Silence reigned.
Simone’s light came back on. “Where are you?”
Cassiopeia sought cover behind a small clump of rocks away from the water’s edge. Not all that tall, so she had to lie flat on the damp ground, hunching behind. What she needed was Beláncourt’s gun. But she could not risk darting out in the open. Simone would spot her quickly with the flashlight. What would happen then was anybody’s guess. Better to stay still and quiet.
Not a sound came from Beláncourt.
The situation was tight, but not dire. She’d found herself in worse before. Luckily, a weapon was within reach, but it would take some doing to get it.
The gleam of Simone’s light jerked from one spot to another.
Searching.
“He’s dead, Simone,” she called out.
The light came her way and zeroed in. She stayed low, behind the rocks. To get her, Simone would have to come through the water, closer.
“He was aiming a gun at me. He threatened to kill me. I was entirely justified in protecting myself.”
“Yes, you were. He made his intentions clear.”
“But I don’t hate him. It’s wrong to hate anyone. He simply has no understanding of the things I do. We once loved each other. We were happy. Our marriage was good. He just could not understand the depth of my beliefs.”
She decided to keep her talking. “Were you Cathar when you married?”
“No. It came later, as I obtained my doctorate and learned more and more about the Good Ones. Their message resonated with me. I became a devotee. Eventually, I received the Consolamentum from an older woman and became Perfecti. When she died, I became the senior Perfecti. I look after the others. They depend on me. I never intended on becoming pregnant. I took measures to ensure it would not happen. But it still did. It was the work of Satan. Part of what he does. It had to end. So I ended it.”
“Why don’t we leave here and call the police? I’ll back up your claim of self-defense. You still have much work to do, and now you have The Truth.”
Simone stood at the water’s edge and stared across the dark chamber at where Vitt had taken refuge. Just beyond the stream, ten meters away. The papist was dead. Good riddance. But what of Vitt? Was she an ally? Or an enemy? She sounded like the former. But could she take the chance of finding out?
One hand held the flashlight, the other the gun.
The backpack lay before her on the ground.
She recalled the words from The Truth.
From this comes the basis for our service to God, in that we may fulfill His works, or rather, that God may consummate through us that which He proposes and wishes to be done.
Her service seemed clear.
She said, “All right, let’s leave and go to the police.”
Cassiopeia was no fool.
That concession came way too easy, especially from a person who’d just shot a man in cold blood. Sure, Beláncourt had a gun, but she’d now concluded that he was not going to use it, no matter how threatening he may have been. The man was a billionaire with a massive corporation. He was not going to throw all that away just to kill his ex-wife. He’d come to deprive her of having the manuscript, whether by taking or destroying it. No matter. There’d be no crime there.
Only satisfaction.
Simone, though, was a different matter. She was unhinged, and her offer that they leave and go to the police rang hollow. For someone so obviously competent in matters of history, it seemed inconceivable that she’d be so ill prepared here.
And she had not been.
The woman had come armed.
In the wash of the beam that swept over her, she spotted Beláncourt’s gun about two meters away, exposed, out in the open, on the floor. She readied the flashlight in her left hand, thumb on the on/off switch.
Everything had to happen fast.
She switched on the light, aimed it up and over the rock toward Simone, its bright beam right in the other woman’s eyes. Using that instant of confusion, she kept the light pointed and lunged to her right, toward the gun.
Simone was partially blinded by the searing light burning her eyes. Instinctively, she raised the hand holding the flashlight to block the incoming rays, the hand with the gun thrust forward.
Firing.
Toward the source of the problem.
Cassiopeia moved right, keeping the light aimed across the shallow pond. Simone fired twice, but at her former position, not where she was now, two meters away with her hand gripping Beláncourt’s weapon. Simone seemed to rebound from the momentary blindness, her light beam searching, then finding Cassiopeia.
But she was ready.
Gun aimed.
Trigger pulled.
The first shot caught Simone in the chest.
The second sent her down.
The other flashlight dropped away and rolled on the floor, finding the water, where it rested, partially submerged.
She’d not wanted to do that, but there’d been no choice.
She came to her feet and walked across the pond. Simone lay flat, her dead eyes boring up into the ceiling.
She shook her head.
“There was no need,” she whispered. “None at all.”
But reason had played little part in what had just happened.
Just action and reaction.
She reached down and closed Simone’s eyes, hoping she’d found the God of Good. Then she lifted the backpack with the manuscript and returned to where Beláncourt lay dead. Murdered. She felt for him. He’d lost a child through no choice of his own. Which obviously changed his life.
And not for the better.
Neither he nor Simone had been willing to concede a thing.
A sadness filled the quiet.
One that signaled forgiveness?
Probably not.
Killing someone came with repercussions, one she’d feel in the days ahead, though there’d been no choice. She should use the rest of her blasting caps and seal them both here for eternity. But that would not be smart. A man like Beláncourt would be missed. People would come looking. Questions asked. Better to deal with what happened head on. She wondered though if anyone would miss Simone Forte. Would the believers? If so, who would look after them?
Hard to say.