Then the sound that made her flinch; the felon was tampering with the doorknob and finding the door locked, he seemed to step away and maybe preparing to shoot the lock open. Feeling the pressure of her finger squeezing against the trigger and wondering whether the weapon would discharge, an abrupt noise she wasn’t expecting confused her and her mind toppled over an emotional chasm.
*~*~*~*
BOOK TWO
Chapter 39
Scowling, bleak and dejected eyes pierced the second floor window, torturing a short path down to a solid stone seawall thick enough to deflect huge waves whipped up by winter storms and stave off the icy kiss of the famously chilling Bise wind. The full intention engineered into the antique carved barricade was to keep the tiny island property—not much bigger than a suburban block—comparatively safe from Lac Léman’s most treacherous of moods. It was difficult to imagine the peaceful expanse of relatively fresh and idle green water raising its delicate hand into a troubled clenched fist and battering everything in its path with antagonised winter waves of grey rage. The all too familiar seasonal storms wreaked havoc along Lac Léman’s expansive shoreline and turned the stunning beauty of the Montreux Riviera into a frozen splintered catastrophe.
A passing steamboat whistle drifted across the mirror-like lake and disturbed his morose thoughts, refocusing instead on the peaceful scene and allowing the storms of fancy to drift solemnly by. Then with a dismal flick of his head, he scanned every direction as far as the window pane would allow and traced the borders of the tiny island property. With Lac Léman zealously guarding the estate’s outline traced by her majestic watery hand, the island boundaries were easily discernable by an ornately crafted stone barrier hedge keeping the teasing emerald princess directly behind the stern protective dikes. Immediately in front of a commanding window pane and at the edge of the barrier wall, a set of impressive carved stone steps divided the island’s defences and gently descended from the villa’s front door, languishing down into the calm, deep and inviting waters of Lac Léman. Through the generations, the rocky manmade island existed aloof and detached a few hundred metres from the mainland and a stone’s throw from the village of Clarens. Its character remained guarded and shy while the only available access to the island’s protected borders was still by small boat.
Enticed by an unpleasant memory and from his position gazing around the extravagant island property, the teen’s mood had taken a deeper melancholy turn after an earlier antagonised battle with a hardnosed business man. Assured of his own tactical ability and with a purported gift of discernment, the teen seldom lost a business contest. But this time his opponent was a worthy challenger and had countered every move the confident youngster had made, trapping him in his own strategy. Replaying the humiliating defeat over and over in his dejected mind, he tried to redirect the awkward scene by contemplating why the expansive lake had two names: Lac Léman for the French Swiss and Lake Geneva for everyone else. Baffled and confused by the discrepancy, the teen’s mind unwillingly drifted back once again to the embarrassing battle, attempting to persuade the island’s proprietor to release his grip on the property’s deed, accept the offered price and transfer the ownership under the RoMac Family Discipleship’s banner.
Watching the interchange from a distance and with great amusement, Robere’s grey kaftan-framed image finally stepped in, placating the obstinate out-of-control vendor with a simple, but disarming, smile. At first the island’s owner took umbrage at the interference from the weirdly outfitted man. Seconds later, however, Robere had wooed the older man with his hypnotising eyes, calming presence and authoritative persona, gently prying the stubborn man’s grip from the title while salvaging the situation with great ease and immediately diffusing the tense standoff.
The deal had closed amicably with the older man gushing all over Robere and offering all kinds of further incentives, trying to pilfer from the enchanting rivers of charisma oozing from the tall, longhaired and bearded man and selfishly confining it in a psychological bottle for later enjoyment. But the older man seemed to be perfectly unaware that strong charismatic auras have a consistency of smoke and away from its source, the power evaporates into the unpleasant scent of betrayal and disappears abruptly into thin air.
Exasperated by his failure and Robere’s effortless rescue, the teen drew in a determined breath, assuring himself next time he would be more like Robere in his dealings: cool, calm and in control, never letting the situation get under his skin.
The second floor view offered a secluded and dreamy outlook. Unhindered vistas stretched across the expansive gentle surface of Lac Léman to the small Suisse border outpost of Saint-Gingolph located on the opposite shore of neighbouring France and less than fourteen kilometres away. The view was stunning and lulled the brooding teen until a downstairs door suddenly slammed, reverberating up the wooden staircase and echoing into the hall. He jumped at the sudden noise, rudely returning his thoughts to the lavish room.
Intent on giving the panorama a final glance before moving on to inspect another part of the luxury villa, he quickly swept the upstairs dining area with a searching glance and mentally checked the well appointed setting for thirteen people. Then the young professional made a purposeful gait for the dining room door heading for the bedrooms, kitchen, conference hall and lastly, the small island’s perfectly manicured gardens. Focussed on inspecting the ground floor bedrooms first, the teen navigated a wooden staircase deeply stained with the rich texture of dark walnut, highly polished and preserved with an ancient lacquered finish and velvety smooth under hand. His steps seemed hollow and exaggerated, amplified by the timber structure, announcing to the deserted villa his whereabouts and boisterously uncovering every purposeful step he took.
Reaching the ground floor rung, his eyes searched the vivacious surrounds, finally settling on a closed cherrywood door and the master bedroom. Outside, the wind had picked up a little and began to rattle the locked glass entry door, stirring the peaceful expression of Lac Léman into a disturbed tinder ash colour, driving a herd of small white-maned waves onto the crafted steps and splashing turbulent cold water spray against the villa’s resilient exterior. Breaking the seal from the vast entry hall into the main bedroom with a calculated twist of the door handle, the teen swept in, breathing deeply and tasting the confined and pent-up dank of historic walls. He knew something of the villa’s nineteenth century birth and the seedy exotic parties hosted in the isolated halls and it baffled him why Robere was so purposeful in acquiring the strange refuge and paying such a hefty price to secure it. But most things Robere did made no sense until the purpose was discovered much later, flooding the situation with profound wisdom and vindicating his actions with unbridled astuteness.
Searching the ostentatious bedroom centrepiece—a skilfully carved and imposing antique four-poster bed complete with luxurious velvet blackout curtains—gave the impression of a room within a room and leaving no possibility of being disturbed by prying eyes. Satisfied the space appeared to be in order, he closed the bedroom door with a reverent plunk, resealing the ancient crafted furnishings within its enigmatic boundaries.
On his way to the next arena and passing by a stately window commanding an unhindered view of the property’s private backyard, an odd sight arrested his steps and he stopped to investigate the scene. A man, seemingly covered by a grey blanket, lay face down and unmoving upon the manicured lawn, prompting outrage within the flabbergasted teen. How dare the homeless move in to the boundaries of the island property even before its rightful owners have inspected their new purchase. Seething with indignation, the young man grabbed the back door handle, preparing to evict the untidy addition to the property’s inventory and if need be, making the trespasser swim back to the mainland.
As the teen’s harsh footsteps approached the vagrant, recognition made a judgement call, planting the aggressive youngster solidly to the spot. “Robere! I... I didn’t know you were coming to the island. How did you get
here? I have the boat.”
The tall, prostrate figure slowly shook off the worshipping pose and bounced to his feet, smiling broadly and drawing the younger man with his electric personality. “It’s beautiful isn’t it, Maestro?” Robere’s hands raised to heaven and his body swivelled on the spot, gesturing the property boundaries. “We should always show our appreciation and thankfulness to God and invite Him into any new venture we depart on. This will be our family’s new home and many good things will come from here. I can just feel it. Switzerland is a taste of the Father’s Heaven and a replica of His sanctuary on Earth. Did you know that, Maestro?”
The teen nodded at the older man with obvious awe, his heart and mind stolen by the encapsulating charismatic.
But then Robere’s expression changed to an emotionless poker face and demanded, “How are the preparations going for our new family?”
Stunned by the unexpected question, the teen was taken off guard and stuttered, “A... all is well, Robere, and going exactly as you prophesied.”
*~*~*~*
Chapter 40
Chantal reclined in a black leather lounge chair, her bare feet resting on an expensive glass-topped coffee table and watching silent images dancing meaninglessly across an enormous flat-screened television. Inside the presidential suite, the monitor took up a complete section of a vast wall but the sound had been muted, allowing Madame to rest unaffected by the electronic garble leaking from the machine. The slender and attractive young woman had been on guard duty all morning, fielding visitors away from her unwell charge and patiently waiting for the arrival of Doctor Bonnet.
For a moment, her eyes diverted from the glamorous impressions flickering across the screen and focused instead on her tiny shoeless feet resting on the coffee table, her gaze resolutely examining her shapely toes while her memory recalled another image. The pleasing dark and contoured facial features, curly black hair and dazzling white teeth with an unassuming nose that turned up at the end in a cheeky, pixie-like pose all added to the allure. Niccolo Visintino was the typical image of a teenage rock star, smooth and deadly to any young woman foolishly drawn into the flashy vision. Although Chantal felt the stirrings of attraction, she didn’t appreciate his aggressive stance challenging her authority, especially around Madame. It seemed Niccolo’s popularity and personality had a manufactured feel to it. Everywhere she turned the paparazzi had captured another view of the impressive Italian performer and plastered it across every electronic billboard and radio space available. Yet the apparition remained unimpressive and relied on musical fantasy and hypnotised mass emotion to elevate the man into a laudable and treacherous idol.
A pleasant scent of happily blooming roses drifted into the lounge room and interrupted Niccolo’s character study. Monsieur’s extravagant gift to Madame of three hundred red roses and a diamond-studded bracelet had stolen Madame’s breath away and left Chantal wishing she could find a man like that to lavish his love on her. It had taken her many anxious moments to settle Madame’s questions, promising Doctor Bonnet would be here soon and all would make sense when he reinstated her medication regime. The busy morning had upset and confused Madame Trudeau, but she had easily fallen asleep again in the company of many red smiling faces and their exquisite perfume.
As sleep pervaded Madame’s conscious mind and pulled the blinds on the troubling situation, the diamond bracelet slipped through her gentle fingers and calmly settled beside her hand on the luxurious bedspread. Momentarily admiring the sparkling jewels, Chantal lifted the extravagant gift into her hand, realising the bracelet would easily be worth more than a lifetime’s wage for a working woman. Then placing the gift onto Madame’s bedside table and making sure Madame was peacefully asleep, she backed out of the oversized bedroom and steered a deliberate course for the lounge and the company of the television screen.
Close by, an elaborately decorated wall phone chimed into the peaceful scene, drawing Chantal’s attention away from her thoughts and causing her to jump from the leather chair to answer the interference before it woke Madame. Placing the receiver to her ear, Chantal’s ire quickly melted. “Oui, I see. Thank you very much and please tell Clayton not to bang on the door; Madame is asleep!” she hissed threateningly.
Moments later, the expected knock alerted Chantal to Clayton’s presence. Gliding through the lounge room and glancing into the main bedroom on her way to the suite door, Chantal confirmed Madame was still asleep and then continued on to allow Doctor Bonnet and Clayton access to the lavish hotel apartment. As Chantal opened the heavy access door, she was immediately confronted by Clayton’s mountainous blue-uniformed figure overshadowing the shorter and balding older man standing expectantly next to Madame’s hulking minder.
“Nice to see you sober and awake for once,” Clayton’s teasing voice gibed and unloaded a shot across her bow before Chantal could even raise her figurative weapon.
“Shuddup, Clayton, you’ll get me into trouble!” Chantal whispered fiercely. ”Besides, you were the instigator of pizza and wine knowing full well it puts me to sleep,” Chantal flushed red trying to defend herself in front of Doctor Bonnet. “Please come in, Doctor Bonnet. Madame is in the master bedroom but she’s still asleep.”
Amused at the interplay between the two rivals, Doctor Bonnet nodded and then entered the suite; but before Clayton had a chance to follow the esteemed physician, Chantal tried to slam the door in his face. Swiftly jamming his foot in the door space, the door bounced off his shiny black boot and stuttered open again.
“Sorry, Clayton, I didn’t see you there!” Chantal smiled mockingly, but Clayton returned fire with a disbelieving twist of his head and a sly grin. Retribution would be sweet.
A three-person conference gathered around the door to Madame’s bedchamber, glancing in to the sleeping form and discussing the circumstances surrounding Doctor Bonnet’s latest visit. The lively discussion had an unintended effect and Madame stirred, twisting her body in a attempt to understand the annoying noise and find the gently sloping path back into dreamland. The sudden movement from the sleeping celebrity interrupted the huddle and the group moved to another room to continue their discussion. Doctor Bonnet listened intently to Chantal’s observations and on occasion she enlisted Clayton’s support and what he had seen, too. When it came to Madame and her wellbeing, both Chantal and Clayton were one in agreement and supported each other’s stories with eager participation.
“What’s all the whispering about?!” a tired voice startled the group from behind while the voice’s owner tied the rich fabric threads of a soft white dressing gown across her slender midriff.
All three people jumped to attention and began to talk over each other as if the queen had walked into the room and immediately fussed around Angelina, settling her into a comfortable chair as if she was about to keel over. Angelina recognised the tall handsome Clayton immediately, smiling directly at him and stunning him silent, still remembering his kindness and tender attention to her comfort and protection. Then her gaze settled onto Chantal kneeling next to her chair, taking Madame’s hand like an overprotective mother looking after a sick child.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed, Madame,” Chantal chided gently.
Accepting the younger woman’s hand as if she was searching for surety in a confusing world, Angelina asked the logical question but she figured she knew the answer. “Who is this gentleman?”
Doctor Bonnet scowled down at Madame and then searched his two colleagues. “It’s worse than I suspected. You have no recognition of me at all, Angelina?!”
Angelina examined the balding professional intently, looking for any signs of familiarity and then shook her head. “Should I?”
The doctor sighed heavily. “This is what happens, Madame, when you stubbornly take yourself off your medication against your doctor’s advice! Your condition needs to be steadily monitored and adjusted even when you are feeling fine!”
The annoyance in the doctor’s voice was evident,
but Angelina wasn’t buying his drift and remained unconvinced. “And just what is my condition, Doctor?!” Angelina challenged heatedly, still holding Chantal’s hand for vital support.
Doctor Bonnet sighed again and knew in the next few moments he would most likely be fired by Angelina, only to be reinstated by Armon a few days later. With nothing to lose, his tone abruptly stiffened, “It’s obvious you’ve lost a certain portion of your memory, young lady, but that confounded Italian stubborn streak is still alive and well!”
Angelina appeared shocked at the doctor’s brash response, but the candid speech somehow won her confidence. Maybe there was something wrong with her and just maybe he could help to unravel the confusing mystery nagging at her mind. With a softer and less challenging approach, Angelina whispered, “Please help me to understand what’s happening to me.”
The bewildered and frightened, childlike voice stabbed at the hearts of those in the room with Chantal’s clasp tightening around Angelina’s hand in a shielding act of maternal tenderness.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 41
Long afternoon shadows hung lazily over the summer day, gradually toning bright orange hues to purple and then to delicate rose coloured twilight. Mountain peaks shaded the vast expanse of Lac Léman from the sinking sun and finally settled the Montreux Riviera into a stunning balmy peach hue. In the growing night the festival crowds ambled together, mingling from one musical distraction to another and stopping at every vendor’s stall along the congested stretching quays to investigate their wares.
The gossip resonating through Montreux’s music world centred on the success of the Sticky Lizards and Niccolo Visintino’s new songs. Owing to their rising popularity, some lesser attractive gigs scheduled for the Auditorium Stravinski had been ‘inadvertently’ cancelled, instead opening further opportunity for Niccolo and the band to wow the crowds and fill the coffers of the concert venue. Available seats sold out in minutes once the booking office advertised their intentions.