Masque de la Terreur: a Gabriel Knight Mystery
Chapter 2, Part II
by Travis Lester, published on March 31, 2001
He didn't want to open his eyes. The sleep was so comforting, so rewarding, that he dared not open them out of fear that he would be forced to remain above the surface of slumber.
It was almost like his days during elementary school, when he would feel himself wake, but try to defeat the natural occurance by keeping his eyes shut tightly to dull the brightness of the sunlight being fed through the window.
And like in childhood, when he would remember that it was Saturday and the morning cartoons were on, his eyes flew open, tore away the bedsheet that kept his warmth, and sprung from the bed.
Clad only in his jeans and Talisman, he dashed across the room to the stack of carboard boxes on which SIDney rested. It was not the reminder of cartoons which aroused him, but the hope of a reply email from Grace Nakimura.
Returning to the bed, Gabriel sat atop his left leg, right leg outstretched, and opened the laptop.
As it powered up, he rubbed his eyes and fought like hell to push back the frizzy left side of his main. Long hair was a far worse battle of bed-head than the skirmishes of his shorter haired days.
Finally, SIDney greeted him and with satisfaction it spoke, “New email. New email.”
Gabriel quickly entered the email area, finding the listing of one email.
Gabriel rubbed his eyes again, fighting away the blurriness of his post-interrupted siesta.
One was an un-titled email from Grace. He could tell this from the email address.
Gabriel clicked on the link eagerly and waited as it loaded:
Gerde,
Thank you for the information, but I've already found much of that here. Being Paris, France, I suppose you might say it’s a well-stocked topic of information. I just recieved an email reply from Mosely in Langley. He’s been up to his neck in paperwork from the RNL incident. He told me he’d be out here as soon as he could to give me some legal back-up.
Gabriel’s brow dipped into an angry V.
I know I've talked your ear off about this thing with Gabriel, and I don’t know what more to say. Mosely seems eager to help me, but then again it’s Mosely after all.
Son of a b*tch, Gabriel thought vividly.
I'm here with Lavanya, my “superior.” Supposedly, she’s a great investigator. That’s what Chadrel is saying, anyway. She’s smart, sure. Very smart. But she’s never really been on any kind of investigation before. I've been on three. Oh well, at least my superior is a little brighter than the great fearless Schattenjager.
Gabriel gritted his teeth painfully, grinding his molars.
Anyway, thanks for the information. I'm staying at a hotel located just across from the Paris opera house.
No name, Gabriel thought. Hmmm...
It’s crazy, they’ve got police, Surete, all over the front steps. And there’s even a picket line parading the about the front sidewalk. Anyway, Lavanya and I are going to interview the ringleader of the picket line, this girl named Cynthia Phillips. She seems a bit off-beat. You know, the type Gabriel would drool over.
Gabriel rolled his eyes.
So, I'll email you with an update just as soon as I come back. Mosely said he might be over late tonight, because he’s catching a plane later on in the evening. Take care. ~Grace
Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in bed. He jabbed the “Reply” button with his index finger, preparing to give Grace a full-on load of his best insults when...
“Gabriel!” came Gran’s voice from downstairs. It came out like Gaaay-Bree-El!
“Comin’ Gran!” he called back angrily. Just like childhood. He stared at the empty blank for his reply and sighed forcefully. Shoving SIDney aside, Gabriel rose from the bed and exited his room.
When he came to the bottom of the stairs, he saw the television in the living room on.
Soaps, thought Gabriel.
Gabriel’s nose delighted in a familiar smell.
Lingering off to the side, Gabriel stood silently at the open doorway of the kitchen. Leaning against the frame, he scratched his belly.
“What’s cookin’?”
Gran didn't seem to hear him.
Gabriel frowned sadly.
“Hey... Gran?”
Suddenly, she looked up and placed a hand to her breast. “Dear me, Gabriel. I ‘bout jumped out of my skin, you standin’ there like that.”
Her there came out like they’uh.
“Sorry, Gran,” Gabriel said walking in. He stopped at the stove at which she stood to see what she was cooking. There was a light brown splatter of pancake batter in the pan, puffing to a somewhat bloated rise.
“Pancakes again?” he asked, smiling.
His Gran looked at him almost alien-like. “What do you mean again?”
Gabriel said nothing. Still smiling, he kissed her foread. “Nothin’. I love your pancakes.”
She grinned back sweetly and turned her head back downward to the pan. When he was free of her gaze, Gabriel’s grim scowl returned. God how he hated seeing her like this.
“Go on over and get you a seat at the table, Gabriel. This’ll be done in a jiffy.”
Gabriel acknowledged and approached the small, round oak table. It was an old table, the legs full of knicks and scratches due to the youthful hijinks of Gabriel and his father alike. It was old. Very old. Gabriel slightly recalled the story of how his Gran got it, something about his grandfather “borrowing” it from an old couple who moved to Mississippii and forgot all about it.
Sitting, Gabriel studied the legs. Ornate, they were nothing like those you could so easily find in Schloss Ritter. Gabriel began to think of how his Gran would love to see it, but he knew she probably couldn't handle the trip.
And almost guiltily, he began to wonder if he would even want her there.
Gabriel dismissed the thought immediately and rose from the table. “I'm goin’ into the livin’ room. Alright, Gran?”
She nodded and Gabriel left.
When he entered the living room, he saw the opening credits to “One Life To Live.” Gabriel shook his head, smiling. Ever since Gran had gotten that Direct TV cable service, she’d subscribed to the Soaps Channel almost faithfully. Gabriel took a seat on the sofa and stretched out. Remote control in hand, he began to scan through the channels.
A basket ball player at the free-throw line, Bugs Bunny kissing the forehead of Yosemite Sam, a poofy-haired lady delivering some religious sermon at an altar... the images flew by quickly as he moved through the channels.
Then he stopped on the channel named “E!” and watched a small news broadcast.
The anchor man at the desk was relating the Paris opera mishap...
“... our reporter in Paris, Jim Eckland, is on the spot with this late-breaking event,”
Suddenly, the screen split vertically in half. The opposite side of the anchor man’s screen stood a young man in a rain coat. The rain coming down like bullets around him, he fought to hold up the rim of his hood against the force.
“Wow, Jim,” said the anchor man. “It sure is coming down, isn't it?”
“Yes it is, Terry. From what I've heard, it hasn't rained like this in quite some time. Some of the religious phantom phans claim it to be Erik’s will, but it’s probably just the aftermath of the storms in lower Europe.”
Terry the anchor man laughed. “Don’t tell them that, Jim. You wouldn't want to upset them. Say, is that them behind you?”
Behind Jim, the tail of a long picket line can barely be seen. The camera pans left to capture them. Rain coats, trench coats, big hats, and the ever-bobbing signs of protest can be seen.
“Yes, they march rain or shine, Jim. They’re very dedicated to all of this nonsense, sadly enough.”
Gabriel’s detective mind began to chew.
“Any word from the police officials?” asked Terry.
“Well, the primary investigators of the Surete have taken up residence inside the opera house along with the production crew of Phantom.”
“I take it they’re keeping tight-lipped on this, then?”
“They really are, Terry.” Jim said loudly against the ruckus of the rainstorm. A sudden flash of lighting illuminated the darkness of the location, followed by the crash of thunder.
Suddenly, the on-location half of the screen went dead with snow and static.
“Hello?” Terry asked of Jim. “Jim? Have we...” he looked off to the side, nodded and looked back at the camera. “Okay, it appears we've lost him. From the looks of it, the production is probably going to be in serious delay until the matter of Bergman’s death is brought to a close.”
The camera pans right and another box appears hovering in the top right corner showing Sylvester Stallone’s face.
“Sylvester Stallone is quoted in saying that he interested in another Rocky sequel, but MGM and United Artists don’t seem to be too interested in his wishes...”
Gabriel pushed the power button, killing the TV.
He scratched the back of his head, and rubbed his aching neck. His old bed was nice as far as memories went, but hell on his adult body.
His mind racked and racked, thinking of what to do. He was still upset with Grace and Gerde. And now Mosely? What the hell was up with that? She’d call him but not Gabriel?
Somethin’s rotten in Denmarck... Gabriel thought.
Rising to his bare feet, he tossed the remote onto the checkered cushion of the sofa.
Langley, Gabriel thought.
“Langely, Virginia.” Gabriel muttered to himself. Gabriel glanced to the tall grandfather clock.
11:15 AM
Gabriel quickly made his way to the stairs.
“Gran, I gotta go,” he said quickly, passing the open kitchen doorway.
She looked up. “What? Why?” she called to him, up the stairs.
Gabriel pulled on his dirty black t-shirt, pushing back his messy locks of hair.
“I got things to do,” he returned.
Gran rolled her eyes. “And your breakfast?”
Gabriel was bouncing around on his left leg, trying to pull his brown snakeskin boot onto his right foot. “You eat it! Yer thin as’a rake, as it is!”
“I already ate!” she called up to him.
CRASH!
“Gabriel!” his Gran called, leaving the oven and quickly scaling the stairs.
Pushing open his ajar door, she peered in to find him lying in the floor, trying to pull on his left boot, now.
“What in the blazes, Gabriel?”
“Gran,” he struggled, pulling himself up. “I have to go. I'll call you, alright?”
“Are you going back to Germany?”
“No,” he said rubbing his shoulder as he stepped past her and went down stairs.
“You forgot your computer,” she said pointing at it on the bed.
Gabriel didn't need it and made his way to the front door in the living room. He snatched up his biker jacket and tugged it on quickly.
“Gabriel, are you okay?” she asked approaching him slowly and placing her frail hand to his forehead.
“I'm fine, Gran. Really.”
She frowned, her gray eyes full of sadness and concern.
Gabriel frowned back at her. “Please don’t be sad.”
“You'll call me, won’t you?” she asked him.
Gabriel nodded, “I said I would.”
“You say lotsa’ things, boy.” she said embracing him in a tight, motherly hug. “You just need t’start doin’ ‘em.”
Gabriel held her for the longest time, his eyes shut. “I plan on it.”
Pulling away, he gave her a lop-sided smile, turned, opened the main door and pushed through the screen one.
It came to a soft crash behind him, as Gran watched him bound down the front steps of the porch and jog down the path to his motorcycle.
"Be careful, Gabriel," she whispered, running her wrinkled fingers down the metal mesh screen. She closed her eyes. "Be careful...
Last update: October 25, 2007
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