Quasimodo, his compact deformed body clad in medieval clothing, stood
before 'le Chameleon', his face contorted in rightful rage. How dare this
man harm Danisha, his New World friend; how dare this man cause Frollo
nothing but heartache. No sooner had Marcel Rougelot uttered the words
that he found himself lifted off the floor.
"Go on, Nisha!," urged Quasimodo, motioning to Danisha while maintaining
a firm grip on Marcel. "Hurry! My master is waiting for you!" Danisha,
at last free of Marcel, dashed out into the hallway and nearly tripped
on the loose extension cord that connected an old radio to the wall socket.
The cord was corroded, exposing the coppery wire. Judge Frollo grabbed
Danisha as she ran past; he momentarily embraced her, saying, "It is all
right, my dear; you are safe. Now, go with Quasimodo." Then Claude called
out to the bell ringer. "Quasimodo, this way, down the stairs!"
The bell ringer shoved Marcel aside then sprinted down the corridor.
"Master! He has that firearm! Watch out!"
Frollo jumped back into the bathroom just in time to spring his trap.
Standing in the doorway, he skillfully threw a broken lamp at Marcel's
charging figure, deflecting the gun out of Marcel's hand. He ordered Quasi
and Nisha downstairs as Marcel, knife in hand, made a mad dash towards
the medieval judge. Reacting quickly, Frollo then kicked over a half-filled
bucket, spilling its contents onto the floor. The stale, foul-smelling
water quickly spread, seeping into the floorboards. Nisha and Quasi, in
their haste to the front door, felt those first few droplets.
Upstairs, Marcel stood before the Minister of Justice; he seemed rather
perplexed. "Minister Frollo," he began calmly, "I nearly killed your lover
and you exact your revenge by..." He paused to examine his now damp
shoes, then laughed uproariously saying, "...Getting my feet wet? I don't
understand...The Honorable Claude Frollo throws water on his wanted man..."
Marcel stood there laughing away, but Frollo had the last laugh as
he said to 'le Chameleon', "Thank Johnny for informing us of your one fear...Oh
yes, Marcel, I heard all about your...ahem...problems in 1937. So, I am
now about to do what I should have done, that is if you hadn't so hastily
escaped." Marcel Rougelot couldn't understand this but seemed good natured
enough to indulge Frollo in this silly game.
The medieval magistrate then said as he inched his wanted man towards
bathroom, "Marcel, you vowed you would never hang for murder, and now you
get your wish..."
"What...?", asked a suddenly nervous Marcel. By now, he had his back
to a partially filled bathtub; Judge Frollo had him trapped. "Why, Marcel,"
said Claude Frollo in his oiliest voice as he indicated the spilled water,
"the bucket was a decoy, for you see..."
Claude switched on the radio to full volume, then motioned Marcel closer
to the tub. Marcel still couldn't figure this out, but then it dawned
on him when he noticed that the radio began to smoke and spark.
Claude Frollo then said in sneering triumph, "You see, Marcel, it was
Julian, Antoine, and Phoebus who sent those bogus messages. And I understand
one such message mentioned a...umm...'lightning chair'...But this is the
next best thing."
With Marcel now at a disadvantage, Claude Frollo shoved the medieval
fugitive into the half-filled tub. Splash! Marcel couldn't believe
this!
"Frollo! Have you finally gone mad? This is nothing more than a childish
prank!" Claude Frollo laughed sinisterly, picked up the radio, then coolly
and calmly spoke these words, "Marcel Rougelot, you vowed you would never
hang for murder, and I shall honor that request. On the contrary, you shall
die in the most shocking..."
So with that, Frollo, stepping well away from the puddles on the floor,
nonchalantly pitched that radio into the tub then stood back and smiled
with wicked delight as Marcel screamed and thrashed about. Flashes of electricity
buzzed and hissed; the water churned and boiled furiously. Claude Frollo
stood in the doorway and watched Marcel Rougelot fight for life; the fugitive
from medieval France didn't stand a chance.
After several moments of agony, Marcel Rougelot breathed his last;
his body floated lifelessly in the murky water. Just before turning towards
the stairs, Claude said aloud, "At last, Marcel, you have reached the end
of your game..."
Claude Frollo simply walked down the stairs and out of the house without ever looking back. It is done, Danisha...At last, our long nightmare is over...My dearest, all I want is to come home to you, and to our darling Nadine...
++++++++
"Master!", called out a jubilant Quasimodo as Claude finally emerged
from the house -- alone. It seemed fitting, thought Claude Frollo, that
these recent events hardly stirred the neighbors' curiosity. Perhaps
it was all for the best. He spotted the two vehicles: Fern's 1959 Chevy
and Julian's '57 T-Bird. As Claude approached his time traveling companions,
he was met with so many questions.
Claude, nodding at Fern, coolly handed over the gun to Julian, saying
only, "I made sure to retrieve your weapon. The last thing we need is your
police asking question after question..."
However, right now, Judge Claude Frollo had to field questions from
his friends. "Where's Marcel?," asked Fern, who had come to 1968 with an
extra passenger. Cherie Wood had to exercise caution since, in 1968, she
was, in reality, barely a year old. Her smile was warm and her embrace
welcomed as she said to Claude, "Nisha sent me on an errand, to your time;
she told me to seek out Quasimodo...Lucky for me that I ran into Fern."
The medieval judge's eyes bored through Cherie, Nisha's youngest sister,
and he conveyed silent gratitude to the petite thirty-something.
It
is amazing how the Wood women maintain the bloom and vigor of youth...Even
Mme. Geraldine, a woman well past seventy, looks and behaves far younger
than her years...
Claude Frollo turned to his New World spies and merely informed them
that, "Marcel Rougelot is dead." Stunned expressions were the only response,
then Julian mentioned that Quasimodo had retrieved those papers that Marcel
had written. "It goes with what he wrote down in those notebooks. It's
a confession of sorts; he names all his victims, and details that conspiracy.
The guy mentions names and everything."
Judge Frollo said nothing as he silently got into the Impala. He grasped
his still throbbing side, endeavoring to allay any outward expression of
pain. But Cherie noted the man's eyes and gently said, "Claude, are you
hurt? Don't try to be all macho and lie out of it; you are in pain." His
Grace smiled despite his obvious agony.
"My dear Cherie, it is true I am in considerable pain. Rougelot could
have shot me in the brain yet still I would fight to save Danisha's life...How
is she?"
"She's hanging in there. Momma just sent us a message and said Nisha's
coming out of it...But I don't get it. Was that MY big sister I saw holding
on to Quasi? She was so little!"
The medieval magistrate chuckled in good humor, stopping momentarily
to wince in discomfort. "We shall explain everything once we are safely
back in your time." The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance,
and Claude Frollo
had just received a message via his transtemporal device.
It took great fortitude on his part to keep from laughing out loud when
he read:
Claude,
I got Nisha home safe and sound. Her folks bought 'the stranger
stalking their daughter' bit. The police have a full description of Marcel
as Danisha's captor, but I highly doubt they'll find him. The kid will
be fine, a little shaken up, but OK. I made her promise not to tell anyone
about her adventures; I told her we were from -- get this -- another time
and we were after a very bad man who wanted to change history. I know it
sounds crazy but it worked; Nisha promised she wouldn't tell a soul. I'm
on my way back to 2004...I need to be with my wife and boys. I've already
spoken to Nisha (the adult) and she's coming around. Take care of yourself.
Tony (Antoine)
So, thought Claude Frollo, his beloved's life is no longer in danger.
He closed the pager, signed in relief, then nearly broke down in tears.
"Claude," Fern said with concern, "are you OK? Want one of us to go
get Marcel's body and...."
Frollo immediately interrupted, "Leave him!" Fern couldn't believe
what she was hearing. "Huh? You want us to leave the body of a 15th Century
man here? In 1968?" Claude Frollo, his face contorting in pain, explained
while Fern prepped the car, "My dear Fern, I had discussed this with Julian
earlier...Since we have Marcel's signed confessions, and if he -- well,
he is dead now -- should lose his life here...Fern, I had Antoine call
your police if I failed to return...As far as the police will know, Marcel
Rougelot was just a drifter who happened to kidnap a child, break into
a vacant house..."
"...And this guy," rejoined Julian, "has no ID, no money...He has no
records downtown...So, he's just another John Doe who died an accidental
death...Guy slips falls into bathtub, radio falls into tub...But to explain
the fact that he has no drugs or liquor in his system, and that the
water in the tub was a few weeks old...."
"Enough!", cried Frollo through clenched teeth; Julian and company
could tell the medieval judge needed to get back to the 21st Century. "I
wouldn't worry about Marcel, Claude," Julian said before getting into his
car. "As far as we're concerned, the case is closed."
Claude Frollo raised his eyes toward the darkened house one last time.
He shook his head and thought, "Yes, it is over...But after all that has
happened...Will it ever be truly over?"
**********
++++++++
"Danisha, darling...It is over...Marcel is dead...I finally put an end to his murderous rampage. He shan't ever again harm another innocent soul..."
It was close to five in the morning when Claude Frollo aroused me from
a deep slumber. I had finally managed to drift off to sleep after hearing
the good news, but the rest didn't last for long. He was exhausted, and
injured; I could tell he was in considerable discomfort.
"Claude," I began hoarsely, still groggy from lack of sleep, "he hurt
you..."
"I am fine, Nisha...May I...?" He indicated the bed; I nodded
and scooted over. Ever so gingerly, Claude Frollo reclined on the bed;
he tried not to wince but I knew he was in pain when his mouth twitched
slightly. His hand flew to his right side as if it would alleviate his
discomfort. I stroked his soft gray hair and kissed his lips, saying,
"Julian and Iggy said that Marcel flipped a table on you, then he slammed
you right in the same spot...Honey, let Momma call a doctor...You may have
cracked ribs..."
Claude smiled thinly, then leaned over to kiss me. "I shall repeat,
my dear: I will be fine...Only a bruise or two..."
Suddenly we heard the patter of little feet enter the room; those jingle
bells on the pajamas announced her approach. Then we heard a joyous voice,
"Papa!" Nadine ran to us, jumped onto the bed then hugged her father with
all the love and devotion a little kindergartner can display.
"I missed you, Papa...Mommy was sick but now she's all better because
you're home." He returned his daughter's embrace, saying, "My darling Nadine,
you have no idea how much I've missed you! I understand you are singing
with your class..."
He stopped to catch his breath, then leaned over to me to whisper.
"I think you had better contact your physician...I don't think I can stand
this pain much longer..."
Then, "I have to return to Paris, to my own time, tomorrow, just to tidy up some loose ends...Then I shall return in time..."
He paused to stroke Nadine's hair; she had already gone back to sleep.
Claude then told me that, "I have never broken a promise, Danisha..."
COMING UP: The epilogue...
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