Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) by Lawrence Kelter Read Free Book Online Page A

piece of paper. He laid it down on the conference table. Sure enough, four lines of script were scrawled in crayon. Admittedly, the handwriting was poor, but there was no disputing that the language was French. I remember a little of it from high school, Bonjour, Jean. Ou est la biblioteque? —kind of like that. "Incredible."
    "Are either of you familiar with the term 'quatrain'?" Ambler turned from Lido to me, hoping for an answer.
    Quatrain, quatrain, now why did that sound familiar? My first instinct was to say that I didn't know it, that it only sounded like something I had heard, but it gnawed at me and I wouldn't give up. I searched my college brain for one of those so called nuggets I had stored away. Not because I thought it would be useful, but because it sounded interesting. Quatrain, quatrain? Ambler was staring at me. I guess he could see the wheels turning. And then I found it, tucked away on the deepest, dustiest shelf—I could see the heading on the blackboard in my old philosophy class, 'The Form of the Prophet,' white chalk on a green slate. 'Quatrain, a four line verse.' I read the words written in crayon before me, the words written by an autistic teenage boy.
    Le lion jeune le vieux surmontera,
    En champ bellique par singulier duelle:
    Dans caige d'or les yeux lui crevera,
    Deux classes une, puis mourir, mort cruelle.
    The translation came back to me. It was a prophecy, foretelling the tragic death of King Henry II, a prophecy that more or less had come true.
    The young lion will overcome the older one,
    In a field of combat in single fight:
    He will pierce his eyes in their golden cage;
    Two wounds in one, then he dies a cruel death.
    It was sixteenth century verse, used by the most studied prophet of all time.
    Ambler must've sensed that I had it. I opened my mouth to speak, but he was already letting it out. "Manuel Nazzare," he said, "is the last living descendent of Michel de Nostradame…. Nostradamus."

Nine—HASTE
     
    Helen Gillette's employment application had just come over the fax from New York University Medical Center's HR department. It detailed her experience and education, but more importantly, it gave us her current address. We were on that like a politician on an uncommitted voter.
    Lido, Ambler, and I jumped into the car and took off, full tilt, lights and sirens all the way—warrant in hand. I knew there was little chance of finding Helen Gillette at home, waiting patiently to entertain us, muffins fresh from the oven, tea set out on the cozy. I did hope, however, that the address was real and that we'd find evidence of value during our search. I was praying we hadn't troubled a Federal judge for a warrant that yielded absolutely nothing.
    Lido gunned the accelerator, propelling us up Broadway at frightening speed. I pulled out the faxed copy of Helen's employment application. The way Lido was driving, it was better to keep my eyes off the road. I just hoped he didn't bounce into any unmovable objects along the way, like a city sanitation truck or a Pakistani cabbie taking his fare for a ride—yes, that's exactly what I mean.
    The Nostradamus thing was killing me. I knew what I heard but I refused to believe it. "So, Gus, you believe this thing about Nostradamus?"
    "Get real."
    "You mean no."
    "That's right, no."
    "No, you don't believe it?"
    "That's what I said. Why, you believe it?"
    "Not for a second."
    So much for the dear departed prophet—no takers in this car.
    Helen Gillette was a scant two weeks from her twenty-fourth birthday. She was born in Culver City, California, and had been living on the West Side for three years. I knew the location, the low rent district off Tenth Avenue, not far from the Jacob Javits Center. I had a picture of the block in my mind, rows of small tenement apartments and one more thing. "Quick, close the window," I shouted. Lots of the Hanson Carriages were garaged there—the street was lined with horse poop from one end to the other. What can I