Nick had never touched or seen a gun up close. His family was not into them. This one was big and black, and looked heavy.
揑t抯 a Colt,?Charlie said, gripping the stock with both hands. 揕ike in the westerns.?Charlie raised the gun and pointed it at a tree. 揥e抮e ready now for whatever抯 in there.?
It happened fast.
So quick that Nick never realized until it was far too late.
Marvin reached for the weapon, saying he wanted to hold it. Charlie resisted, swinging the gun around and yelling no. The arc of his pivot pointed the barrel, only for an instant, straight at Marvin, but long enough for the trigger to accidentally be pulled.
The bullet plowed into the young boy抯 chest.
Then exploded out from the back.
Nick could still see the blood spray from the exit wound and the look of fright in his friend抯 eyes, then the body folding to the ground, as if in slow motion. Charlie had stood there, in shock, before tossing the gun aside and running away. Nick had been in shock too, but quickly ran over to Marvin, hoping he might be okay. He抎 shaken his friend, trying to rouse him, but nothing happened. Color drained from the face. No breathing. No movement. Nothing. Only lots of blood. He抎 seen only one dead body before that day, his grandfather抯 at the funeral, and the ashen shade that quickly appeared reminded him of that corpse.
Marvin Royster was dead.
The gun had been an M1911, more popularly known as a Colt 1911, a single-action, semi-automatic, recoil-operated pistol, chambered for a .45-caliber cartridge. Standard issue for the US armed forces from 1911 to 1985. Widely used in World War I, World War II, the Korean and Vietnam Wars. Charlie抯 father had served in Vietnam and kept the weapon both as a memento and for protection. He抎 also filed down the trigger, as was common with those who抎 served, reducing the amount of pressure needed to pull it. Something his twelve-year-old son would have never known, or understood.
A horribly tragic accident.
Nick kept walking up the path toward the abbey.
He still hadn抰 seen the motherhouse, which was much farther up. He also hadn抰 passed anyone else going either up or down. No surprise there, as a placard below had indicated that the abbey was closed for the day. He was eating his sandwiches, drinking the water, and thinking back.
It always happened when he hiked.
He ultimately joined the army, became an MP, then went to work for the FBI. Guns had been a part of all his training. He knew how to handle a weapon and was a pretty good shot on the range. But truth be known, he hated them. One killed his friend Marvin Royster, which his other friend Charlie Minter had to live with until the day came years later when Charlie took his own life.
With a gun.
So far, he抎 never drawn a weapon in the line of duty. And he only carried one when absolutely necessary. Reynaldo had authorized that he be armed and a weapon had been waiting in the chopper. A semi-automatic pistol with two spare magazines. But he抎 left them all there. What awaited him at the end of this path?
Impossible to say.
But he wasn抰 going to shoot anybody.
Chapter 56
Kelsey had managed to tumble in and out of sleep, her mind roaming unrestrained. When she woke for good, Sister Ellen was driving with Isabel in the passenger seat and it was daytime. The dashboard clock read 12:20. She抎 been out awhile. Amazing, really, considering the situation. The computer still rested on her lap. Outside the car windows she saw trees and mountains.
揥here are we??she asked.
揘ot far from the motherhouse, in southern France,?Isabel said. 揧ou slept a long time.?
揑 was more tired than I realized.?
They抎 made a stop hours ago, before she fell asleep, for food and a bathroom, which she抎 appreciated. What she抎 discovered within the original Just Judges panel still filled her brain. Was she right? Were the two faces the same? Pointing the way to a building?
It might never be clear why Jef Van der Veken painted over the original Just Judges and handed it off as a reproduction. Had he been part of the theft? After the suspected thief died of a heart attack in late 1934, had he been stuck with the panel and, so as to not be implicated, painted over and returned it, thereby preserving the original masterpiece and not implicating himself?
That made the most sense.
Then there was the poem Van der Veken painted on the back side. I did it for love. And for duty. And to avenge myself. I borrowed from the dark side.
Considering what she now knew, that seemed like a confession.
But none of those whys really mattered anymore.
The fact remained that the original had existed, she抎 photographed it, and, most important, two of the faces were identical, something Van der Veken might not have even noticed given the original panel抯 horrendous condition at the time. No way those two faces being the same was simply a fifteenth-century mistake. Jan van Eyck didn抰 make mistakes. And, another fact, no other character on the altarpiece held anything like a pointer.