
pointing to the dim glow that had formed over the copse of trees that
separated the chateau from the neat, stone houses and church.
	Eyes widened, voices rose in alarm as neighbour called to
neighbour. Le chateau was on fire! Doors flew open as the men hurried to
the engine house where the pompiers, the volunteer firemen, donned turnout
gear and started the pump, an apparatus so old that the engine had to be
started with a hand crank.
	With bell clanging sharply, the pump navigated the lane, followed
by every little boy who had managed to escape the clutches of his mother,
wailing women and the Intendant, whose grave and concerned demeanour hid
his inner feeling of relief. With the chateau in flames, and hopefully le
General with it, he could beat Achille into denying everything. He also
thought, with typical Gallic logic, that with le General dead there would
be no one around to answer questions concerning his conduct. After all, the
graveyard held no wagging tongues.

******

	As the mob turned into the courtyard of the chateau the bell in the
spire of the village church began to toll, sounding the tocsin of alarm. It
was too late for, as the pompiers jumped from their apparatus and began to
pull the hoses frantically from the wide bed, a huge explosion shattered
the still, humid air, and the roof of the wing collapsed. The destruction
of the Chateau de Lamer, ancient seat of authority for generations, had
begun.