Hounds of Hell - Chapter 3

                                       

Hounds of Hell

                                     
                                         

Chapter 3

                                           


Francois Delaflote flinched, startled by the ringing of his iPhone. At a quarter past ten he sat barefoot and unshaven in his study. Wearing a sleeveless undershirt and threadbare jeans, his expression begged, Leave me alone. The remnants of breakfast, consisting of an empty bottle of Château Haut-Brion and a dirty glass, sat on the small, round table next to his armchair.
        Irritated by the cell phone's vibration and muffled tones, he dug into the right pocket of his jeans, extracted the annoyance, and lifted it to his face, expecting the worst. "Bonjour . . ."                 
        "Francois Delaflote?"
        "Oui - Please tell me you are not another prying reporter."
        "A reporter?" The caller snorted, obviously amused. “I'm a singer, man, not a reporter. This is Damien Faust. I'm calling about something I think you’ve got. Something very old and mysterious, called, The Book.”
        Anesthetized by wine, Delaflote experienced little of the surprise one might expect in receiving a call from the lead singer of France's most famous rock band. He despised heavy-metal music, but knew of Faust through the news and entertainment industry's fixation with his escapades. Although unfazed by the caller's identity, he felt shaken almost to the point of sobriety to learn anyone suspected he possessed the ancient relic. 
        How would this screaming hellion know I have The Book? Delaflote straightened up in his chair and asked, “What are you talking about?” 
        “I'm talking about The Book, Monsieur Delaflote. You can plead ignorance, but I'm not gonna buy it.”
        “Then perhaps you should tell me what you think you know, Monsieur Faust.”
        “I know that Bradley Herrington bought it from Tatsuo Takahashi as a gift for Timothy Lynch. Takahashi wrote the best-seller, Hounds of Hell, which happens to be the name of my band. I met him at a book signing in Paris. He claimed his horror story about a book that could judge and take the souls of those who gazed upon its pages contained more fact than fiction.” 
        “And, do you not think he may have been having a little fun with one of his gullible readers?”
        Ignoring the slight, Faust continued, “Takahashi told me he inherited The Book from his father. He said at the age of twelve, he witnessed his grandfather being dragged into its pages while he screamed for help. Afterwards, his father told him that gramps once admitted to torturing dozens of American POWs during World War II. He figured that must have been what tagged the old soldier for eternal damnation."
        “I happened to have read Takahashi’s novel, Monsieur Faust. My employer was the CEO of the company that published Hounds of Hell. You are telling me things anyone would know if they read that novel. What have those things got to do with me?”
      "Well, after his little birthday soirée, I believe you walked into Lynch's parlor, just as you told the police, and discovered your employer and his head manservant were gone. Man, that must have been a shock."
        "I would say. . . unsettling," Delaflote admitted, unwilling to comment further.
        "You know what? I think you discovered something else that night, Monsieur Delaflote. I suspect you found The Book."
      "Really?" Hair prickled on the back of his neck as Delaflote's bloodshot eyes focused upon the object of Faust's desire. He felt its power. It held him in its grip for reasons he did not understand. A month after his employer's disappearance, he continued to spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the ancient tome. How could thirty days have gone by? Forcing himself to look away, his gaze wandered to the wine bottle. Before the day ended, this one and probably two more, would end up in the bottom of a trash can like so many others over the past month. After taking a deep breath he replied, “I'll tell you what I suspect, Monsieur Faust. I suspect you're high on something other than life."
        "Not today," Faust pressed on, unperturbed. "Let me be clear. I - want - that - book. I would've paid any price Tatsuo Takahashi asked, but he already sold it to Bradley Herrington for a paltry fifty-thousand Euros. I planned to offer your boss a hell of a lot more than that. Now, the question remains, who has The Book? I figure a certain security chief knows what happened to it. Maybe he picked it up and kept it for himself. Not to be insensitive, but I assume you are currently unemployed?"
        "Oui."
        "If you will deliver it to me, and feel you can prevent your next employer from suffering the same fate as your last, I'll hire you at double what you were paid by Monsieur Lynch. Additionally, I'll give you one-million Euros for The Book."
        A protracted silence ensued. Oddly, the thought of selling it sent a shiver down Delaflote's spine. The night he acquired The Book he tried to burn it. He prepared a roaring fire and tossed it into the midst of the burning embers. After the fire consumed every log, it emerged from the ashes with not so much as a singed page.
        He placed The Book on the top row of a shelf in his study and then, because it made him feel safer, placed the family Bible next to it. Finally, he decided to bury it, but with each passing day found himself unable to do so. He might have gone on for the rest of his life, waking up each morning, intending to rid himself of The Book and never doing it, if not for the call from Faust. Feeling a wave of relief, as if a terrible burden lifted from his shoulders and that somehow The Book approved of the idea, Francois Delaflote sighed heavily and replied, "It is yours."   
                                               

~        ~        ~     

                                           
        His latest prize, a gift for himself to celebrate his twenty-fourth birthday, lay on an ornate desk once owned by Napoleon Bonaparte, in the middle of the paneled, octagonal room he chose as his office. Tingling with excitement, the man promoted as The Savior of Rock and Roll stared at the package delivered by his new security chief. "What can I do with it?" he mused, rubbing his hands together in anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning with one big present under the tree. From the moment he laid eyes on it, he wanted to free the ancient book from its carefully constructed wooden case.
        "Monsieur Faust, you must not take lightly these words of warning." Wagging a finger, Francois Delaflote cautioned his employer, "The Book has history . . . dark, malevolent history. You might be better off never opening it. From what I have learned, only those souls unblemished by mortal sin can open it and not be brought to judgment." Damien had fashioned a reputation for being about as far from righteous as any man. Bizarre tales of his wanton debauchery, most unverifiable, were alternately vilified and glorified in Billboard and Rolling Stone.
        Accepting Damien's certified cashier's check, Francois stared at the succession of zeroes following the number one and sputtered, "Th-That is a lot of money, monsieur."
        Damien shrugged.
        Glancing at his watch, Francois requested that he be excused. "I have an appointment at the bank. It concerns my final check from the Lynch estate and the payment of my security team." He held up the cashier's check, adding, "Also, I will breathe easier when this is in the bank. I should be back in two or three hours. Please, you must promise me," he pointed at the crate, "you will not open it in my absence. When I return, we can discuss constructing a fitting reliquary for its display."
        Damien stared at the crate, at Delaflote, then back at the crate again before agreeing. "Yeah . . . okay. I won't open it."
        The thought struck Damien as Francois walked out, before the door to the office closed, What would happen if you exposed an entire concert audience to The Book? But how could he do that if he couldn't open it?
        When he closed his eyes to concentrate, the perfect answer echoed in his mind like a divine revelation. You could hire a priest or a nun. So clearly did he hear it, he opened his eyes and scanned the room thinking someone might have stepped in.
        A priest would be impressive on stage, his hands clasped together in supplication. But, a priest might be less effective than a nun. Nuns were perceived as being so pious. Not that a nun couldn't be promiscuous. Over the past two-thousand years, when it came to celibacy, many secretly shed their habits, no doubt, but their reputations remained less tarnished than priests and their altar boys.
        Damien smiled, imagining a chaste, plain-faced nun, all dressed in black. On a darkened stage, illuminated by a single beam of light, like a ray from heaven above, she could open The Book. Camera lenses would zoom in for a close-up of the pages. The images could be projected onto giant screens to the right and left of the stage. "All right, I like that." He chuckled.
        Properly advertised and orchestrated, with his manager's help he might be able to get the concert broadcast by HBO, worldwide. Ignited by the ancient relic's arrival, Damien Faust possessed a burning desire to create a never-to-be-forgotten performance, not only for those who would see it, but also for those who would not.     
                                                     
                                                   
Author's note:
Uh-oh, Mom always said TV and Rock and Roll were the devils tools!
To continue reading click on the link:

Hounds of Hell — Chapter 4   (18+) Meeting the band and the French Archbishop #1737110 by George R. Lasher

I always appreciate hearing from readers. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see.
Contact me here, on the writing.com website by emailing me at [e-mail]
or come check me out on Facebook. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625773285&aid=36414