© 2012 Gerald N. Lund.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company (
[email protected]), P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Part One: Danni
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two: Guardian
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Three: Rhodium
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part Four: El Cobra
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part Five: Flight
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Part Six: Spyware
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part Seven: Resistance
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Part Eight: Partnership
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Part Nine: Entrapment
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Part Ten: Confrontation
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Part Eleven: Fini
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Acknowledgements
Other Books By Gerald N. Lund
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lund, Gerald N., author.
The guardian / Gerald N. Lund.
pages cm
Summary: Thirteen-year-old Carruthers “Danni” McAllister receives an enchanted pouch as a birthday gift from her grandfather, which she must use to save her family from the deadly extortionist known as “El Cobra,” who is holding her family for a $20 million ransom.
ISBN 978-1-60907-246-9 (hardbound : alk. paper)
1. Kidnapping—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. World War, 1939–1945—
France—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.U485G83 2012
813'.54—dc23 2012034549
Printed in the United States of America
Worzalla Publishing Co, Stevens Point, WI
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Jewell G. and M. Evelyn Lund,
whose love of books left their posterity with a legacy
which continues to bless, enliven, and enrich the
generations who followed
Prologue
In the Rhine Valley
Near the border between France and Germany
Friday, October 13, 1871
She felt their presence long before she could see them. And what she felt was so dark and so horrible it sent shudders through her body. She knew what they were after, and she knew what they would do to get it. Though her lungs were on fire and her legs were ready to give out on her, she took her daughter’s hand in hers and pulled her gently forward.
“Only a little further, ma chérie,” she whispered. “Then you will be safe.”
Though confused by the events of the last half hour, the girl still had the presence of mind to notice that her mother had said, “You will be safe,” not “We will be safe.”
“No, Mama, don’t leave me.”
Faintly on the morning air, they heard the baying of dogs.
Holding tightly to her daughter’s hand, the mother broke into a stumbling run, plunging into the welcoming thickness of the forest ahead of them.
When they reached the top of the low ridge five minutes later, they stopped to catch their breath. They stayed within the deep shadows of the trees, but from their vantage point, they could see the whole sweep of the narrow valley below. At the far end was a cluster of homes surrounding the white steeple of the village church. Most of the homes had roofs of red tile, but here and there, a few were covered with thatch. Square patches of emerald-green vineyards were enclosed by meadowlands speckled with milk cows and stacked with round bales of hay. Farther on, forested hillsides were already splashed with the brilliant colors of autumn.
Below them to the left, about a kilometer away, they could see their own little homestead. The outbuildings crowding the thatched house looked like piglets nuzzling up to their mother for breakfast. The smoke from the breakfast fire rose in a nearly vertical line against the deep blue of the sky. It was a picture of beauty and serenity.
Except for the dark figures swarming around the house. There were half a dozen of them. Several carried rifles. Others held back hunting dogs that were straining at their leashes.
Two men burst out of the house, dragging a figure between them.
“Papa!” the girl gasped. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and began to cry.
Her mother held her daughter close, keeping her from seeing the torch arc upward, flipping over and over until it landed on the roof. Moments later flames began to spread through the thatch, sending up billowing black smoke.
Reaching out, the woman took her daughter by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Angelique! You must be strong, ma chérie.” Her grip tightened. “Your father would want you to be strong.”
Sniffing back the tears, she nodded.
The mother watched as the men formed up and started along the path that led in their direction. She could make out the dark form of a man lying on the ground near the front of the burning house. The mother kept her daughter turned to face her. “Listen to me carefully, child. We’re going to split up now and—”
“No, Mama!”
She shook her gently. “You must do as I say. Continue on this trail. In about two kilometers you will come to a village. Go around it. Do not go through it. Let no one see you.”
“The men will hurt you, Mama. They think you are a sorcière, an enchanteresse.”
“Angelique!” Her voice was sharp with urgency. “There is no time. I will lead the men deeper into the mountains, but once they realize you are not with me, they will come for you. It is you they seek. You are the one with the gift
. You must be far away by then.”
The girl started to cry again, but the urgency of their situation left no time for comfort. “At the bottom of the hill, you will come to a small creek. Walk in the water for as long as you can. The creek will lead you to a river. When you come to the river, turn north. Soon you will come to a bridge. Cross into France and follow the signs for Strasbourg. Before you reach the city, you will see a narrow road between two vineyards. Watch for the sign for Le Petit Château.”
Finally the girl realized that nothing she could say or do would deflect her mother from trying to save her life. “Yes, Mama,” she whispered.
“Follow the sign. Before you reach the village, you will see the château off to your left. Go there. Ask for Monsieur Alexandre Chevalier. When you find him, tell him your name and the names of your parents.”
“But, Mama, our name is Chevalier.”
The baying of the hounds was growing louder. “Alexandre Chevalier is your grandfather. You have not seen him since you were a little baby, but you will be safe with him.”
“But, Mama—”
“Shush, ma chérie. Now, give me your coat so the dogs will follow me.”
The girl hesitated, then she removed her coat and handed it to her mother.
“Hurry,” she said. “Hurry as fast as you can. That will keep you warm.” She turned toward the valley. The dogs had the scent now, and their masters had turned them loose. They were coming at a full run and would enter the forest in moments.
Mother and daughter hugged tightly for a few moments, then the mother pushed Angelique away from the embrace. From beneath her coat, she withdrew a cloth pouch.
Surprised, the girl gave her a strange look. She had seen her mother and father take the pouch from a locked chest beneath their bed once or twice, but she had never seen it up close. She only knew it was something they both treasured, though they never spoke of it in her presence.
It was a square piece of cloth, about the width of her mother’s hand. Seeing it in the morning light, she realized it was actually one long, rectangular piece of heavy cloth. The fabric was of coarse weave, light brown, plain, and folded in thirds. The first two folds had been stitched together to form a pocket, and the final third folded over in a flap that covered the entire front of the pouch. A hand-carved wooden button kept the pouch closed.
A lighter band of fabric ran across the width of the flap, just above the button, and was stitched in place with dark thread, leaving a short fringe above and below. Across the band, a faint design had been embroidered with a thread that matched the fabric. A braided rope handle formed a loop long enough to go over the shoulder. The fabric was worn in spots and looked quite old.
“Take this,” her mother said, thrusting it at her.
Angelique took it. “But it’s Papa’s, Mama.” She ran one hand over the flap and the hidden design. “What is this here?”
“There’s no time for that.” Her mother shook her gently. “The pouch is yours now. Your father planned to give this to you tonight, when we celebrated your thirteenth birthday. I’m sorry. We could have explained so much more if there had been time. Guard it well, Angelique. Never let it out of your sight. The men are after this, as well as you.”
“Is there money in it?” She could already tell there was nothing bulky inside the bag.
“Its value does not depend on what it carries, but who carries it.”
“But it is only an old pouch,” her daughter said. But even as she spoke, she put the strap over her shoulder and held the pouch tightly to her chest.
“Go quickly, my child. Do not stop. Do not even look back. Que Dieu te garde. Go with God.”
Without another word, she turned away. Dragging Angelique’s coat on the ground behind her, she broke into a trot, turning onto a narrow path that moved higher up the ridgeline.
Angelique watched for a moment, tears streaming down her face, sure that her heart would break even as she stood there. Then she turned and started running.
She knew that this day, her thirteenth birthday, which had started out so wonderfully, would be the last day she would ever see her mother or her father again.
Angelique did more than just give a wide berth to the first village she came to. Anytime she saw someone in the distance, either ahead of her or behind, she slipped off the road into the trees, or hid in nearby bushes. Sometimes, to her surprise, she sensed when someone was coming before she either saw or heard them. She recognized how odd that was, but in her urgency did not think much about it. Though the sun had warmed her body, her feet were still like blocks of ice from walking in the creek for nearly an hour.
Her feet were sore; hunger twisted her stomach. Her family had been cooking breakfast when they heard the men coming and she and her mother had fled. She wanted desperately to sit down and rest for a time, maybe beg a loaf of bread and some cheese from some kindly farmer’s wife, but the fear she had seen in her mother’s eyes drove her on.
Finally, an hour after crossing the river, her step slowed. Vineyards lined both sides of the road as far as she could see. She could make out a small wooden sign up ahead on a post. Looking around to make sure she was alone, she increased her pace.
A huge sense of relief swept over her when she drew close enough to read the sign. There were three words—Le Petit Château—and an arrow pointing left. She had no sooner turned off the road when a man stepped out of the vineyard about fifty meters ahead of her. She stopped, unconsciously holding the pouch tightly against her body, her heart hammering in her chest. She glanced over her shoulder, poised for flight.
“Bonjour,” the man called. He raised a hand in greeting, but came no closer.
“Hello,” Angelique answered after a moment. He was far enough away that he was not directly threatening to her, yet she didn’t want to keep going and have to pass him.
“Are you the one I am supposed to meet?” the man called. His voice was rich and kind. It was hard to tell at this distance, but he looked like he might have gray hair and a beard. His clothes were those of a farmer, not someone of importance.
“Pardon?”
“I know,” he said, laughing softly. “It sounds strange, but about a quarter of an hour ago, I had a strong impression that I needed to come here to the Strasbourg road, that there was someone I was supposed to meet here.”
That took her aback. But she was still suspicious; her mother’s warning had been very specific. “What is your name, monsieur?” she finally called.
“Alexandre Chevalier. And yours, mademoiselle?”
For a moment, she didn’t believe her ears. Could this really be? Then, as a great rush of relief washed over her, she said, “I am Angelique Chevalier. I believe I am your granddaughter.”
Le Petit Château, France
Friday, June 7, 1940
It was one of those early summer days that make the world seem glorious. Everywhere the eye turned, the scenery was splashed with a thousand shades of green. Birds flitted from tree to tree. The soft hum of bees was everywhere. The sky was such a brilliant blue that it seemed it might overwhelm the earth.
The château itself, barely large enough to warrant the name, was surrounded by meadows on three sides. Today, Pierre LaRoche, master of the manor, was in the largest of the meadows, cutting the first crop of meadow hay. Watching him swing his scythe back and forth with effortless grace, one might have wondered why a healthy man in his early thirties was not in the French army, fighting for his country. But from a distance, one could not see his twisted leg, crippled when he was seven years old by a bull’s swinging horn. That injury, and a farm deferment, kept him home with his little family. His wife recognized it for the blessing it was; he harbored a nagging sense of guilt that he was doing nothing for his country.
But on this day, the war was coming to them. Though his rhythmic movements never stopped, he kept looking up, searching the azure-blue expanse and cocking his head to better hear the distant rumble of thunder. Thunder on a day when
there were no storms in the sky.
He stopped, stretching his back for a moment, then looked around for his son. Jean-Henri was by the stone wall separating the meadow from the vineyard. Immersed in some game of his own making, the small boy had a stick and was tracing the patterns of the stone masonry.
“Jean-Henri?”
The boy turned. “Oui, Papa?”
“Stay on this side of the wall.”
“Oui, Papa.” He went back to his tracing.
Pierre LaRoche was the fifth generation of his family to work this land. His third great-grandfather on his mother’s side, Alexandre Chevalier, had come to this beautiful little valley, purchased ten hectares from the village elders, and started construction of a small château made from a stone quarry on the property. The village elders were so impressed at having their own local château, they renamed the village Le Petit Château.
During the last hundred and fifty years, the château had expanded a little, and the amount of property had doubled. Being near the Rhine River, a natural boundary between Germany and France, meant that the area went back and forth between the two nations, but that made little difference to the villagers. For them, life did not change much.
Until now.
Nine months ago, Adolph Hitler had sent the German army across the border into Poland and put a new word into the vocabulary of war—Blitzkrieg—the lightning war. Bypassing traditional fortifications and racing ahead with tanks, artillery, and supporting infantry, he invaded Finland, Denmark, and Norway in quick succession, leaving Europe reeling. And just a month ago, the Nazi Panzer divisions rolled into the low countries of Belgium, Luxembourg, and Holland. The German eye was on a much bigger prize—France. Holland surrendered in five days, Belgium in eighteen. France was still holding on, but four days ago, word had come that Paris had been bombed and French forces were in retreat everywhere. There was already talk of surrender.
Yesterday, the war took on a new reality for the citizens of the Rhine Valley. The Panzer divisions simply bypassed the vaunted Maginot Line—a string of forts, bunkers, and tank traps along the Rhine—then turned south to encircle the rest of France.