Aurora Crusade

"Aurora Crusade" is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, events, persons living or dead is coincidental. All characters are fictitious.

While this chapters contains no scenes of sex between anyone, readers are advised that the general tone of the story is erotica, and may contain scenes of homosexual sex between consenting males. Reader discretion is advised.

My thanks, as always to my editor, Peter. He makes things better!

Copyright 2006 by John Ellison

Please note my new e-mail address: paradegi@sympatico.ca

Aurora Crusade

Chapter Six

It has been written that the wheels of justice grind slowly, and Chef expected some foot dragging and hesitation in the just-begun investigation of General de Lamer's alleged activities. The general was, at the end of the day, a very important man, with connections at every level of provincial and federal government. He was also a very high official of the Liberal Party in Quebec. With a provincial election looming darkly on the political horizon, the Party would not want a scandal!

Chef also knew that the general had many friends in high places. He was a member of the "Old Boys' Club", and no doubt knew many secrets that he would use to his advantage when cornered. Chef, who had been on the road a long time, knew that the Old Boys, the oligarchy that ruled, would do one of two things: circle the whalers and do everything in their power to protect one of their own, or flee like thieves in the night and deny everything, usually from behind a bulwark of high-priced lawyers with few scruples and doubtful morals.

Justice was blind, but Chef had learned that nothing aroused the general public more than a case of child molestation, particularly when a "celebrity" was doing the molesting and the victim was a young male. When that happened Justice often became dumb as well. Nobody wanted to be involved. Nobody wanted to admit to a close friendship with the alleged molester. Nobody knew anything, or had a clue what the man had been up to!

As he sat in the pokey, sparsely furnished waiting room of the office used by the RCMP as their Command Post, Chef was slowly mulling over his options if the civilian police dragged their feet or the Justice Department proved obstructionist. He could hear the low murmur of voices as his lambs, sequestered in small side rooms, and accompanied by an officer, gave their statements to Special Unit detectives who had driven over from Quebec City. In another office he could hear the low murmurs as the Deputy Commissioner, a tall, overweight Anglo named Whitmore, outlined what he knew to M. Camille Desmoulins, a thin, cadaverous man who chain-smoked Gitane cigarettes, and who was the Crown Attorney for the local Judicial District. From the sounds he heard, Chef surmised that Desmoulins was not at all pleased with the RCMP suddenly opening a file on one of Quebec's most illustrious citizens.

Smiling knowingly, Chef unconsciously nodded to himself. The winds of separation were blowing through the province. General de Lamer was a public Federalist but, or so Chef suspected, a secret separatist. Chef did not know just how deeply involved de Lamer was in the "Movement", but he suspected that the man was in it up to his neck. De Lamer had never reconciled himself to his forced retirement from the Canadian Armed Forces, and he was still young enough, and venal enough, to crave power and position. There was talk that when he was elected Rene Levesque, the PQ candidate for Premier, would call for a referendum of separation.

Chef freely admitted that he paid very little attention to what the Frogs were up to at the best of times. They were, in his biased opinion, loud, arrogant, selfish, and beset with delusions of grandeur and hell-bent on reclaiming something they hadn't had for a hundred years - glory. He also knew that if Quebec separated one of the first things that the new government had promised to do was to form an Army. Chef was under no illusions as to who would be named le marechal de l'Armee Nationale de Quebec!

A long sigh escaped Chef's lips. Politics would very soon rear its ugly head. With de Lamer playing on both teams, it had to happen. The Liberals, who were pouring money into the province and scheming to defeat Levesque, could not afford to have one of their stalwarts, a man well-known to the media, dragged before the Bar charged with diddling little boys. The scandal would cost the party much-needed votes, usually bought and paid for long before an election was held. The media would, when word leaked out, as it surely would, go into a feeding frenzy. There was nothing quite like a juicy sex scandal to sell newspapers and airtime! The media would, in its usual slipshod attempts at "journalism", use the shotgun approach and it would be "Katie, bar the door!" as anyone with the remotest of connections to the general would be scrutinized.

If what Chef suspected were true, the PQ would use the scandal to their advantage. The general was not known as a separatist, and was always trumpeting the Trudeau line. The PQ leaders were politicians, and being politicians they were naturally liars, and thieves. They could, and would, if it were to their advantage, deny any knowledge that de Lamer was one of their own. They could point to his frequent public utterances supporting Federalism and the Liberal Party. They might have taken the general's money, but there was no record, and who could say nay?

Then again, the PQ might just cluck like disappointed chickens, shake their heads and walk away. Damage control worked both ways and it might be to their advantage not to pander - publicly - to the sensationalism that was soon to break upon the Province like a fierce summer storm. Being politicians they would use their ammunition to their best advantage and leave the general out to dry.

Chef was not interested in politicians, or politics. His only interests were the safety of his lambs, and the Order. He would use what information he had gleaned from Achille's chattering to the Order's advantage. He would also use his position and friendships for the same purpose. He had a feeling that the de Lamer investigation would proceed slowly. He understood the need for discretion. Far too often in cases such as this the public, and the priests and do-gooders, led by the media in full cry, would tar with the same brush anyone remotely connected to the general.

Under ordinary circumstances Chef would not have worried about the general's friends, acquaintances, fellow travellers and what not. He did have to worry, however, about the general's military contacts. While the general was not, and never had been, a member of the Order, there were army and navy and air force officers who were. In the course of his career it was possible that the general had met some of them, had served with them, or had them as members of his staff. As a general, de Lamer had had young men serve him as Aides de Camp, and Chef wondered just how much these young men had known about the general's secret life, and if they had been participants in that secret life.

Wracking his brain, Chef tried to think of a knight who might have been associated with the general. He tried to think of anyone who had served on his staff, or as one of the general's AdeC's. Off the top of his head Chef could think of no one. He did, however, know someone who would know, or at the very least be able to find out. Chef would telephone Rick Maslen, head of Special Branch. Rick was a faithful brother of the Order and when it came to the Order would not stand on superfluous legalities.

Chef's chain of thought was broken as the door to the Deputy Commissioner's office opened and M. Desmoulins emerged. The man looked even more cadaverous and the ever-present cigarette seemed to reflect his mood, dangling from his lip like a spent penis.

Deputy Commissioner Whitmore watched the Crown Attorney leave and shook his head. He regarded Chef a moment. "For a minute there, I thought I'd got a hat trick," Whitmore said with a slight look of disgust in his eyes. Then he brightened. "But . . . Desmoulins has no choice. An allegation has been made and no matter how much he might wish it, the matter cannot be swept under the rug, or be made to go away."

Chef smiled his understanding of the Deputy Commissioner's reference to a "hat trick". As a matter of professional courtesy, and because of the jurisdictional problems, both the local police and the Surete de Quebec had been invited to participate in the investigation. Both organizations had passed at a rate of knots.

Given the nature of Quebec politics, everybody owed somebody a favour. With the separatists looming powerful, nobody wanted to piss them off. However, an astute man covered his ass and made certain that if the Liberals won, he could truthfully say that he had had nothing to do with uncovering dirt that might stick to all.

The Chief of the Ste-Anne-de-Beaupre Police was an astute man. He thanked the Deputy Commissioner for his concern but, as the alleged molestations had not occurred within the town limits, the matter was not his concern. His department stood ready to offer any and all assistance, but the matter was out of his hands, really.

Equally astute was the local Commandant of the Surete. As far as he was concerned the molestations, if they occurred at all, had not taken place on a public highway, where his force would have had jurisdiction. Nor had the events taken place in an unincorporated town or village where the provincial police held responsibility for maintaining law and order. As far as the Commandant was concerned everything had happened, or so it was alleged, on private property, property where everything, from the barns and cow sheds to the neat, stone houses and shops in the village, were owned by the general. Indeed, he owned everything, except for the village church, and no one had suggested that anything improper had happened there.

There was also the matter of the age of the boy making the allegations. Disgruntled little boys were infamous for telling tales. Who knew which words were true, and which were the product of a vengeful imagination against imagined slights? The Surete offered all co-operation, of course, but . . .

Whitmore gestured for Chef to come into the office. "I understand that you are a man who takes an occasional gargle now and then," he said as he opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He held up a bottle of J & B for Chef's inspection.

As he settled his bulky self into the offered chair, Chef said, "Well, at a time such as this a wee drop of the crayture would go down a treat."

Smiling, Whitmore poured two very large drinks and pushed one of the glasses toward Chef. "More than a drop, I'm thinking," opined Whitmore.

Chef hefted the glass of Scotch, took a sip, and looked inquiringly at Whitmore. "You suspect a cover up?" he probed as his eyes looked deep into Whitmore's.

Shaking his head, Whitmore replied, "Not quite. What Desmoulins will do is delay. The RCMP is an independent investigative force, and not within his jurisdiction." He shrugged. "Everyone is in a cover-your-ass mode. Desmoulins knows that the general is a big wheel in Federal and provincial politics, with friends that stretch from Quebec City to Sussex Drive. His career is on the line if he screws up." He exhaled a long Scotch-tinged breath. "Desmoulins is going to make sure that we do everything slowly, and by the book. He'll follow the rules and nobody can point a finger at him when the shit really hits the fan."

Chef sipped his drink reflectively. "Which means?"

Whitmore regarded Chef a moment and then began. "Because of the general's political connections, Desmoulins is anxious to avoid publicity. He knows that sooner or later the media will find out that the general is being investigated for molesting an 11-year-old boy. This means that the newshounds will start their investigation and begin to ask embarrassing questions. Fingers will be pointed and people will be asked what they knew, when they knew it, and why they didn't do anything about it."

Chef nodded and added his own take. "Why, if they knew, did they close their eyes to the general's activities - if true?"

"Yes. Everybody loathes politicians for the slimy creatures they are and there is nothing like a good, juicy sex scandal to set the rats jumping through hoops and distancing themselves, and before you know it they're all shouting 'I don't know nothin' about birthin' babies, Miss Scarlett!' and heading for the nearest exit."

Chuckling, Chef said, "The media will have a field day."

"Perhaps," replied Whitmore enigmatically. "Even as we speak Desmoulins is scampering back to Quebec City as fast as his hands and knees will carry him to find a friendly magistrate who will slap a total media ban on the investigation. Other than reporting that the general is being investigated for a felony, the media will be unable to report any details."

Chef thought a moment. "Is that not done anyway, when a minor child is involved?"

"Up to a point, yes. Normally the child's name, his family, his place of residence, anything that might identify him, or her, is kept secret, to protect the child. Desmoulins wants more. A complete blackout."

Chef snorted. "And what else?"

Whitmore shrugged. "He's thrown out all of the statements your lads have made, or are making."

Chef sighed his understanding. "Hearsay evidence."

"Quite," sniffed Whitmore. "Except for young Laroche, none of the boys speaks French, and cannot say exactly what it was that Achille told them."

"But Jeremie . . ." began Chef.

Whitmore held up his hand. "Suspect," he stated firmly. "Achille speaks a local dialect, much of which young Laroche freely admits he does not understand. If you, Constable Lascelles, the others, were fluent in French and knew the dialect the matter would be cut and dried."

"Unfortunately, we are not," admitted Chef disconsolately.

"Nor am I, or any of the investigators. Which means we have to find a competent translator to take down Achille's statement, someone fully versed in the local patois, as it were."

"Difficult, perhaps impossible," returned Chef sadly.

Whitmore smiled. "Ah, but we have an ace up our sleeve!"

Chef looked at the Deputy Commissioner. "You do?"

"We do," confirmed Whitmore with a brisk, firm nod of his head. "The local parish priest has agreed to sit and translate for us. He's lived in the village most of his life and he speaks and understands the dialect perfectly."

Brightening, Chef opined, "No one will doubt the honesty of a priest!"

"Perhaps so," agreed Whitmore. "Still, we do face other problems." He regarded Chef a moment. "There is the matter of corroboration."

"I beg your pardon? Surely there is medical evidence and . . ."

Noticing that their glasses were empty, Whitmore refilled them, and said, "Achille has been taken to the Hopital de L'Enfant Jesus in Quebec City. He will be examined and if he's had anal sex there will be evidence. With luck we'll also obtain a semen sample, which will match the molester's blood type. In any event, there should be rectal tearing, bruising, and so on."

"The general's, you mean."

"Yes, but again, we will have to prove that whatever evidence is found is actually came from the general. Until we can do that all we have is a child who has been anally penetrated by a male."

"You make it sound so clinical," snapped Chef.

"I must," replied Whitmore. "Forensic evidence is clinical. It can point us toward a person, but we have no way of proving anything other than that a certain man with a certain blood type ejaculated in Achille's rectum."

"So why the corroboration?" asked Chef, mystified. "If the evidence is there . . ."

"I understand your concern," said Whitmore with a slight wave of his hand. "However, Desmoulins wants all the 'I's' dotted and the 'T's' crossed before he proceeds. He is thinking like a defence attorney - and de Lamer will have the best money can buy, trust me on that!" He looked thoughtful a moment and said, "If Achille has had a bowel movement between the time the act took place, and the time of the medical examination, any seminal fluid would be gone. Now, there will be tissue damage, but that could be caused by a number of things, any of which de Lamer's attorney will bring up, if you will pardon the expression."

Chef nodded. "Are you then saying it would be Achille's word against the general's?"

"I am afraid so," agreed Whitmore. "We will have circumstantial evidence that Achille was penetrated, but a good attorney will cast doubt on the cause of the penetration. I think that the general has been using the boys of his village for years. Whoever took his fancy would be invited to the chateau, wined, dined, and bedded."

Chef sighed loudly. "And in the mornin' sent on his way with an expensive gift and a wee packet of money for the father, a little something to ensure silence."

"Exactly," said Whitmore. "Now we know that Achille was promised a bicycle for his trouble, yes?"

Chef nodded. "So you ask yourself who else benefited from the little visits, then?"

"Yes. We know that Achille's brothers were gifted with new motorcars. We also know that the general's nephew was also gifted with a new motor. All were expensive. All were given to minor boys so, tell me my friend, if you see smoke, do you think 'fire'?"

Looking thoughtful, Chef opined, "I would, but Desmoulins wants to see the flames."

"He does. Sylvain is dead, and of no use to us. However, Achille's brothers, and the other boys who live in the village are very much alive. We will question them but frankly I doubt we will get anything we can use in a court of law from any of them. My guess is that a wall of silence is being built around that village even as we speak."

"The situation is difficult," Chef had to admit.

"More than that!" Whitmore leaned forward. "Every man, woman and child in that village depends on the general for their livelihood. The bastard owns the houses. He pays the wage bill. He pays the wages of the teachers in the school and repairs the convent roof when it leaks. When the harvest is in he rewards their hard work with cash bonuses. At Christmas a joint of beef is given to every household. De Lamer is the seigneur, the Lord of the Manor."

"Who has exercised his 'Droit de Seigneur' with their sons!" Chef spat out angrily.

"Which some would consider a small price to pay!" returned Whitmore. "One night with the general and the boy comes home, a little battered, but bearing gifts! The parents turn a blind eye because they know more gifts will follow!" Whitmore's face softened. "They will not want their dirty laundry exposed, Chef! What father, what mother, would admit to anyone that they allowed their son, or sons, to be molested? They had to know what was going on! They might turn a blind eye and close their ears, but they knew!"

For several long minutes Chef remained silent. "They knew" had touched a chord. He wondered just how much Whitmore's investigators would uncover. That de Lamer was diddling little boys was never in doubt so far as Chef was concerned. What did bother Chef was how long the general had been doing it! So far as the old cook was concerned de Lamer was a thief, and a liar, a political opportunist, and much more. But there had never, until now, been a hint of impropriety with boys of any age. Chef had known the general when he was an admiral, before Unification. He had cooked at Admiralty House in Esquimalt, when de Lamer was living there. None of the stewards who served in the house had mentioned little boys - and they would have known. The stewards saw all, heard all but, except when they were amongst their own kind, said nothing. It was the way of stewards, which Chef accepted.

Still there was a niggling feeling of . . . Chef could not describe his doubts. De Lamer was in cahoots with the repulsive Stennes, although Chef could only guess at what their arrangement had been. Chef wondered if he should mention the arrangement, and then thought otherwise. If the RCMP did their job, and Chef had no reason to doubt that they would not, they would inevitably discover the connection. Chef had no worries that the Order would be implicated, at least not as far as the general was concerned. He had not been a member. Stennes had supplied boys to members of the Order, true, but membership in the Order was secret. Chef doubted that with the events unfolding, or about to unfold in Toronto and Vancouver that the RCMP would discover anything about the Knights. Or if they did it would be much too late to do anything, not with Michael Chan and The Gunner about to launch a purge.

Leaning forward, Chef gestured toward the bottle of Scotch. "May I?" he asked as he thought grimly that in less than 48 hours by the Shrewsbury Clock divers knights and hangers-on would rue the day that they had ever listened to the Syren blandishments of Edmund Stennes.

The Gunner stared at the map dotted with red pins and shook his head. "I wish we had more men," he said almost absently. "But we haven't, and that's the way of it sometimes." He turned and looked at the circle of men sitting around the room. "We go at 0300," he said, his mind made up.

"My men will be ready," said Terry Hsiang.

"We're ready now," said Teddy Vian, speaking for all of the Rangers.

"I'll keep the cops off your backs," promised Ames Cale.

"Dad is in," said Aaron Mark I. "And so is Sophie."

The Gunner stifled his look of surprise. "The boy, Eugen is better?"

Aaron Mark I shook his head. "No, he's basically the same, hanging by a thread. But Sophie is determined to be with us when we go in. Dad tried to talk her out of it but you know Sophie so . . ."

As Aaron Mark I's word trailed off, The Gunner nodded his head. He did know Sophie and once she had made up her mind to do something come hell, high water, or the Devil himself, she would do!

The Gunner regarded Aaron Mark I and then asked, "Do you think that Aaron Goldschmidt and his brother, what's his name, Jacov? Do you think he might be persuaded to give us a hand?"

Aaron Edgar, whom everyone now called Aaron Mark I, nodded his head slowly. "He's already offered, Steve. He and Jacov are a team, so I guess we can count him in. I'll give him a ring."

"Yes, at once," replied The Gunner. "And ask him to bring a car. We need vehicles."

"Well, Sam and I have a car," piped up Sam. "Gil has an old clunker that works most of the time."

"Good, the older and clunkier the better," said The Gunner. He regarded the map again. "We have 18 targets. I want to hit them all at the same time. That means 18 teams, each with a vehicle."

Terry coughed. "When do you want them?" he asked.

"Um, as soon as we can get them," replied The Gunner as he looked at Terry's placid face. "You . . .?"

"I told you that I have legitimate businesses," said Terry with an airy wave of his hand. "Some times they do come in handy." He saw the quizzical look on The Gunner's face. "I have a car rental agency. To be honest it's a tax dodge, but there are cars available."

"Well, I'll be damned!" whispered The Gunner.

"Not tonight, I hope," replied Terry with a grin. "If you are, I'm right behind you." He rose from his seat and gestured toward the telephone. "I'll make the call."

While Terry busied himself with arranging for the delivery of the cars the teams would need, The Gunner began to issue his instructions. "As I said, there will be 18 teams and each team must be in position to hit their target at 0300. I know we'll be cutting things fine, but what I want is for each of you to take a team. I will have one, so will Ace. We'll be stretching our assets but there's nothing we can do about it now."

Shane held up his hand. The Gunner saw the gesture and nodded. "The house on Buttery Street, I'd like to be the one who takes it out," Shane asked.

"There are two boys there," Max said. "If you recall, we saw them when we scoped out the place."

"A boy named Jergen," said Lester as he consulted his notes. "Age 14 years or thereabouts. A younger boy, unnamed, perhaps 10. The younger boy was sporting a shiner."

"And I want to meet the guy who gave him it," growled Shane. He looked at The Gunner, his eyes flinty. "I know that when we were in training in the Army we were told never to take things personally. Well, bugger the training. This is personal, Steve."

The Gunner could understand how Shane felt. He, and all the Rangers, had seen what was being done to the captive boys, and they all knew why Eugen was lying in the hospital, comatose, and close to death. None of them could help not making what they were about to do personal.

"All right," agreed The Gunner. "But you'll have to go in with Terry's people. I can't spare Max."

Shane nodded his acceptance. He knew that Max would have loved to accompany him on the raid on the Buttery Street house, for Max had been with him that day. But Max was needed elsewhere. "Okay, but only so long as they know the bastard who owns the place is mine."

"Try not to leave too many bruises," responded The Gunner easily. He had nothing but contempt for the men who held the boys and if some of them were damaged in the process of rescuing the unfortunates well, life's a bitch, or so people say.

Terry finished his conversation and returned to the group. "I'll have 18 cars, with 18 drivers ready at midnight," he informed The Gunner.

"That takes a load off of my mind," said The Gunner. "Now, Jeff, I want you to take Sophie out to the house in Oakville. No doubt Jim Edgar will want to accompany her, which is fine." He chuckled mirthlessly. "Knowing Sophie you'll not need any more help."

Jeff snickered. Sophie Nicholson was a formidable woman and there was a not a man in the room who could gainsay it.

"Lester!" The Gunner said, turning to the slim young man.

Not having expected any attention to be paid to him, Lester jumped nervously. "What?" he asked.

"You're for the hospital. I want everything ready for the boys when we bring them in, beds made, food on the table." He paused and then added, "I would also like a doctor and a nurse on duty." He looked inquiringly at Lester. "Can do?"

Lester sniffed, feigning insult at The Gunner's request. Of course he could do! As an active participant in Toronto's gay underground, Lester had met many men. Some were young; some were old. They all had diverse careers and while most of the younger men were only ciphers and flibbertigibbets, interested only getting their rocks off, Lester did know a few solid citizens.

"You don't want either of the Langfords?" Lester queried, a little surprised.

"No. They're good men but neither is known to us except through their association with Sophie. Nor are they of the brotherhood. Let's keep what we are about to do in the family, so to speak," replied The Gunner.

Lester frowned, thinking. "Well, that makes life a little difficult." He did know several doctors, and not a few lawyers; they all had their own careers to think of. "We'll need a paediatrician," he said presently, thinking of the young ages of the boys involved. "And someone in general medicine." He regarded The Gunner a moment. "You have no objection to male nurses do you?"

"So long as they're experienced and know what they're about, no," replied The Gunner. "Unless, of course, you know some female nurses."

Actually, Lester did know of at least three female nurses. One was a bitter old dyke who hated males of all ages, one floated through life in a haze of barbiturates that she "borrowed" regularly from the drug cabinet on the ward where she served, and the third was completely involved in clawing her way to the position of Chief of Nursing in the hospital where she worked. "Um, no," Lester lied. "Male nurses will do nicely."

"Okay," said The Gunner, knowing that Lester would have the matter of medicos well in hand, "What about a cook and kitchen staff?"

"Well, Miss Euphemia is available," said Aaron Mark I. "She's cranky, and likes to bawl hymns while she's cooking, but she's the one who stocked the kitchen, and she's a crackerjack cook."

"Miss Euphemia" was a large, effusive, black woman who had worked in Sophie Nicholson's kitchen for years. The two women were devoted to each other, fought regularly, and Sophie fired Euphemia at least once a month on average.

"All right, Euphemia it is," ordered The Gunner. "Arrange for her to be ready. Now, what about kitchen staff?"

Lester waved away The Gunner's question. He'd worked as a waiter for more years than he cared to remember and knew cooks of every description. "I'll have a full staff ready," he promised as he began jotting down names. He paused in his writing. "They'll be all right, Steve. They might be queer but they'll mind their manners, and their hands."

"I hold you to it, then," said The Gunner facetiously. He knew that Lester would never bring in men, young or old, who would put any of the boys they would rescue in harm's way. He returned to the group of young men. "Now, I want you all in dark clothing. You have to blend in with the night, so to speak and . . ."

Before The Gunner could finish, the telephone rang. Lester answered it and handed the receiver to The Gunner, saying, "It's Chef."

When he left the office of the Deputy Commissioner, Chef found Alex Grinchsten, Commander Stockman, and Catherine Arundel waiting for him. Standing to one side, Ru Yee Chung, Michael's Viceroy in Quebec, also waited patiently. Chef, in his usual scatterbrained way, had neglected to inform any of them of what was going on.

Alex Grinchsten, as Chief of the Security Detail, needed to know what was happening. He was responsible to Michael Chan if anything happened to one of the new knights. He needed to know if anything in the foreseeable future might happen to any of the new knights. Alex took his responsibilities very seriously, was chafing at his lack of knowledge.

Commander Stockman, who had all of the young knights on his Slop Chit, was fretting. He had done a quick head count and knew that none of the boys had gone missing. They all seemed more or less undamaged and their usual selves, although Eion Reilly was looking daggers at Peter Race for some reason. Father put this down as a schoolboy spat. What he was worried about was that something was in the wind. As the mourners streamed from the Basilica after Sylvain's funeral mass had ended he had seen the flurry of activity as aides and camp followers whispered into the ears of the Prime Minister, the Premier, and the Cardinal, all of whom departed at a great rate of knots. None of them had seen the need to make their conge to General de Lamer, and indeed Commander Stockman had seen some black looks directed toward the general. Something was definitely up. He knew, he could feel it, and he damned well would know exactly what!

Ru Yee Chung was equally uninformed. He was the kind of man who did not care for riddles, or subterfuge, and his instincts told him that Chef was doing just that! Chung was even further disturbed in that as Michael Chan's Viceroy to Quebec he was answerable to Michael and he had no desire to have the Tsangs come visiting. There were already two of the dreaded enforcers in town and that was two too many so far as Chung was concerned.

Mrs. Arundel also knew that something was in the wind. She had seen the looks of some of the mourners, had seen Sylvain's father being taken aside by one of the RCMP constables, and had seen Chef following a man who was obviously a very high ranking Mounty into one of the side buildings. She had tried to find out what was going on and had effectively met a brick wall.

She had questioned her sons to no avail. Todd had nodded off during the homily and had not seen Chef or The Phantom, or any of the others leave the church. Cory had also been busy. He was not terribly interested in what the Cardinal was blathering about and had decided to shock Sean by playing footsies during the sermon. All he could tell his mother was that he seemed to recall one of the lads - Randy he thought - saying that he had to pee. Perhaps, he told his mother, the guys had just decided to hold a pee parade. It happened at the best of times.

Cory's suggestion did not go over well with his mother. While she had no doubt that a pee parade had been held, something else had happened and she wanted to know about it. That she was angry was not lost on either Todd or his brother for their mother began to twirl her wedding ring. This was an ominous sign that a storm of unprecedented proportions was about to descend, and neither of them wanted it to break over their heads. Back home, when their mother was angry, and began twirling her ring, Cory would lock himself in his bathroom. Todd sought safety by hiding under his bed. Their father locked himself in his study where he remained until the storm had passed and tranquility had returned to Clarence House.

Cory noticed the signs of his mother's agitation and decided that a pee break was just the ticket for all concerned. He grabbed Sean and headed for the public loos, followed almost immediately by Todd, Matt, and Harry. They didn't know anything, but better safe than sorry.

As she watched her sons depart hastily, Mrs. Arundel announced to Mary Randolph and Mabell Airlie that it was a male conspiracy. Definitely a conspiracy surrounded by a high wall posted with signs that read: "No Women Allowed!" Catherine Arundel was strong willed and when she spotted Chef she immediately headed in his direction. The wall was about to come down!

No one noticed Hercule Beuaharnais being led away from the mob of mourners by a plain-clothes detective.

"Well, then Chef, are you going to tell me what is going on?" demanded Catherine, trying to keep the anger and frustration from her voice. "I know something has happened, and don't deny it!"

Chef, faced with the implacable woman, had no intention of denying anything. He also saw Alex and Chung looking thunderclouds at him and decided that perhaps it would be best to let them all in on what was happening. However, he did think that imparting such important information in the middle of a church plaza was not the best place to do it. He temporized, "Sure and I'll tell all, fair lady," he began, laying the brogue on thick. "But I'm thinkin' we could all use a nice cup of tea - unless there's a bar in this dismal clerical wasteland."

"There isn't," muttered Alex Grinchsten, a rare smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Ah well, life is hard," returned Chef sadly. "But no matter, we'll find a wee spot to partake of the staff of life . . ." Chef's calling tea the staff of life caused both Alex and Catherine to start and stare at him. Both were of the opinion that tea was that last thing on earth that Chef needed to maintain life! A dram or six of rum, yes, Scotch in a pinch, but . . .tea?

Ignoring the stares Chef continued blithely on. "A soothing drink, calming to the nerves, as Sir Roger Casement told the hangman." "He said no such thing!" snapped Mrs. Arundel. "And there will be none of your blarney! Out with it man, and be quick about it!"

"First the tea," replied Chef stubbornly.

They gathered at a round table in the refreshment pavilion and Chef mournfully stirred his cup of tepid, weak tea as he related the events that had led them here, and what Jeremie Laroche and Peter Race had discovered in the public lavatory. He did not expand too much on the telling, but all three men, and Mrs. Arundel, could let their imaginations fill in any blanks.

"My word," gasped Commander Stockman when Chef finished speaking. "A little boy!"

"Bastard!" growled Alex as his hand gripped his teacup so tightly that the knuckles turned white.

Ru Yee Chung merely shook his head. Michael had told him enough about the misuse and abuse of young boys, and he was in the middle of preparing to take out six of the men Michael had named as abusers. For a brief moment he considered ending permanently the lives of those men, but then thought better of it. Of course, if Michael Chan decreed otherwise, six problems would be solved . . . permanently.

When the shocked gasps had subsided Chef regarded his listeners. "We are now faced with a situation that is really out of our hands," he said carefully. "I am also very much afraid that the general and his lawyers will delay and delay." He sighed. "Unfortunately the law must take its slow path and I fear that obstacles will be placed every foot of the way."

"I shall inform Bertie," said Catherine, referring to her husband. "He will not interfere but his 'interest' will be noted."

Chef cringed. Catherine had just offered to do what Chef hoped she would not do. As an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of Canada, Bertie Arundel could not lend the weight of his office, and as an officer of the court he had to be very careful to show impartiality and not in any way breach the bounds of ethical conduct. Bertie would accept the information, and do nothing. At least not publicly, and not in any way that might jeopardize the investigation.

Knowing that Mrs. Arundel would do what she wanted, Chef nodded in pretended satisfaction and looked around the large room. It was near to being empty for the last mass of the day, always heavily attended, was in progress, and the horde of tourists were busy with their orisons. He had decided to let his listeners in on everything and began to speak softly . . .

Catherine Arundel was in tears by the time Chef finished speaking. She dabbed at her eyes as she asked, "And this has been going on for years?"

"Yes," replied Chef simply. "Ever since the war - that we know of."

"And Bertie knows?"

"He does. So does Louis," relied Chef, referring to Bertie's brother. "Joe Hobbes and Gabe Izard were the ones who discovered the scheme." Gabe was Louis Arundel's soon to be adopted son, and Joe Hobbes had been Michael Chan's agent in Comox.

Catherine knew them both and nodded her head approvingly. "They are fine young men," she said unnecessarily. "They are," agreed Chef. "There are other fine men looking into the matter." Again he scanned the room for potential eavesdroppers. "Men who are to settle the matter once and for all."

Both Commander Stockman and Alex Grinchsten perked up their ears. "Soon?" asked the Commander.

"In a matter of hours," replied Chef. He looked at Ru Yee Chung. "You are aware of the timetable?"

Chung nodded. "Yes." He would not give any other details.

Alex looked first at Chung, and then at Chef. "The men involved . . . what will happen to them?"

Chef hesitated before answering and then thought, in for a penny, in for a pound. He did not know just how much Catherine knew about the Order, but he would not lessen the harshness of the punishment Michael had decreed. "For those who are members of the Order, a Bar of Justice has been called."

Catherine's hand moved swiftly to toy with her pearl necklace. She tried not to show her shock as she asked, for she knew what a Bar of Justice was, "You will do that?"

Looking evenly at Catherine, Chef said slowly. "Those who have betrayed the Order will suffer the punishment decreed by the Rule. There will be no exceptions, no appeals."

Alex, whose time in Michael Chan's employ had been short, had heard whispers about the Order, and expected to be asked soon to become a member. Chef mentioning "a Bar of Justice", and the seriousness of Chef's words, held a wealth of meaning for Alex. He knew instinctively that justice would be swift, and hard. "And the others, the men who are not Knights?" he asked.

"Public humiliation, whispers that will destroy them, financial ruin if our plans work out." He smiled grimly. "There are ways, Alex."

Alex was sure there were, and lapsed into silence.

"What of the boys?" asked Commander Stockman, his natural concern and empathy for young men rising. "We cannot abandon them to the care of the social services. You know what will happen to them if the government gets their hands on them!" he protested. "I would not put the ship's cat into the care of the CAS!"

"We are aware," answered Chef gravely. "The Chancellor of the Order has established a hospital in Toronto. The boys will be cared for there." He looked obliquely at Chung. "The boys rescued here in Quebec will be taken to Toronto. Everything is arranged."

Chung nodded. Everything was arranged.

Catherine looked thoughtful. She had no idea of the number of boys involved, but as the mother of two boys herself she knew that there came a time when a boy needed a feminine touch.

"We are going to Toronto," Catherine announced abruptly.

"We?" asked Chef, his eyebrows rising. "Who is we?"

"Mary, Mabell and I, of course," responded Catherine. She looked sternly at Chef. "You plan on housing the boys you rescue in a hostel, or a hospital, or whatever it is you want to call it?"

"Yes."

"These boys are waifs, abused children, yes?"

Chef did not hesitate. "Very much so," he replied.

"Has it ever occurred to you, silly man that you are, that taking boys out of an abusive environment and handing them into the care of a herd of smelly, hairy men might just be counter productive?"

"Now, Catherine," began Commander Stockman, "I am sure that Chef, and the Chancellor have given much thought to . . ."

"There was little thought given to the care and feeding of boys!" snapped Catherine. "I am a mother and I know what hurt little boys need!" She did not wait for any argument. "They need a soft hand and a warm voice, a gentle shoulder to lay their head on!"

Chef, who frankly had lived in a world of men for so long that he no longer remembered the feminine touch, was loath to disagree with the irate woman. However . . . "Catherine, there is danger, and if everything comes a cropper, do you want your good name sullied by the scandal that will follow?"

Catherine looked fiercely around the table. "Men!" she snapped. "Always trying to 'protect' us! Well, my little man, all I have to say is 'Bugger the scandal!'" She ignored the shocked faces and continued. "We will go to Toronto even if we have to pay our own way. Those boys will be met by caring and understanding women and you had better get used to the idea.!"

Chef knew when he had met defeat. He turned to Alex. "Call the hotel and tell Jake Guildenhall to call the airport. Have them prepare a flight plan for Toronto. Jake is also to arrange for a meal for the boys and your men, for I am sure they are all peckish."

"You, you mean," retorted Catherine.

"All of us," replied Chef equably. He regarded Commander Stockman. "There will be no problems with the Sea Cadet authorities?"

Shaking his head, Commander Stockman replied, "They are all officially assigned to my care and I can tell them that after the sombre time they've had here a day or two in Toronto will do the boys good. So long as I check in with the Area Cadet people in Toronto there should not be a problem."

"Good, then it is settled," said Chef, rising. He paused and then warned, "You will see and hear things that will shock and appal you. You must be prepared for terrible things."

"As if we have not already become accustomed to them!" replied Catherine. "I must find Mabell and Mary." She regarded Chef a moment. "This is not just here, or in Toronto, is it?" she asked.

"No. There are other men . . ." Chef's voice trailed off. It was not yet time to reveal the full extent of the horror.

"The boys will be taken care of?" asked Commander Stockman.

"They will," replied Chef. "Michael has promised it." He started to walk off when Catherine's hand on his arm stopped him.

"The poor man," Catherine said softly.

Chef looked over to see a small, hulking man standing alone near the doors to the building where the "statements" were being taking down. It was Hercule Beuaharnais.

"How horrible for him," murmured Catherine as she continued to stare at Hercule. "To bury a son and on the same day find out that he might have been a victim of that monster de Lamer!" she turned to Chef. "You must say something to him!"

Chef started. "What can I say?" he asked almost petulantly. "I know nothing of what happened when Sylvain was at the chateau, nothing except what little Achille told us, and that was . . ." Chef's voice trailed off. He really did not see the necessity of revealing that Sylvain had spent his last full night on earth having sex with another boy.

"I do not want to know," exclaimed Catherine, effectively solving Chef's dilemma. "I am sure, however, that he must be in agony! There is the matter of the motorcar, after all."

Chef nodded. Sylvain had been driving a showroom new, red Corvette when he died. What, Chef asked himself, had Sylvain done to deserve such a magnificent motorcar? He could not answer the question - only one man could - and he doubted that he would ever know the answer. De Lamer was a cagey son of a bitch and Chef doubted that the general would reveal the true nature of his relationship with Sylvain, not now, not ever.

Catherine moved suddenly, striding purposefully toward Hercule. Chef saw her go and called out, "Where are you going?"

"I intend to offer my condolences," returned Catherine over her shoulder. "It is the least I can do!"

Hercule was weeping openly and wringing his hands as the strange woman approached. He could not, would not, believe what the gendarme had suggested. Sylvain, his golden son . . . never would he do such things! Hercule knew of the rumours about the sons of the Intendant, a sly fox who knew what side his bread was buttered on! In Hercule's mind the Intendant was just the sort of man to turn away when his sons were "invited" to attend le general, and accept without comment the fine gifts that ensued.

As an honest man, Hercule was forced to admit that he was, in his own way, just as venal and selfish as the Intendant. Had he not willingly given his son over to the man? Had he not accepted the gifts, accepted the money that had paid for Sylvain's schooling in Montreal?

But, le general had always insisted that he was only doing for Sylvain what he would do for his own son! Hercule had believed him. Had accepted the gifts and never once had he suspected that anything might be wrong. Sylvain had never indicated that such things as the maudit gendarme had suggested were going on! Hercule had tried to confront his brother-in-law but the man had been whisked off somewhere, and Hercule had been taken into a small room to "assist the police in their investigation", as the gendarme had put it.

Hercule could not, would not believe that Sylvain had been a part of le general's seduction of village boys! Non! It was not possible! Not his strong, upright Sylvain, not his golden son!

As he began to pace, weeping his anger and his anguish, Hercule saw from the corner of his eye a woman approach. She was well dressed in black, and strode with purpose toward him. With her was the old man who had come to Sylvain's funeral, a man Sylvain in his infrequent letters home had referred to as old and fat, and called "Chef". He did not know what they wanted, and would have preferred to be left to his own thoughts, but he could not be rude. He stopped his pacing and waited.

Mrs. Arundel put out her hand and spoke softly, but slowly in flawless Parisian French. While she lived in Western Canada she was well aware that true "true French" was alien to a native Quebecois. The language he spoke was a form of French, a patois for the most part, with different idioms, fractured phrases and larded with the local dialect of the area in which he lived. Catherine had spent enough time in Ottawa to know that the brand of French spoken in Hull, which was just across the river from the capitol city, was subtly different from the French spoken in say, New Brunswick. She could well understand the doubts expressed by the investigators about Jeremie's translation of Achille's story. Achille lived in a small, all but xenophobic village, with only the radio, or the television to learn from. His spoken French would differ significantly from the young cadet's "Ontario French", just as Jeremie's French would differ dramatically with that of a native of Montreal, who usually spoke what was almost accepted as a separate language: jouale.

Catherine wanted M. Beuaharnais to understand her true concern, and thus spoke slowly.

"Allow me to express my condolences at your loss." She reached out and clasped Hercule's hand in hers. "My sons knew him well, and always spoke highly of him."

Both Chef and Catherine knew that her words were not quite the truth, although Chef knew much more that Catherine Arundel about the true nature of Sylvain's relationship with the Twins. Cory, sweet natured though he was, had never cared for Sylvain, merely tolerating the handsome young French Canadian because he was one of the boys, a Sea Cadet serving in the same ship. Sylvain had been, in Cory's frankly biased opinion, an arrogant twit.

Todd, on the other hand, had a genuine soft spot for Sylvain. They had trained together on QUEST, the orienteering part of the leadership course, and had been tent mates. Actually, they had been much more than tent mates. Chef knew that the affair between the two young men had lasted only as long as the orienteering course. So far as Chef was concerned what Todd and Sylvain had done was their business, and at the end of the day it had been two boys enjoying each other's company and body. There was no need to mention the affair to Catherine, or to Sylvain's father, and Chef kept his mouth firmly closed.

Hercule heard Catherine's words and nodded. He knew that the lady was being kind, which was the reason behind her speaking slowly. She was also being considerate, allowing for the differences in their native languages. He would return the consideration by speaking in his admittedly inadequate English. "Merci . . . Madame," he began in haltingly. "Vous . . . you are kind to say such nice words." He paused and a huge stab of pain wracked his body. "Sylvain, he was a good boy. It is not right that they say bad things about him! He did not do such things."

Catherine could only imagine what "bad things" were being said about Sylvain. She recalled him as a tall, quite ruggedly handsome, bland haired Adonis of a young man whom she had met when she visited the Sea Cadet camp, HMCS Aurora. True, Cory had been less than enthusiastic when Todd had introduced the boy to her, but Todd had had that special look in his eye that she had come to recognize and knew that the boys had been "close" at one time. When, she did not know, and really did not care. All that mattered to her was that Todd had cared for Sylvain in a special way and that was good enough for her.

"I am sure that the police will find out the truth," Catherine answered Hercule gently. "He was as fine a young man as I have ever met and I do not believe for a moment . . ."

"The gendarmes think it!" interrupted Hercule, his voice cracking with grief. Abruptly he turned to confront Chef. "You must tell me, monsieur, please tell me that Sylvain, he was a good boy! Oui, yes, he made his mistakes, but monsieur, he did not do the things the police say! Please tell me he could not!"

Chef did not know what to say. As with Catherine, he knew little beyond what Achille had told him. Chef did not believe that Sylvain had been involved with the general, at least not in the man's machinations and intrigues. De Lamer preferred young boys - witness Achille - and while it was possible that Sylvain had shared the general's bed when he was young, when he died he had been much too old to attract the general. Then too there was The Phantom's dream, and his proclamation that Sylvain had been coming "home" to be with his brothers when he died. The Phantom would not have been adamant about Sylvain being a part of the Tapestry if Sylvain had not had honour. Chef was convinced of this and he spoke softly.

"Sylvain died with honour," he said quietly to Hercule. He reached out and gently held the man's arm. "I believe it, with all my heart. I am sorry that he has left you, truly sorry. You must believe me, Monsieur, your son did not die in vain, and he died doing something wonderful."

Hercule looked doubtfully at Chef. "You would not lie?"

Shaking his head firmly, Chef said, "Sylvain was touched by God, monsieur. Believe me." He sighed in real regret. "You have no reason to believe me, but I ask that you do. Take your son home and give him to God. Let him go gently into the soft night."

Despite Chef's comforting words, Hercule expressed doubt, and his eyes, rimmed with tears that he could not stop, reflected his doubt. "Le general he will . ."

"Will pay for what he has done," said Chef grimly. "I give you my pledge that he will pay dearly." He heard the soft sound of tires approaching and turned to see a long black limousine drawing close. "Your car?" he asked Hercule.

"Oui. I must go to the airport. Tonight, and tomorrow, I will sit with my golden son, my Sylvain. His maman will see his face again, and Monday the priest will speak the words."

"Sylvain is with God, my friend," said Chef earnestly. He began to lead Hercule toward the limousine. "Bury your son as is your custom. And know that I am a man of my word."

Catherine Arundel watched the limousine cruise slowly through the pilgrims that streamed out of the Basilica, the mass having ended. She turned to Chef. "You have made a large promise, my dear man."

Smiling frostily, Chef nodded. "And I will keep it." He looked at Catherine. "Monsieur le general de Lamer will never see his day in court."

Catherine gasped. "Chef, you are not planning to . . .?" She reached out to touch Chef's hand. "He is not of the Order!"

Chef looked thoughtful and then gently gave Catherine's hand a pat. "True. But that does not mean that he will go unpunished." He saw the concern in Catherine's eyes and continued, "I will not call a Bar of Justice for him. I will not harm him in any way physically."

"Then how . . .?"

Chef stared into the lowering sun and once again a grim smile formed on his lips. "Justice must be done, and the instrument of that justice will be de Lamer himself." He took a deep breath and added, "Deus Vult!"