The long night of old treacheries and new alliances continues. As dawn fast approaches there are yet new arrivals to Collinsport. From across the sea they have traveled in order to discuss a threat to their interests, while a far greater threat has yet to be revealed.
Opening: [www.youtube.com]
Edwin Moore flips through the pages of Entertainment Weekly. He had read it the previous night. What was it that had made him reach for it again? He wasn’t certain. The cover? No, it had something to do with a television series he had never watched, as he disliked situational comedy. And what was that — really? Situational comedy? What was the difference between it and say just comedy? Was there non-situational comedy? He had no clue. Nor, why was he even thinking about it? He scanned the glossy page, reading the print now less for the information that it contained and more for, what? The information contained between the lines? Which was why he was reading it again. For some reason he felt that there was something he had missed when he had read the magazine the night before. Something he should have gleamed from the pages, the pictures, perhaps the advertisements. It seemed to him to be of growing importance. A mania? No, that was too strong a word for it – that indicated a malevolent fascination. Desire? There was something about the woman in the advertisement, yes. She had a certain look. Was there a jaundice to her eyes?
He looks up at the sound of the mullioned door opening to see a strikingly attractive woman entering now the double doors of Collinsport Inn. Accompanying her is another woman with bright red hair pushing a luggage cart through the door as the attractive woman held it open for her. What struck Edwins’ eye about the first woman, holding the door and wearing an all too obviously expensive blue suit, was less her attractiveness than the odd red stone which was inset within the necklace that she wore.
He thought for an instant that it suddenly glinted, glowed, as if it were one of those laser pointers he used to taunt his cat.
The woman in the blue suit steps over to the staircase and stands for a moment with apparent idle indifference as she gazes about the quaint lobby, leaving the red-haired woman to navigate the luggage cart. And the woman with the cart moves it over to stand near one of the side tables and leaves the luggage behind as she approaches the front desk.
“Yes?” He asks.
“Mr. Chadwick. He has a room here?” The woman inquires.
“Chadwick?” Edwin repeats as if uncertain of the sound of his own voice . . . he remembered a man with a pipe. “Yes, Room 237.”
She stands there looking at him.
He looks at her for a moment.
Neither speaks.
The woman eventually holds out her hand.
Yes, the gentleman in 327 was from New York, he remembered noting as he registered. Normally the businessmen Edwin gets at this time of year, especially from someplace like New York, were usually quite a bit more discrete, but, he longs to get back to his magazine and so he opens the middle drawer of the front desk and removes a card key . . . and loads it.
He looks at her as he hands her the security key, “Will there be anything else?”
“You will see that the luggage is brought up.” Dorothee de Beauvoir instructs rather than asks.
“Certainly, ma’am.” And Edwin smiles his most yeoman smile, although he is not in any mood to wrestle the cart into the narrow elevator. Besides, Amos will be in soon – bright and early – and he’s far more athletic to grapple with the cart, forcing it into the too small service elevator, and then, down along the second floor corridor. After all, they have chosen the one with the bum wheel.
And besides, he still has his Weekly. The girl with the jaundiced eyes.
The red-headed woman turns and steps away from the front desk and he watches her back as she walks over to the cart and removes two of the rather numerous suitcases and proceeds over to join the tall, lovely woman in the blue suit.
They ascend the lobby stairs.
He stands with a page half turned, about to return his attention of the magazine, when he took notice of the indifferent woman’s eyes, which seemed to suddenly glance at him, and there was something in her gaze, something so much like the woman in the advertisement.
He felt a shudder.
Of fear?
Marceline Champeaux, turning left at the head of the stairs, leads the way down the corridor as her heels press into the newly installed carpeting. The old inn apparently was in the midst of renovation and within the dimly lit hallway she is very much aware of the lingering and far too intrusive scent of fresh paint. If this was rustic American charm – then she was far more inclined toward the bright lights of the American Metropolis. New York, of all American cities, she most enjoyed New York, and yet, here she was in this New England, in a State known as Maine. Collinsport. Joseph would far more appreciate this than she. With a brush of her hand she pushes back her hair, it’s been a long flight from Nice to London to Reykjavik to New York to Washington D.C. to Bangor to this little seaport on the coast of the North Atlantic. It should have been non-stop, but . . . there was business to transact. And Joseph should have made the trip, instead of being otherwise engaged with some American solider in Tangiers, who had so enticed him with yet another cryptic tale about some remarkable discovery in the Iraqi desert, available for sale, certainly always available for sale. Which was no doubt yet another fabrication – there have been so many fraudulent artifacts carried away from the Middle East in the backpacks of American soldiers.
With an odd folding motion of her hand she strides down the narrow corridor. It is not long and ends at a windowless corner. The doors to the other rooms are all closed. There is silence from within and not the muted silence from which there arises an occasional creak of floorboard or the faint sound of a television. Either they are unoccupied, deserted for the day, or, their tenants are still sleeping. It is still rather early in the morning. Her fingers completing now the complexity of the odd gestures, Marceline Champeaux suddenly feels remarkably refreshed as she approaches the door embossed: 237.
The red-haired woman hands over the key, which Marceline slides into the slot and then back out again to the accompaniment of a click and small green light. The door opens and she pushes it wider. The room is a suite and appears as outdated as the village, to which the American tourists seem so inanely fascinated.
“Ugh. Such filth! “ She says as she enters and glances at the back of the man standing before the tall windows, a haze of tobacco smoke about his head like a unholy halo, and then irritably examines the room, the thin drapes, the small writing desk, the wooden box TV, the even older furnishings “ is that . . . yes, it’s a VCR . . . on the floor. A VCR! “Put the bags over by the wardrobe.”
“Yes Madam.” Mlle. de Beauvoir
Charles Chadwick turns as he puffs on his pipe and gives Marceline a sidelong glance.
“Chadwick, was this really the best place we could have met. It’s so very Proletarian.” Marceline says as she steps further into the suite.
Dorothée de Beauvoir grimaces laying a handkerchief on the dresser before setting their bags on them. “And so le Carr”.”
“That’s the idea, Miss Champeaux., “ Charles Chadwick says as he removes the stem of his pipe from his lips. He is not a tall man, nor, was he short, but of medium height with a slight, brown pompadour, an immaculate Van Dyke, and oddly, a pair of pince nez. “No one will suspect you of coming here.”
She sighs, “Of that you can be assured.”
“My firm knows you have enemies. It’s best not to let them know your plans.” He looks at her thoughtfully. This is only the third time he has met Marceline Champeaux, the last was several months ago in New York in his office at Milton, Chadwick, & Waters. Milton handled her account, but Chadwick had been called in at various times with regards to numerous financial litigations. Milton really didn’t like spending any time with numbers. He was far more into glad-handing the large accounts. And so Chadwick had been assigned to work with the firm’s of confidential investigators for several weeks now regarding her financial affairs, which he found complicated to say the least, especially, MediFrance, but it was in regards to her portfolio of technological investments wherein he had made the initial discovery, which had garnered him implicit instructions from Milton regarding this trip to Maine – no one was to know she was in Collinsport. At least not as Marceline Champeaux. “Hence you circuitous method of arriving here in Collinsport, leaving the private jet in Bangor, taking a taxi rather than renting a car.”
She stands hip shot, “Oh, you mean, by doing something so out of the ordinary that it will stand out, no?”
“Yes.” He nods and steps away from the window aware that her accent is not going to be very well concealed here in Maine.
“Very well, then, let us speak of my enemies Chadwick.” Her hand motioning to indicate the sofa as she steps over and has a seat in a rather uncomfortable chair.
Chadwick stokes his Van Dyke and moves over to the sofa, where his briefcase sits awaiting him atop the coffee table. “Enemies?” He breaks a quick smile, “You have your share, don’t you?”
Mlle. de Beauvoir strides over now to stand near Marceline as she looks at the New York lawyer. There is something about him, an air of what is the word – smugness, yes. She does not trust him.
“As do all. But the true task is to find precisely who is not your enemy.” Marceline informs him with an air of detachment.
Chadwick nods and opens his briefcase and takes out a file, “Well, yes, that would be easier.” He tries to suppress a smirk as he removes a manila folder and sits back, “What do you know of the Stockbridge Foundation?”
“The Stockbridge Foundation?”
“Yes,”
She lifts a brow, “Is that some local organization? Perhaps dedicated to the restoration of the old buildings, apparently? It sounds the sort.”
He hands over the file and sits back to puff heavily upon his pipe as he watches her open it and looks at the coversheet, thoughtfully.
She turns a page and frowns.
Chadwick leans over and taps the page, “By all appearances so they would seem . . . “
“But things are not always as they seem, yes Chadwick?”
“Indeed not, Marceline.” He nods, and reaches over in eagerness to turn another page for her, overcome with the excitement of his discovery, “In the last two weeks it seems they’ve taken an interest in buying up stock, under a variety of dummy corporations . . . “
Marceline flips to the next page, reading and listening at the same time.
“Here, as you can see, Marceline. We have discovered that they are the ones behind these most recent purchases of stock that you have been actively seeking. Shares in the Mimecom Corporation, but, for importantly, one of the shell companies of Mimecom: The Wild Palms Group.”
“This Stockbridge Foundation, you say?”
“Yes,” he taps the page with the stem of his pipe, “As you can clearly see they already control a sizable percentage of Mimecom . . . but not a majority . . . well, at least, not that we know of.”
“How much of our assets from Mimecom are still intact?”
“You hold slightly less than 50%.” He detects the flash of anger in her eyes, “But I don’t think this Stockbridge Foundation has pried away enough to gain control.”
“It is still a minority holding then.” She asks as she examines the evidence in the folder, “Any clues as to who owns the stock yet unaccounted for?”
“Our investigators are working on that as we speak.” He assures her, “You might be able to buy up some of the remaining stock in the hands of a half dozen small investors . . . but we’re running against a clock, as it would appear they are getting inside assistance.”
She lifts an eyebrow, her jaw clenching, “Assistance from within?”
“Yes, and sorry to say it looks like it might be Anthony Kreutzer.”
Marceline betrayed no emotion, but the possibility that Anthony Kreutzer could be using the very position that she had strategically arranged for him, CEO of Mimecom, in order to attempt some furtive maneuver in undermining her investments, in him, in Mimecom, his father’s campaign for Senator of the State of California, vexed her. She contemplated for a moment the annoying thought that like his late father, Senator Kreutzer, poor Anthony may soon suffer a similar fate.
“You have complied a list of these investors, these petite ones, from which we may make inquires?”
“Yes. But, I would suggest we act quickly, as the Foundation might look to do the same thing. That’s how they acquired much of what they have now.” Charles Chadwick suggested as he took up another folder.
“Try using one of the other wings of the Champeaux-Meyer group. I do not want MediFrance to send up red flags.”
“Of course,” He nodded, “Also, there is also a couple of other matter of interests.”
“And what are these?
“First, and perhaps foremost, in our research of the Foundation, we discovered an rather furtively concealed connection to the Collins Family, here in Collinsport.”
“Ah yes, this Aristocracy of Maine, these founders of this hamlet. Quite the marvelous collection of murders and deviants, sinners, and the most unluckiest of saints.” Marceline says off-handedly, “I know of this Collins Family. But do, tell me more of this connection of which you speak.”
Chadwick puffs on his pipe for a moment, “It seems the Stockbridge Foundation has a rather formidable interest in Collins International. According to the research by our investigators, they have secretly been the deep pockets for several of David Collins’ acquisitions. When Collins took over daily operations of the family business from his father, Roger Collins, Collins Enterprises was on the verge of bankruptcy. But today, it has all but miraculously resurrected itself from his father’s mismanagement into the expansive global conglomerate that it is today, seemingly like a Phoenix rising from its aches. But, behind this rather phenomenally success, is a financial web of shell corporations and off shore investors, which when unraveled traced back to the Stockbridge Foundation. They even backed the old Interfaith Church that Collins helped set up a campus for here in Collinsport.”
“Interfaith . . . now that rings some bells.”
“Pseudo-Egyptian mumbo jumbo.” Chadwick nods, “They’re listed with the U.N. as some kind of Childs Health Advocacy Group. But it looks more like Mumbo Jumbo in reality. A massive shell game of interlocking corporate entities and disappearing investment accounts. They’re the ones who erected that eyesore of a campus with the pyramid, which oddly enough was recently purchased and is to become the new headquarters for the Mimecom’s expansion on the East Coast. “
“This Interfaith, it is based in Prague, No?”
“Yes.” Chadwick replies impressed.
“Are they an operating subsidiary of the Foundation?”
“We are looking into that but at the moment, we’re not certain.”
She frowns as she continues to scan the contents of the dossier that Milton, Chadwick & Waters has complied on this Stockbridge Foundation. It would appear that there are tentacles of their influence in Technology, Pharmaceuticals, Aerospace, Financial Services, Telecommunications, Private Equity, and, a growing interest now in media and entertainment. London, Milan, Berlin, Prague, Hong Kong, and Paris, offices across the globe. Marceline of course had heard of them, quietly at first, a mere infection she had thought, but now it would seem the diagnosis was far more severe than she had suspected. They were a cancer growing in various industries, some of which directly conflicted with the Meyer-Champeaux Group.
And as she read further, they were deeply entangled with Collins International and David Collins. “You said other matters of interest, what else is there, Charles.” She asks as she continues to read.
“This Castaigne Imports & Exports your funneling Euros into. “ He said sitting back, the trained eye of an attorney observing her now. “I am not quite certain I understand your interests there. It is of course an old firm, but, like a lot of old firms, they were nearly bankrupt in the collapse of the global economy. I just don’t see the long term return on investment there.”
Dorothée de Beauvoir, who has stood silently by listening to their conversation, unbuttons her coat, and removes it. “Let’s say it is a hunch?”
“A hunch?” Charles Chadwick removes the stem of his pipe; smoke slowly escaping from the tip. “Please, Marceline, tell me you’re not reading Tarot cards again?”
“The Tarot, you have something against the tarocchi?” de Beauvoir asked incredulously.
Marceline looks at him inquiringly.
“I have when it comes to money, Mademoiselle de Beauvior.” He points the smoking stem of his pipe at her, “Romance, soul mates. who’s going to take me to the prom, sure, if one tends to believe in that sort of thing. Yeah, I say lay out all the cards you want. But when it comes to finance? When it comes to multinational global economics? Give me a high powered computer and a highly motivated staff of investment analysts.”
“ très bien , the cards they have never betrayed me M. Chadwick.” She tells him as she lays her coat across the foot of the bed, her fingers fluffing at her red tresses as she turns to look at Marceline. “I would even suggest we should consult them in regards to Anthony, Madam.”
“Oui,” Marceline nods, her interest taken by one of the pages of the dossier, “I am seriously displeased with Anthony, if it is, as Charles says, and he is in someway involved with this most treacherous attempt at folly. This furtive attempt to circumvent my interests in Mimecom. And far more importantly in The Wild Palms Group.”
Chadwick betrays no outward appearance even as his interest has suddenly risen – so, it was as he had suspected, it is The Wild Palm Group they are all after.
Dorothée de Beauvoir’s eyes narrow, “And if you remain as displeased as we once were with the Late Senator Kreutzer?”
Marceline looks up from the dossier and over to Dorothée. They rarely discussed Senator-elect Kreutzer, and tonight was not a night to bring up old disappointments. But she was right, if the son were following the path that his father had ventured down, subterfuge and lies, then Dorothée was correct in the suggestion that the son should follow the same path to its inevitable and fatal conclusion. Charles Chadwick may very well be her legal advisor here in America, but Dorothée de Beauvoir, she was her counciler illgeal . Although for years Joseph had served as such, of late, she had turned more and more to Dorothée when it came to matters concerning Meyer-Champeaux or MediFrance and assignments that demanded the upmost discretion. And beside, Joseph truly had no head for business.
Reflectively, Charles Chadwick puffs on the pipe. There had been rumors about the accidental death of the Senator-elect, but nothing anyone had ever been able to prove. Yet? He was well aware that Marceline had secretly contributed to the Kreutzer campaign, as, oddly, had David Collins.
If the Kreutzer’s crossed her, he was more than certain she would have unleashed Dorothée de Beauvoir.
Only his thoughts were interrupted by the light knock upon the door, which startles them all.
Chadwick looks to his briefcase, the folders, and leans forward to tidy them up and close the case, “Are we expecting anyone?”
Marceline glances over to Dorothée de Beauvoir, who turns and moves toward the door, while Marceline closes the folder and places it on the coffee table before her.
“I gather then, we were not expecting someone.” Charles Chadwick replies putting away his collection of folders and closing the briefcase.
The heavy security lock pulls back as Dorothée opens the door. Before her stands a tall, blond gentleman; his hair is long and wind tossed. He is wearing a red, Edwardian cut frock coat, a stiffly starched white shirt with wing-tipped collar, and a narrow crimson tie, “Good Evening Mademoiselle de Beauvior. My don’t we look quite fetching.” His voice is soft, almost a whisper, so that one has to pay close attention. His smile reveals very white, very even teeth. He removes a small yellow business card from the pocket of his dark, grey vest, and with an almost magician’s flourish, he hands it to her, “Or, morning I should say. What a truly marvelous day it’s going to be, don’t you think, Mademoiselle de Beauvior. If you please, Louis Castaigne to see Madam Champeaux.”
Charles Chadwick stands up – there is something oddly menacing in the softness of the man’s voice.
“She’s expecting you.” Dorothée nods as she opens the door to allow him entrance.
He enters Room 237, but before he takes more than a few steps, he stops and pauses before a tall vase of yellow roses. He leans forward to sniff the fresh cut flowers, while quietly humming to himself, “Ne raillons pas les fous; leur folie dure plus longtemps que la nôtre”
Marceline rises from her uncomfortable chair in the suite’s sitting room and steps around in order to receive Louis Castaigne, “Ah, Marceline . . . I am so sorry, I am a bit late, but you see . . . I was unavoidably detained.” He looks past her to Charles Chadwick who stands, teeth clenched upon the stem of his pipe. “Oh, and who is this gentleman?” he asks of Charles who stands silently scrutinizing him.
“This is Charles Chadwick. He is one of my legal representatives. Charles this is Louis Castaigne.” Marceline Champeaux introduces them.
He nods.
“I do apologize for the room. I trust Chadwick here for most things, but picking a hotel room . . . “
“If memory serves it was Shakespeare I think who said first we kill all the lawyers, hey, Charles.” He glances over to the lawyer as he gives him a very mischievous smile. “But never fear.” He lifts a plaintive hand, “There are a lot of others that need killing too.”
Chadwick frowns, yes there is something about this Castaigne he immediately dislikes.
Castaigne glances down at the suitcases, and steps past them as he moves further into the suite of rooms, his penetrating glaze taking in everything, the briefcase on the table, the ashtray were several paper matches lay, the mundane wallpaper, the cheap, factory outlet paintings hung on the wall, the old television set, the even older VCR sitting on the floor, a file marked top secret left atop the coffee table, and continues to stride indifferently over to the tall windows. “I see you were able to get one of the few rooms with a balcony. It’s a nice amenity for the business traveler. I was in Barcelona just a few weeks ago, and I must say the view from the room was extraordinary.” He turns back to look at Marceline and raises an eyebrow, “You know you can see the harbor from here.”
“You can smell it as well.” Charles adds.
“That you can Charles that you can.” He smiles “ but there is nothing humorous in the expression, “Marceline, it is such the pleasure to see you again. How is Paris? I do so miss that lovely city. It so . . . reminds me of . . . another.”
Marceline confidently stands and interlocks her fingers, “The trip was delightful. The last I was in Paris, it was still there. I spend most of my time in Nice these days. “
“Nice is nice.”
Castaigne’s long fingered hand lifts a forefinger, “That’s a good one Charles.” And, then the tall, blond returns his attention to the balcony windows and reaches up to pull back the thin gossamer drapery, “Ah, it is almost the dawn of a new day. But, I do find it so depressing. What about you Charles? What do you think?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, I am sure, but to the matter at hand,” Castaigne continues in his quite whisper, “I was asking you about your thoughts, Charles? One sun or two. You see, I’m kind of partial to two suns, but then, I’m a two sun kind of a guy. Not . . . that I am from Tucson.” He frowns at the thought, “Although, I have been there once. Maybe twice. Which reminds me, Marceline, we do need to be concerned about some one who’s spent some time in Phoenix.”
“Two suns?” Chadwick repeats bewildered.
“Yes Charles, two suns. You have to open up your horizons. See beyond this sickly sun. There are black stars at night. You should see them when they shine upon the waters. When the shadows lengthen there is a bit of a chill in the air. But then, the palace is all lit up. A grand spectacle: a dance, a mask. Or a masquerade, who’s to say, when the masks come off. It’s a wild night, Charles . . . a wild, wild night a callin’.” Castaigne almost begins to sing as he shifts his head to one side listening to a song that only he seems to hear, before he quickly turns to Marceline, “Oh, and you should know, Wolff of The Black Sun is here.” He lets the drape fall back into place and waves his fingers off-handedly, “Out In the woods. It seems everyone is coming out to play.” He then suddenly taps a forefinger to his temple, “But I am sure you are more interested in our . . . little . . . endeavors, especially you Charles.”
“It’s certainly ripe for development, Mr. Castaigne.”
“Oh, I love this guy.” Castaigne says to Marceline.
He reaches over now to one of the vases filled with yellow roses, and selects one, then another having carefully inspected them so as to be certain he finds just the right two, and steps over to hand the first to Marceline, “For you madam.”
“Thank you Louis. And I take note of the color as well. Very fitting you think, for such a drab room?”
“Yes, I thought it would enliven the place. Much too, I think it’s Normal Rockwell.”
He turns to Charles Chadwick, “Mr. Chadwick, what do you think of the color?”
The lawyer stares at the offered rose with an odd expression.
“The color?”
“The color. What you think? Is it just merely a caution?” Castaigne says as he slowly turns the rose with his thumb and forefinger, “Do you know in the late 19th century, yellow was perceived as the color of decadence. Would you believe – perversion. And I can tell you, I know a lot about perversion. But . . . and this is important, Charles . . . if you look closely, you will see that yellow so easily fades away. Not rust – but yellow. Now, you know, the Greek’s, those crazy Greeks, their word for yellow was pallid. Exquisite is it not? You see – in just the right light, it could be the color of jaundice. The hue of Illness. Or perhaps, it’s merely the excesses of decadence slowly diminishing into . . . madness.”
Charles Chadwick looks at the rose and then at the tall blonde man.
“Or, have you really given it very much thought?” Castaigne asks.
“Very little.” Chadwick admits.
Castaigne smiles wickedly and hands him the rose.
Chadwick suddenly winches as he feels the prick of a thorn.
“Careful Charles.”
“And so, M. Castaigne, how goes your endeavors in Collinsport?” Dorothée de Beauvoir can no longer resist moving the conversation forward
“Ah yes, my little seaside town. Not as quaint as Kingsport, I’ll grant you. But just as eventful. Do you know, there’s a killer running loose? A madman. He’s cutting off peoples heads.” He looks shocked and dismayed.
“Cutting off peoples heads?” Charles Chadwick repeats to himself.
“And, this is . . .part of . . . “ Dorothée brow furrows.
“Oh, dear me . . . no. It’s one of HIS.” He replies.
“His?” Chadwick asks.
“Careful Charles,” Castaigne’s whispering voice grows now menacing as he looks back over his shoulder at the lawyer, before returning his gaze to Dorothée. “No. I-I am here merely doing my . . . civic duty. Renovating an old theater so as to bring some cultural enlightenment to the inconsequential. Which I must say, I think you will fine very ironic, Marceline, it is The Egyptian Theater. Built in 1936. But as to your question, well . . . things are progressing rather nicely. It seems our contractor, sort of,” he cuts his eyes wickedly,” Blew is mind out in his car, so to speak. He’s in a nice place now, Windcliffe . . . I think they call it. Three meals a day . . . plus . . . medication. There was a, “he wiggles his fingers, “ Little trouble with his wife also. Burned down her house “ and a couple of the neighbors.” He smiles upon a sudden reflection, “And one of the security guards, an Officer O’Malley, took a rather severe dislike to some tourists in the middle of town. And then of course there is Sexy Sadie.”
“I was unsure, if you had gotten the rights to the play from Routhgate’s Estate?” Marceline interrupts.
Castaigne lifts a brow, as Chadwick speaks before he can reply.
“Miss Champeaux, I advise against any outlay of capital at this,” Charles Chadwick begins as his eyes glaze over, “time…”
Castaigne smiles at Chadwick, and then suddenly grows very serious, “Charles I said to take care.” He then brightens again looking to Marceline, “The Estate was more than eager to see his work performed. You really should come to the theater and see what we have done.”
Charles looks over to Marceline and shakes his head for a moment as if to regain his thoughts, which for a moment seemed to have drifted, “Madam Champeaux, I can not impress . . . upon you . . . the importance of keeping your assets as liquid . . . as possible . . . at this time, particularly based upon the information I have just supplied.”
“The fact of the matter is that I have already sent Mister Castaigne funding for his little project before taking into account our current interests and difficulties.” She says and looks over to Louis Castaigne with a smile, “It is most unfortunate, but I am needed in Zurich tomorrow morning. Perhaps some other time I will see the fruits of your labor.”
Castaigne nods and then hangs his head in dismay, “Of course. Business. As usual.”
“With Joseph away.”
“You will be pleased to know I have found Vera, who I must say is looking more like Lillian Margret these days than poor Natasha. Whom, the more I . . . think about it, I should—”
There is suddenly a knock upon the door.
Marceline and Dorothée look to Charles Chadwick, who returns their gaze indicting that he is unaware of any one who should be coming to call. “I assure you I told no one of your visit.”
“Sorry, an associate of mine.” Louis Castaigne informs them as he slowly strides over to the door and opens it, “Mr. Wilde, I am in the middle of something, as you can see.”
An older man, who looks as if he has just stepped out of some Edwardian play enters into the room carrying a open, green, cloth-bound ledger, “”Mr. Delaney, 1,800 dollars. Remuneration in lieu of rumors being silenced.” He mutters to himself as he scribbles in the ledger.
Castaigne shakes his head and steps back to let Mr. Wilde enter.
Before Castaigne can close the door behind the man with the ledger, a slender woman with platinum blonde hair streaked with red highlights suddenly slips in behind Mr. Wilde.
“Oh, I see we have guests.” Castaigne steps around Mr. Wilde to watch as Miss Nota slips quickly past them to stand in a corner, he nods to the woman, “Always bringing in strays, Mr. Wilde. And a good morning to you, Miss Nota, if you have not yet noticed.”
“DeLaney? Nota? Louis, do you know these people?” Marceline asks.
“Not to worry, not . . . to . . . worry.” Castaigne addresses them as he returns from the door, “As I said merely an associate of mine, and someone his cat brought in: Miss Nota . . . “ He flourishes a hand in her direction.
“If you do not have an appointment, you must leave.” Dorothée steps forward to try and regain some order to the meeting.
“Anderson, 5,000 dollars. Needs to have his step-sister forgive him.” The older man mutters and then looks up, “I thought it best I came to inform you sir. There was a break-in at the Import offices, while you were out. I am more than certain it was members of the Brotherhood.”
“Miss Champeaux, I advise you to say nothing.” Charles Chadwick suddenly turns to Marceline.
Miss Nota looks at the lawyer and suddenly hisses barring her fangs.
Chadwick’s pipe drops out of his mouth as he sees the fanged girl.
Castaigne turns and looks at her, his face grows cold and cruel, “You would be advised my dear to behave.”
Lily Nota closes her mouth still glaring at them. She bows to Castaigne, “My apologies.”
Chadwick stares at them all seemingly bewildered. A confidential business meeting has turned into this . . . insanity. How did any of these newcomers even know they were going to meet here? A leak in his office? Well, he would see to that in short order. He stoops to pick up his pipe and takes a seat on the sofa.
“We shall have to see you get your migraine medicine Mr. Chadwick.” Marceline says and takes a seat beside him, “You seem a bit away.”
“Although the break-in is troubling. My concern is the woman.” Castaigne tells the older man, “We have to find her, before they do, Mr. Wilde.”
“She is yet to be located sir.”
With a shake of his head, Castaigne sighs, “My, my, my, this world and another.”
“I . . . wasn’t told.” Chadwick tells Marceline.
“What were you not told Chadwick?” Marceline says with a bit of irritation.
“What do we have here?” Louis Castaigne exclaims as he takes note of the television set and he steps over to stand before it, “I wonder if they have the Discovery Channel?”
“My firm charges a higher fee for cases of this nature, Miss Champeaux.” Chadwick informs her.
Castaigne peers into the blank screen of the television as if he were watching something, when suddenly: “A chapel, Mr. Wilde. A ruined chapel. Somewhere along something they call a cut. Somewhere on the Collins Estate.”
“The Collins’?” Miss Nota sighs, “It’s always the Collins’.”
He looks at the blank television screen for a moment longer, “And it would seem, there are ever more arriving. This little town is about to become far more interesting.”
“I am sorry would you like that turned on?” Charles Chadwick asks.
Castaigne turns on his heel and points at Chadwick, “Now Charles, I know you. You think I don’t, but I do. Milton. Chadwick. Waters. You see. I not only know who you are. But I know who you serve. And verily I say unto you, you cannot serve two masters. or so someone once said. And so, in fairly short order you are going to have to choose.” His eyes now taking on a rather odd, amber cast, as they cut quickly away from Chadwick, “But—maybe not today.”
And he suddenly turns now to look at Lily Nota, “No, it’s lovely Lily here who has the choice to make. Always around.” He says stepping forward toward her, “Underfoot.” He takes another step, his hand flicking his finger at her, “Listening. Plotting? Always wanting to join our . . . endeavors. Why are you here Lily? The sun is almost up.”
“I – wanted to see if there was anything I could do, regarding the break-in.”
“I see.” He nods in concurrence, “Wanting to be of some assistance?”
She nods.
“Eager to help.”
“Yes.” She looks at him.
“No, Lily! I think not. I know where your allegiance really lies.” He points a finger at her, “And sadly, it’s not even a GOD. Just some two-bit trickster, who rather haphazardly stands behind a curtain trying to appear as a God. A mere sideshow magician who really, really, really, . . . really, wants to find the way to Ultimate Gate.” He steps very close to Lily now. “However . . . he may will.”
She looks at him, aware that he knows: “I do not think he believes you to be a threat as much as he used to.”
“Uppity servant.” He tells her his face growing more cold, “That is what you are you know. A rather nasty virus caught between two worlds: the living and the dead. A servitor virus HE called down. “
“That is an lie.”
“A lie?” He laughs, “I am so amazed that you all say that. All you members of the culte du sang. Even as you suck the blood out of the very thing you so long to be. Human. “ He looks at her, the telltale signs in the iris of her eyes, the sharp edges of her fangs, “But, you’re not.” He cocks his head and looks down at her sadly, “You will never be. Not ever again.”
Lily stares at him her eyes narrowing with anger.
He stands looking at her with interest.
“Mr. Wilde go and see to the woman.” Castaigne waves a hand at the man scribbling in his ledger, “And find that scroll.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Marceline. This Foundation.” Continuing to keep his jaundiced eyes on the pallid Miss Nota, who can feel now the power of his gaze, trapped now by an ever growing anticipation that he was about to be revealed something to her. “A word to the wise. McDuggal-Tessler. They shall be a help with this Stockbridge.” He informs Marceline matter-of-factly. “Although they vex me as they do make some really horrific glasses.”
“McDuggal-Tessler.” She repeats nodding to Chadwick.
A roguish smile reappears on Castaigne’s face, “Now Lily, as you must know I have seen things. Things long before that which resides within you was ever called down to destroy the pestilence known as man. There are things I can show you.”
“Pestilence?”
“Have you seen the black moons? The dark and wondrous lake? Would you like me to show them to you?”
“I hope we don’t have a conflict of interest here . . .” Chadwick frowns.
Lily Nota cocks her head to one side now growing uncertain, but still listening to his voice.
“Mr. Chadwick, there is always a conflict of interest.” Marceline replies watching the woman and Castaigne. “Most conflicts are also, quite interesting.”
Mr. Wilde closes his ledger with a brief glance over toward Castaigne and Lily Nota. The undead should really know better he thinks as he silently leaves the room.
“No, I have not seen the Black Moons.” Lily’s interest rising, “What are they?”
“What are they? Oh, my dear.” He says wistfully, “They are quite beautiful. More beautiful that anything his world has to offer.” He lifts a hand as if he is about to part a curtain, “As you look out across the dark waters of the Lake of Hali watching as they ripple with delight. It’s all so tranquil. So serene. You know, Edward saw them. Once. But then HIS lovely little monster killed him so he could be brought back and resurrected.”
“Miss Nota’s employer, Mr. Edward Hutchinson, is a client of my firm.” Chadwick says uncertain whether he should remain now in room 237. Should he remain a witness to what is transpiring as he is well aware he his approaching a major conflict of interests.
But Marceline Champeaux was a major account.
“I know what Edward craves, all he talks about is his godliness.”
“Forget Edward. Can he give you what you what?”
“And has been for a . . .very long time.” Chadwick continues to explain his dilemma but he is only irritating Marceline, who has begun to reconsider her current legal representatives.
“What I want?”
“Lily, have you seen The Yellow Sign?”
And then suddenly everyone’s attention is diverted to Castaigne as thin wisps of yellow mist begin to slowly appear around him. At first it seems almost as if he has stepped out of Frenchman’s Bay on a cold morning, the steam arising from his body. A yellowish steam. As the mesmerizing waft of jaundiced fog slowly seems to be enveloping him, and within the mist, the transparency of the thickening swirl, he has begun a transformation, as he is no longer dressed in his odd Edwardian suit, but appears now in some elegant royal raiment.
“Let me give you what he can not.” His voice now no longer the soft whisper but the deep baritone of a man long used to public speaking.
Lily suddenly becomes aware of the enchantment Castaigne has been weaving and steps back with a hiss.
“You have seen the Darkness now let me show you the Yellow Sign.”
“No.” She tells him
“Oh,” he says surprised, turning to look at the window. “Is that not your son?”
Outside the balcony window a young boy now stands. He is perhaps four or five and he is very pale, his face pallid in the growing light of a dawn about to break.
“Would you care to hold him in your arms once again?”
“Miss Nota, please do not enter into any contract with Mr. Castaigne without legal representation.” Chadwick tells her.
Unaware of Charles Chadwick, Lily Nota angrily tells the imperial form before her, “You would dare speak of my child? I refuse to listen to this.”
Outside the balcony window the boy stands and cups his hands on the windowpane so as to peer inside, “Mommy?”
Marceline turns to inspect the painting on the wall.
Chadwick, taking note, tightens his teeth upon the stem of his pipe and also turns his back to Castaigne.
The boy looks at her, eyes wide.
“Would you care to feel the touch of your son’s hand, Lily?”
The pain is very real, for the image beyond the window is that of her son. Those pleading eyes, and yet, she knows deep down that it is not her son. It is merely an illusion . . . didn’t the Count tell her that too much time had passed, that bringing him back would not restore her son, but some terrible facsimile of him, “NO!” She cries out and turns away from the monarch standing before her.
“You can be together – forever.” He continues his wicked temptation.
“You are a monster!”
“Me?” He asks? “You are the vampire. I am merely a restaurateur.”
“Mommy.”
“After we get back to Europe, I would like you to look into possible schools for my daughter Jocelyn.” Marceline says now in an aside to Dorothée, “I’m thinking some international school in Japan perhaps?”
“Japan, I am told it is lovely this time of year.” Dorothée agrees.
Lily clenching her fists, fights the urge to rip the bustard’s throat open, “If you EVER play such parlor tricks on me again I will tear your head off.”
“Than I can assume that is no. You will not be joining me?”
Lilly flits across the room toward the door.
“So? I can expect not to find you underfoot again?”
She grasps the doorknob.
“Mommy?”
Castaigne kneels to one knee so as to be at the height of the boy standing beyond the balcony window, hands cupped and placed upon the glass in order to looking side, “Say good bye to mommy.”
Lily snatches the door open and slams it back against the wall as she makes her hasty departure.
“Run along Lily and tell your Master” I will be coming.” He says not to the departed Lily but to the little boy as he fades into transparency and then is gone.
“Well, she still has a few years.” Dorothée reminds Marceline about Jocelyn’s age.
“Never too early for her to be prepared.” Marceline replies looking at her sternly. And Dorothée nods in ascent, well aware of the implication of that statement.
“An impressive tactic, Mr. Castaigne.” Charles commends Louis Castaigne.
Castaigne stands erect once more. He directs his attention to Marceline, “When Joseph returns, tell him I have need of him here, in Collinsport.”
“Certainement,” She replies, “If I can bring this urgent business situation to a quick conclusion, then I too shall return.”
“There are so few here who do me the honor of calling upon my name . . . and you have been one of the few . . . who have done so . . . for so very long. Madam, I will not forget this honor, for among them all . . . you will be held above.”
“We each do our part, Louis.” She tells him gratified at his praise.
“Lovely as always Marceline “ but . . . ” He lifts a hand to his ear as if listening to something, “There is a Rider upon the Storm.” He tells her and moves now toward the hotel door. “He’s fast approaching.”
Charles Chadwick relights his pipe, watching as Castaigne closes the door of Room 237 behind him. He flicks out the flame of his match and drops it into the ashtray on the coffee table. Castaigne? No, he knows his real name, even thought it seems impossible.
“My firm has a long standing obligation to a number of clients, Miss Champeaux.” He draws a long inhalation of smoke from his pipe, “And those clients are quite dedicated to the principles of our company. Mr. Castaigne, however, represents a firm that has often been in opposition to our clients. And so I must strongly advise you to break off any business relations with this man.”
Smoke issues from his mouth rather ominously.
She turns to the attorney
“Mr. Chadwick. If I may ramble for a bit. In this country, the road signs of caution are triangles and diamonds. They are painted a myriad of different symbols and the symbols have different meanings. However, if you where to remove all paint from one you would have a simple metal sign. On which you could paint anything you choose.”
He looks at her uncertain where this is headed.
“Now one would think that only an unscrupulous person would change the direction of an arrow on a yellow sign to suit there needs. Wouldn’t you?”
Charles Chadwick raises an eyebrow again.
Unseen by those in Room 237 of the Collinsport Inn, slowly, near the door where Louis Castaigne has only moments ago departed, there is an odd shimmering, as a strange mystical symbol seems to be coalescing.
And suddenly there appears The Yellow Sign.
Cue Music End of Episode