CHAPTER 46
Mark Nelle opened his eyes.
He was no longer eight thousand feet high in the French Pyrenees, wearing spike shoes and carrying a pick, hiking a rough trail.
He was inside a room of stone and wood with a blackened beamed ceiling.
The man standing over him was tall and gaunt with gray fuzz for hair and a silver beard as thick as fleece.
The man’s eyes were a peculiar shade of violet that he could not recall ever having seen before.
“Careful,” the man said in English. “You’re still weak.”
“Where am I?”
“A place that has been for centuries one of safety.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Abbey des Fontaines.”
“That’s miles from where I was.”
“Two of my subordinates were following you and made a rescue when the snow began to engulf you. I am told the avalanche was quite intense.”
He could still feel the mountain as it shook, its summit disintegrating like a great cathedral falling apart.
An entire ridge had shattered above him, and snow had poured down as blood would from an open wound.
The chill still gripped his bones. Then he recalled tumbling downward.
But had he heard the man standing over him right?
“Men were following me?”
“I ordered it. As with your father before you, sometimes.”
“You knew my father?”
“His theories always interested me. So I made a point to know both him and what he knew.”
He tried to sit up from the bed, but his right side jarred with electric pain. He winced and clutched at his stomach.
“You have broken ribs. I too broke mine once, in youth. It hurts.”
He’d noticed the white cassock and rope sandals. “This is a monastery?”
“It is the place you have been seeking.”
He was unsure how to respond.
“I am master of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. We are the Templars. Your father sought us for decades. You too have sought us. So I decided the time was finally right.”
“For what?”
“That is for you to decide. But I am hoping you choose to join us.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Your life is, I am sorry to say, in utter chaos. You miss your father more than you could ever voice and he has been dead a long six years now. You are estranged from your mother, which is difficult in more ways than can be imagined. Professionally, you are not satisfied. You have made some attempts to vindicate your father’s unconventional beliefs, but have been unable to make much progress. ”
“What do you know of my father and mother?”
“I know much.”
Stephanie recalled what Mark had told both her and Cotton all those years ago. A lot of unique information. Things she’d never known. A hesitant thought—what was said after he finished—crept into her mind.
As painful now as then.
“I stayed in a bed for three weeks,” Mark said, “recovering from the avalanche. After, my movements were restricted to certain parts of the abbey, but the master and I spoke often. Finally, I agreed to stay on and took the oath.”
“Why would you do such a thing?” Stephanie asked.
“Let’s be realistic, Mother. You and I had not spoken in years. Dad was gone. The master was right. I was at a dead end. What I sought was there. So the master became a father to me. He was a kind, gentle man, full of compassion.”
She caught the message. “Unlike me?”
“Now is not the time for this discussion.”
“When would be a good time? I thought you were dead, Mark. But you were secluded in an abbey. You are as bad as your father.”
“That’s your problem,” Mark said. “You never knew anything about what Dad thought. You believed everything he sought was a fantasy, that he was wasting his talents. You never loved him enough to let him be himself. You thought he sought fame and treasure. No. He sought truth. Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again. That’s what interested him. ”
Stephanie collected her scattered senses and told herself not to react to the rebuke.
“Dad was a serious academician. His work had merit, he just never talked openly about what he really sought. People enjoyed reading about it in his books regardless of the embellishments. You were one of the few who didn’t.”
“Your father never found a thing. Never proved a thing. He only speculated what might be out there. Regardless, he and I tried to work through our differences.”
“How? By you telling him he was wasting his life, hurting his family? By telling him he was a failure?”
“All right, dammit, I was wrong.” Her voice was a shout.
“You want me to say it again? I was wrong. I screwed up. Is that what you want to hear? In my mind, you’ve been dead five years.
Now here you are, and all you want is for me to admit I was wrong.
Fine. If I could tell your father that, I would.
If I could beg his forgiveness, I would. But I can’t.”
The words were coming fast, emotion charging her, and she intended to say it all while she possessed the courage.
“I came here to see what I could do. To try to follow through on whatever your father and you thought important. That’s the only reason I came. I thought I was finally doing the right thing. But don’t shoot that sanctimonious crap at me anymore. You screwed up too.”
She slumped back in the chair and realized the gulf between them had just widened.
A shudder passed through her.
Thankfully, they’d bridged that gap and created a second chance for them both. Her husband was gone. But her son was alive and well.
She sat alone in her hotel room, working the problem, everything funneling through her as the decision maker.
With little to do at the moment, her mind had drifted to Mark.
As it had more and more of late. Was that a sign of age?
Maybe. She definitely needed to spend more time with her son.
That second chance they’d both been offered had proved rewarding.
No sense allowing anything to lapse. He was a good man, doing good things, and she was proud of him.
She just needed to say that out loud a little more.
Too often work and responsibility took precedence.
If she retired, then that would not be the case. Another good argument for walking away.
But not at the moment.
She’d briefed the prime minister, who was keeping the king informed. The Swedes were allowing her to handle the matter. And she was doing just that. So far everything had been contained and they wanted to keep it that way.
She would be sixty-nine on her next birthday.
She’d failed as a wife but had been granted a reprieve as a mother.
How was she as a girlfriend? Hard to say.
But Danny never complained. He was so different from Lars.
But she was older now. More seasoned. Experienced.
She’d dealt with so much. Presidents had trusted her with the most sensitive of problems. And she’d delivered, time and again.
The cost? A husband, family, and, for a while, a son. Love? Companionship? Definitely.
Maybe it was indeed time to walk away.
And consider herself.
For once.