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Masque de la Terreur: a Gabriel Knight Mystery

Chapter 2, Part III

by Travis Lester, published on March 31, 2001

Gabriel jerked awake for a moment, his nap broken by the turbulence.

He squinted, his head throbbing slightly from a headache which he always seemed to get during airplane travel. Looking to his side, Gabriel found himself under the close scrutiny of a rather obese lady. Her hair was somewhat dark, and she wore a bit too much blush. Either that or it was just pure shyness.

For the life of him, Gabriel did not understand what happened to the elderly man with whom he sat beside during take-off.

“Who’re you?” he asked.

The lady giggled. “I'm your biggest fan, that’s who,” she looked down at the bag in her lap, and inserted a chubby and into it.

What she pulled out was an old tarnished copy of Fire In The Hills.

Gabriel’s headache seemed to intensify.

“Wow... you’re, uh, quite a fan,” he said, distantly studying the creased cover. “I didn't know anybody’d read it.”

“I knew it was you,” she said quickly. “I don’t suppose you know me. I'm Nancy Matheson,” she reached out and grabbed his hand, pumping it wildly. “I came by your shop a few years ago in New Orleans?”

Gabriel forced a smile, nodding.

“doesn't ring a bell?” she giggled. “I bought, like, five copies of The Voodoo Murders. For my friends, I mean!”

“Ah...” Gabriel shrugged.

“Spoke with your sales clerk? The young Asian lady? She seemed a bit snippy, I hope you got rid of her.”

“Heh...” Gabriel nodded.

“Anyway, I'm so glad I was able to see you. I almost had to threaten that old man with his life to get his seat,” she cackled, slapping her knee.

“Well... gotta admire a fan who takes the initiative,” Gabriel thought, thinking the exact opposite.

aren't these the kindsa people who they lock up for stalkin’?

“I know you probably get this a lot,” she thrusted the book outwards.

“Actually, no...”

“But could you sign this?” she looked away as if expecting an answer in the negative.

Gabriel glanced away for a moment, sighed and took it.

The woman peered over at him out of the corner of her eye as he dug into the inner pocket of his jacket for a pen.

“You’re so great, Mister Knight,” she said as he signed the inner cover. “I've read everything You've done.”

Gabriel nodded, smiling crookedly.

Poor thing.

“You've even inspired me to write!”

Gabriel halted mid-signature between the N and the I. He looked at her as if asking if she was serious.

“I don’t suppose...” she looked down. “No, you wouldn't...”

Gabriel, ignoring her, finished and looked the book over. It definitely wasn't The Voodoo Murders.

He handed it back and she laid it in her lap, staring at the magazine rack on the back of the seat in front of her.

“Well, uh, is that all I can do for you?” Gabriel asked hopefully.

She shot her head back around, “Could you read some of my work?”

Gabriel could not force a smile this time. It was impossible.

“It’s very short, and a bit messy,” she said, digging into her purse and pulling out a notepad. “But I can help you with the parts you Can't read.”

Gabriel took the notepad hesitantly, glancing up at the large TV screen dominating the wall ahead of him. The in-flight movie was Misery. Kathy Bates and James Caan were on-screen.

Gabriel felt a bit queasy.

“Do planes make you sick?” he asked the woman quickly, handing back the pad and rising to his feet.

“What?” she asked, as Gabriel stepped around her.

“I gotta... go to the john...” he said walking down the aisle.

“Are you all right?” she asked turning in her seat.

Gabriel looked back, still walking, hands on stomach. “Sure... I'll be... fine!”

As he entered the bathroom and shut and locked the door behind him quickly, he leaned against it and breathed a sigh of relief.

The woman looked across the aisle at a young man studying her.

“That was Gabriel Knight,” she giggled. “He signed my book!”


Three and a half hours later, Gabriel sat in the back of a taxi outside of Mosely’s apartment building. Gabriel knew his old friend’s mailing address from their split-up back in France, promising to keep in touch and the like. Gabriel never thought the address would come in handy till now.

Gabriel flipped through a newspaper he’d purchased at the airport.

“Is that him, man?” asked the young black man at the wheel.

Gabriel looked up and leaned forward. Walking out of the hotel’s front doors was a tall, skinny, red-headed white man.

“Nah, this guy’s a chubby, thin-haired fella. Probably wearin’ a gold blazer.”

“Say what?” asked the driver. “You’re not serious.”

“’Fraid not, pal.” Gabriel went back to reading the paper. “’Fraid not.”

“So, this guy’s... like, hittin’ on your lady?” the driver asked.


Gabriel shrugged. “It’s kinda hard to explain. we've, uh, split up temporarily, and my best friend here, is goin’ to see her.”

“And she hasn't bothered to contact you at all, right?”

“Right.” Gabriel responded, trying not to think on it.

“That’s some sly sh*t.” the driver shook his head disapprovingly.

“You’re tellin’ me.”

Gabriel scanned through the newspaper, but found very little appealing. It was kinda like the Munich paper, little to talk about. The Times Picayune beat it by a mile and a half.

“Your guy own a black trench?”

Gabriel thought for a moment and quickly tossed the paper aside, leaning forward eagerly.

There he was, Franklin Mosely, in his prized black trench carrying his tacky old suitcase. He stood idley for a moment until a fare-eager taxi pulled up to the curb. Mosely opened the back passenger door and tossed in his case, slipping in.

“I hate to sound melodramatic, but follow him,” Gabriel said quickly.

The driver laughed. “You kiddin’ me?”

“What? Is that against the law?” Gabriel asked. “It’s my first time, really.”

The driver laughed, pulling off the curb in slow pursuit of Mosely’s cab. “Hey man, it’s your bill.”

Gabriel smiled widely. “Thanks. ‘Preciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” the driver said dismissively. “Reminds me of this movie I saw once. One of those double-o-seven flicks.”

Gabriel thought for a moment. “Was it the one in Vegas? With Connery?”

“Naw, the other guy.”

Gabriel remembered vaguely. “Was it the one about... Voodoo?”

“Yeah,” the driver nodded. “What was that one called?”

Gabriel pondered this for a moment. There was a time when he could've named any Bond movie, villain, Bond girl and gadget. Of course, that was junior high, though. “Can't ‘member, really.”

“Ah well. wasn't too bad.” the driver said, turning off the main street onto a more vacant one, still on the taxi’s tail. “Connery was the man, though.”

Gabriel nodded. “I grew up in the Seventies, so Moore was my guy.”

“He was all right,” the driver conceded. “Never could quite picture double-o-seven in bell-bottoms though.”

Gabriel laughed.


Twenty minutes passed, when Gabriel looked out the window, watching Mosely stride down the sidewalk to the exact airport he’d just come from an hour ago.

“Coulda’ saved myself a helluva trip,” Gabriel said to himself.

The driver grinned at him through the partitional plexi-glass, “No offense or anythin’, but I'm glad you didn't. That'll be twenty-three bucks and ninety-five cents.”


Gabriel stood at a pay-phone watching as Mosely paid for his ticket at one of the desks. As Mosely walked away, he strode past the same pay-phone, seeing only the bottom half of a man, the top half hidden by a wide-opened newspaper.

Gabriel did feel a bit stupid about all this, but he needed to stay on Mosely’s ass to find out exactly where Grace was. He couldn't go to Paris searching every hotel for a Grace Nakimura. Chances are it might not even be listed under her name.

Gabriel lowered it as soon as he was gone and followed him with his eyes. Mosely approached the third waiting bench and sat, crossed his legs and stared ahead blankly.

Gabriel walked to the same desk Mosely had bought his ticket.

Placing both hands on the desk, he smiled widely at the young blond lady. “Hi there, uh, I need’a ticket for Paris, France.”

The girl tilted her head, her eyes as large as snow-globes. “Like, wow! I Can't believe this, are you Southern?”

Gabriel laid on the accent. “Guilty as charged, heh heh. How’d you guess?”

“I don’t know! I just got this feeling, y’know?”

“Yeah, I do know!” Gabriel matched her excitement.

“That man that was just over here!” she exclaimed, pointing wildly at Mosely. “He’s a Southerner too!”

They were getting looks.

Gabriel smiled and grabbed her hand, “Let’s not be pointin’, ‘kay? Bad manners an’ all.”

The girl looked at him oddly as he held her hand in his on the desk.

“Now, this guy’s goin’ to ol’ Paris, too?” Gabriel asked sweetly, pronouncing Paris as Pairr-ee.

“Yeah, that’s, like, so weird, isn' it?” she nodded, pulling her hand away reluctantly to use her computer.

“It sure is,” Gabriel deadpanned. “What class is he goin’ on, anyway?”

“Second. You?”

“Hm, I dunno...” Gabriel thought. “Could be bad luck two Southern gentlemen on the same plane to the same darn place in the exact same class, y’know?”

“First, then?” she began typing into the computer.

Gabriel smacked the desk lightly, same Huckleberry smile plastered on his face. “Hell, You've sold me. First it is!”

“Hehe! All right!”

"God..." Gabriel whispered under his breath as she set to work.


Jet-lag. Pure f*cking jet-lag, Gabriel thought as he hobbled off the steps of the airplane having just touched down in Paris, France.

His head pulsed and throbbed and vibrated like hell. He was dizzy, his vision seemed to be hindered by a speckled film.

Gabriel had to take a seat in the airport to get his head together, but as soon as he took comfort in the plushy seat in the airport’s lobby, the ever-vigilant Agent Mosely passed by him. Determined as ever, he pushed through the front door and into the rainy evening.

Gabriel couldn't handle much more of this, but pulled himself to his feet and took off after him.

Gabriel spotted a line of taxis waiting outside. Like sharks to ships at sea, they were just waiting. Mosely opened the passenger door of one and slipped in, Gabriel quickly dashed outside to grab the one directly behind it. As soon as he did, another hand grabbed the handle at the exact moment.

Gabriel looked up hazily as the rain poured down. Staring at him was a sleek brunette with dark eyes beneath a dark green umbrella.

“Do you mind?” she asked sweetly, in a French accent, blinking her eyes.

Mosely’s taxi left the curb and fell into the light traffic.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Gabriel opened the door and slid inside, slamming it behind him.

The look on the woman’s face was priceless, but it fell behind Gabriel fast and furious as he was too busy to pay attention.

“Look, uh, follow that cab,” Gabriel pointed to the appropriate taxi. He was getting the hang of this.

“You’re joking, yes?” asked the middle-aged lady behind the wheel. Gabriel could make out the light brown hair and wrinkled, aging eyes through the rear view mirror.

“Just hit, alright?” Gabriel wasn't in the mood for chit-chat, as Mosely was gaining distance. The light drizzle he’d fell victim to wasn't helping his mood either.

The lady complied, switching on the meter, and taking off.

Gabriel rubbed his hands over his face and pushed back his damp hair.

Something about the French memories, the "rival" for affection (if you considered Mosely anywhere near that) and the depressing rain seemed all-together Casablanca-esque.

Suddenly, it grabbed him. The fear. The fear of not being wanted. What if she did not wish to see him? What if she had Mosely escort him right out the door?

What the hell would he do then? How the hell would he even say hello?

Gabriel, for a split-second, regretted coming all the to Paris, France in such a spur-of-the-moment type of way. Then he realized that it had to be done. Grace may have been his back-bone throughout his earlier investigations, but extensive knowledge of history and lore wasn't gonna save her ass if there really was something to this Phantom business.

No, despite his weaknesses, Gabriel was the Schattenjäger, and he’d be damned if he would let anything happen to Grace Nakimura just because he was too chicken-sh*t to confront her...

 

Last update: October 25, 2007


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