"You saw La Bête?" Brother Gaspar asked.

"Yes."

"Was it – " he hesitated " – alive?"

"No. It was dead. Very dead. A warrior killed it."

"A warrior?" Excitement flared through Brother Gaspar. The old stories were true. The knowledge offered validation for all the years he had spent at the monastery. "How do you know a warrior killed it?"

"Because he was still there."

"The warrior?"

"Yes, master."

"He was dead, as well?" Brother Gaspar doubted the man could have been in any other shape, but just knowing the story was true and knowing all the arcane things connected with it, he felt compelled to ask.

"Yes, master. It looked as though he and La Bête had fought and killed each other."

Brother Gaspar felt the air in the cave grow thicker than normal. "Did you examine La Bête's body or that of the warrior?" he asked.

"I did. But only for a short time. The cavern was shaking. The earthquake was still going on. Luckily, I got out before the cavern closed."

"It closed?"

"Yes, master."

"You could find this place again?"

The young monk nodded. "But it would do no good, master. The earth has sealed the cave tightly." He paused. "Perhaps a quake another day will reveal it again."

"We will watch for this, then," Brother Gaspar said. His hand caressed his throat. "When you looked at the warrior, did you see anything?"

"You mean the necklace?"

Brother Gaspar's heart beat sped up. "Yes," he replied in a hoarse whisper.

The necklace was the greatest secret of them all.

"The American woman carried a necklace from the cave," the young monk said.

"You followed her?" Brother Gaspar asked.

"As far as I could," the young monk agreed. "She was pursued."

"By who?"

"Lesauvage's men."

That announcement poured ice water into the old monk's veins. "How did they get there?"

"They followed the woman. I only happened to be in the mountains when I saw her with the old man."

"What old man?" Brother Gaspar was alarmed.

"I do not know, master."

Brother Gaspar went through the sheets of pictures. "Is he in these?"

"Sadly, no. I thought I took his picture, but when I developed the images, I found I had not."

Brother Gaspar, whose life had been so carefully ordered for so very long, felt very unsettled. He didn't like the fact that Lesauvage's men had been so close to the discovery of La Bête or that his monks had merely been lucky.

When he had found out about the American television person, he had dismissed her at once. Chasing History's Monsterswas pure entertainment and a complete waste of time. No one doing research for such a show presented any threat to uncovering his secrets. Or so he had believed.

"Who has the necklace now?" Brother Gaspar asked.

"The woman, I think." Brother Napier looked flustered. "Lesauvage's men gave pursuit, but the American woman and the old man shot back at them and escaped."

"Where is the American woman?"

"She was staying in Lozère. I don't know where."

Lamenting that he hadn't given more thought to the threat the woman might have posed, Brother Gaspar sighed. "Find her. Find out if she still has the necklace."

"And if she does, master?"

"Take it from her and bring it to me."

"Of course." Brother Napier bowed and backed out of the room.

Resentfully, Brother Gaspar glared at the table. His nearly completed letter sat there.

It would have to be rewritten, of course. And he would have to call the bishop. Perhaps, Brother Gaspar thought, he would soon be free of his prison.

Chapter 7

INSPECTOR RICHELIEU'S office was neat and compact. Not the kind of office Annja expected of a working policeman. She'd seen cop's offices before. None of them were this pristine.

She wondered if maybe Richelieu was gay or lived with his mother. Or perhaps he was a control freak. A personality trait like that was a real relationship killer.

Not that Annja was looking for a relationship. But the inspector did have nice eyes and nice hands. Her mind wandered for a moment.

"Have a seat," Richelieu invited, waving to the chair across from his tiny metal desk.

Annja sat. In the too neat office, she felt dirty and grimy. Outside in the main office with the other policemen, she'd felt that she belonged. Now she wanted a hot bath and a change of clothing. And food. She suddenly realized she was starving.

"I gave a statement to one of the officers," Annja said.

"I know." Richelieu sat on the other side of the desk. "I read it. Both versions."

While waiting for something – anything – to happen, Annja had written up her statement herself in addition to the one the policeman had taken. She hadn't trusted his eye for detail. Or his ear.

"Your penmanship and your French are exquisite," Richelieu commented.

"Thanks," Annja said, "but I wasn't here for a grade."

Richelieu smiled. "I've also been investigating the supposed site of the chase down the mountain."

"Supposed?" Annja echoed.

"Yes." The inspector looked concerned for a moment. "Would you prefer to speak in English? I'm quite good at it and perhaps it would be easier."

"French is fine," Annja said.

"I thought perhaps you hadn't understood."

"I understood perfectly." Annja put an edge to her words. Getting dismissed out of hand in the field of archaeology because she was a woman was something she'd had to deal with often. She didn't take it lightly. "There was no 'supposed' chase site. It was there. Along with two or three dead men."

Richelieu waited a moment, then shook his head. "No dead men."

Annja thought about that. "Perhaps Lesauvage had the bodies picked up."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," Annja replied. "I came here to you to find out why he would send men looking for me in the first place."

"Do you know that he sent the men?"

"I overheard one of the men say that they were working for Lesauvage."

"But you don't know that they, in fact, did."

"Why would they say they were if they weren't?"

The inspector looked amused and perplexed. "I'm quite sure I wouldn't know."

"I could ask Lesauvage," Annja said.

"I thought you didn't know him."

"Maybe you could introduce us," Annja suggested with a smile. The inspector wasn't the only one who could play games. He was just the only one at the moment with some reason to.

A sour smile pulled at Richelieu's lips. He pulled at his left ear. "You're intimating that I have some kind of personal relationship with Lesauvage?"

Returning his gaze full measure, Annja asked, "Are you sure speaking French works for you? Maybe English translates more plainly."

Richelieu scowled. "I didn't come here to listen to disparaging remarks directed at me, Miss Creed."

"I didn't come here to cool my heels for three hours, then get patted on the head and sent away."

Opening the slim notebook computer on his desk, Richelieu opened a file that displayed several pictures. "We investigated the site. I took these pictures. I found expended cartridges, bullets in the trees and scorch marks." He paused. "No bodies. No motorcycles."