Blood Oath Part 32

Houston peered down at his crimson jacket. It clung to him, sticky, warm. "My penance."

"You're not making sense."

"Who's with you? We, you said."

"The best squad from our agency. We followed you from the time you met with Andrews."

"When he gave us those three numbers? At the cafe? He told you he was going to meet us?"

"It was cynical of me, but I decided we'd use you as a catalyst, to force Verlaine to make another move against you. This time we'd be ready, though."

"You tricked us? We were decoys?"

"You were under constant watch. You remember when you stopped outside the castle at that scenic lookout?"

Houston glared at him.

"A car pulled up?" Bellay continued. "And a family got out? A man, a woman, and three kids? They work for us."

"If you were close, what took you so long getting in? You could have saved my father! And Simone's!"

Bellay was shaken. "You surprised us."

"What?"

"We never guessed you'd go inside. It seemed impossible for you. A man alone.

The castle seemed too well protected. We a.s.sumed you'd try to make them come outside. Then, when we realized . . . We watched you at the cliff behind the castle. After you went down, the guards appeared and grabbed Simone. We mobilized as fast as we were able."

"Andrews?"

"I'm right here." Another man took off his ski mask. Andrews grinned with nervousness.

"You lied to me. You used me." Houston trembled, almost hitting him.

But Andrews held his hand out.

Houston stared at it, then told him, "d.a.m.n you," and shook hands reluctantly. He turned to Bellay. "At the hotel. There's an a.s.sa.s.sin. I can identify him."

Bellay frowned. "As soon as this is over. What about St. Laurent? We've searched the castle. We can't find him."

Houston blinked, dismayed.

He suddenly thought of the tunnel. His skin tingled as he swung to face the far end of the room the balcony, the wall where Charles had appeared. The tapestries!

"What's wrong?" Bellay said.

Houston didn't answer. He ran toward the tapestries. There had to be a hidden door, a way for Charles to have come down here from the balcony. He yanked one tapestry and saw a wall. He yanked another; an archway.

"Here!"

Bellay and Andrews ran across the room. A stairway led up to the balcony. But straight ahead a corridor met other stairs, and these went down.

"This place is full of hidden pa.s.sages," Houston said. "Below us there's a tunnel." He turned to Simone. "I have to do this."

"I'll go with you," she said.

"No. I need you too much. I don't want to lose you."

"What if I lose you?"

"I promise I'll be careful. If there's trouble, I'll make Andrews go ahead of me."

"Hey, thanks a lot," Andrews said.

"You owe me."

"Stay with her," Bellay told his men.

Houston ducked beneath the tapestry and ran along the hidden corridor with the superintendent and Bellay. They started down the stairs. It seemed their descent would never end.

But then they reached the bottom, in a cold dark granite tunnel sloping upward toward what seemed to be the castle's rear.

Bellay pulled out a flashlight from his snowsuit. The beam lanced up the tunnel; they crept forward. Andrews aimed his rifle. Soon the tunnel sloped much higher.

Houston heard the howling wind. He felt the deeper cold.

"We must be heading toward the mountain. Toward the ridge above the castle."

Houston's voice reverberated in the tunnel.

Through the flashlight's ghostly beam, he saw his frosty breath. They reached a corner. As they peered around it, Bellay aimed the light.

A door. They hurried forward. Cautiously they pulled the door. The shrieking darkness of the blizzard burst on them.

"There," Bellay said, pointing.

Houston raised his arms to protect his face from the storm. He peered toward where the flashlight showed half-filled footprints in the snow. A man, not far ahead of them, had run out toward the mountains.

Houston's cheeks felt frozen, numb. Despite the angry wind, he left the tunnel, following the footsteps.

"You won't find him," Bellay said.

"I have to try! I have to get my hands, on him!"

"You'll freeze to death." Andrews tried to stop him. Houston pried his hands away and stumbled on.

"The storm will kill him for you," Bellay said. "He doesn't have a chance out here."

The footprints disappeared. As Houston stared in puzzlement, he feared he was hallucinating. The snow on the ground changed color. White became a vivid, splattered red.

Bellay groaned and fell, dropping his flashlight.

Houston crouched in fierce alarm. He'd heard a shot. From where? The wind played tricks, redirecting sound.

Andrews scrambled toward Bellay.

The blood had sprayed forward, Houston realized. Then the shot must have come from Houston swung to see what was behind him. He stared toward the tunnel's open door, but St. Laurent was not in sight. Was there a hiding place inside the tunnel from where St. Laurent had stalked them?

Frantically, Houston scanned the darkness. He saw a sudden crimson movement. Not inside the tunnel. Higher! On a ledge above the tunnel's exit! St. Laurent apparently had known he was being chased. Instead of racing forward through the blizzard, he'd walked backward on the footprints he had made. He'd climbed up to the ledge. He'd waited, planning to shoot the men who followed him.

Staring at the sudden crimson movement up there, freezing in the darkness, Houston understood that St. Laurent still wore his red-lined cape.

The man had been in such a rush to get away he hadn't found outdoor clothing.

There had been no time.

Now Houston saw the handgun St. Laurent was aiming. Something had gone wrong, however. St. Laurent could easily have shot them all and stripped a body for a snowsuit. What was stopping him?

The freezing wind that deadened Houston's cheeks. My G.o.d, his hand is bare! It's frozen to the gun! His fingers he can't move them!

St. Laurent pawed desperately to free his fingers. He pried, wailing.

Houston had no weapon. "Andrews! Up behind you!"

But the warning came too late. In anguish, St. Laurent dove, arcing down. The crimson lining of the cape spread in the wind. The hurtling figure came from h.e.l.l.

As Houston stumbled back, he felt the body strike him. He lurched backward, gasping from the blow. He fell, and St. Laurent lunged at him, pounding with the useless pistol frozen to his hand.

Andrews shouted. St. Laurent and Houston began to roll. They were on a slope.

They tumbled downward through the snow.

Away from Andrews and the flashlight. He and St. Laurent were hidden by the chaos of the blizzard. They rolled in the darkness, punching ineffectually at each other. Houston's side sc.r.a.ped past a rock beneath the snow. His head glanced past a tree. He clawed at St. Laurent. He jabbed. He gouged.

And Houston suddenly felt weightless. Oh, my G.o.d, we're on a cliff! We're going off! His stomach rose. His breath ached from his lungs.

The two men twisted as they fell. The wind kept howling. Snow enshrouded them.

They landed with a sickening abruptness. Houston felt the cold seep through him, numbing him as he fought.

His right leg dangled into open s.p.a.ce. Though Houston couldn't see what was around him, he was sure they'd landed on an outcrop. In panic, he squirmed to escape.

But St. Laurent kept striking at him with the gun, and Houston's mind began to dim as if the snow were streaking through his brain. His strength diminished. He relaxed his grip from where he stabbed at eyes and tore at ears.

A shout from somewhere. "Houston!"

Yes, Andrews searching for him. But too late. I've reached my limit. I don't have the strength to fight. The cold. It's wonderful. I need to sleep. I have to rest. The flashlight's beam probed through the blizzard. "Houston!" Coming closer.

St. Laurent was frantic. Striking once more with the gun, he scrambled to his feet. He seemed to realize he couldn't fight both Houston and Andrews. He glanced around in search of somewhere he could run and hide. He rushed away. The wrong way.

Toward the cliffs edge, which he couldn't see. And for a moment Houston thought his eyes played tricks. The cape spread. St. Laurent appeared to fly.

Then St. Laurent was screaming. He fell, twisting. Red and black, then red and black. Then only white. And he was gone.

Andrews struggled down a snowy slope. He hunkered anxiously near Houston. "Are you hurt?" "Don't know. . . . Bellay?" "He's only wounded. ... St. Laurent?"

"Went off the cliff."

"Come on, you'll freeze to death," Andrews said. "I've got to take you back."

The swirling snow became a swirling in Pete's head.

To what? he thought. You've got to take me back to what?

His wife was dead. And his father.

The swirling blizzard seemed to part, and in his spinning mind he thought he saw a figure beckoning. A woman. She offered him salvation and the future.

Yes, he thought. Yes, take me back to her. Simone.

Andrews helped him up, turned him, and led him through the snow. But long before they reached the tunnel's mouth, a different tunnel opened, and it swallowed him. Unconsciousness was merciful, an end to pain and sorrow.

When he wakened, she was waiting for him.

end.