The Medusa Amulet (54 page)

And then, glancing at her ashen face in the rearview mirror, she shook her head, as if to physically dismiss all the fears from her mind, and pinched her own cheeks, hard. She could not afford the luxury of a breakdown at that moment. Not while David and Ascanio were still out there. Not while the job was still undone. She knew David. She
knew he would not give up. His sister’s life was at stake, and even in the short time they had been together, she had seen what a fierce and unbreakable bond that was. She took another sip of the whiskey, and even though she was not a religious woman—for her, churches were places to tour, not worship—she found herself praying all the same. Not to Jesus or Mother Mary. But to the miraculous powers of the universe, the benign and unseen forces in which she
did
believe. Olivia’s mind had always been open, and as she stared into the darkness of the trees, she prayed, with a fervency she had never felt before, that she would see David emerge again, safe and unscathed. It would not be fair, she thought, for something so wonderful, something that she had waited so long for, to come to such an abrupt and awful end. A wave of indignation came over her—not an uncustomary sensation for someone of her temperament—and it felt good. She felt like she was coming back to herself. Indignation, in her opinion, was very underrated.

Chapter 41

In the bedroom at the top of the turret, David found Ascanio tying a tourniquet around his leg to stop the bleeding; he had snapped a leg off a chair and made a rough splint to hold the broken bone straight.

On the bed, David saw the shape of a body, wrapped tightly in a blood-soaked sheet.

Ascanio’s eyes went straight to the Medusa hanging from David’s neck.

“Bene,”
he said, nodding his approval. He glanced at the bloody sword that David had returned to his belt. “You finished it?”

“Yes.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

Ascanio gave him a long look, wanting to be sure.

“You should have told me … everything … before we came.”

Ascanio nodded, as if in agreement. “We did not think it would be necessary. It could have been too much to hold in your mind.”

“Never underestimate me again,” David said.

“I won’t,” Ascanio replied. “You can be sure of that.” Tucking the garland into the backpack, he threw an arm around David’s shoulder for support, and said, “Now let’s get out of this damn place.” Limping alongside him, they descended from the tower, all the while keeping an eye out for Rigaud.

As they passed through the armor hall, Ascanio stopped above the decapitated body of Linz, which lay in a sticky pool of coagulating blood. The tails of the robe were spread out like a bat’s wings. “Heil, Hitler,” he muttered, kicking the axe away.

Then, before stepping around it, he asked David, “But what did you do with the head?”

“I let it fall,” David said.

“Where?” Ascanio said.

“Right here,” David said. But it wasn’t there now. Ducking to look under the refectory table, he didn’t see it there, either.

Which meant that someone—Rigaud?—must have removed it.

“Come on,” David said, looping a strong arm around Ascanio’s waist and helping him to hop from the room. From the grimace on Ascanio’s face, David could tell that each step was excruciating, but he knew that there wasn’t a second to waste.

Once they’d made it to the kitchen, Ascanio plopped onto a chair, sweat dripping from his brow.

“We have to keep going!” David said. “We can’t rest yet!”

Waving at the stove, Ascanio said, “Quick, turn on all the burners.”

“What?” David said. “Why?”

“Just do it, David!”

And he did.

“Now, blow out the pilot lights.”

David blew them out … and suddenly understood. It was another little detail that Ascanio had not shared with him.

Ascanio struggled to his feet, wincing with pain, and threw his arm around David’s shoulders again. The sweet, subtle smell of gas had already begun to permeate the room.

They hobbled down the stone steps to the old scullery, past the dusty wine racks, and into the hidden escape route carved by the Norman knight. It was too narrow there to walk side by side, so David had to let Ascanio support himself by leaning against the walls. David took out his flashlight to show the way while glancing over his shoulder for any sign of Rigaud.

The pungent aroma of the gasoline they had poured on their way in wafted up from the floor. When they had reached the oubliette, its scent was joined by the dank river water sloshing at the bottom of the shaft.

They were only yards from the side tunnel leading down to the Loire when David heard noises coming from the scullery. He flicked off his flashlight and urged Ascanio to hurry.

“Someone’s coming!” he whispered.

Ascanio pressed on, dragging his splinted leg, while David crouched low right behind him, staring back over his shoulder into the darkness.

He heard the sound of racks being shoved aside, wine bottles smashing, and boots crunching across the broken glass.

And then he saw the pinpoint white light of a flashlight beam, searching high and low.

They were far enough away that it had not reached them, but it was coming closer all the time.

“Who’s in there?” a voice called out. Rigaud’s. “Stop where you are!”

The tip of David’s sword suddenly scraped against the stone wall.

“Stop now, or I’ll shoot!”

“It’s here,” Ascanio murmured, ducking through the hole in the wall.

“I said, Stop!”

The flashlight beam danced toward them, like a firefly, and in the reflections off the wall and ceiling, David saw Rigaud, holding something in the crook of his arm and running toward them.

Ascanio’s arm suddenly extended out through the hole, holding a pack of wooden matches. “Light the pack and throw it!”

David dropped his flashlight, and grabbed the matchbook. But the gasoline trail was several feet behind him now, and he had to creep toward Rigaud, all the while trying to strike a match in the dark. The first one broke in two, the second one was too damp.

Rigaud had undoubtedly heard him by then, and his flashlight
swung directly onto David’s face as the third match caught fire and David touched it to the gasoline on the floor. A ribbon of blue flame shot down the tunnel, and in its light he saw Rigaud drop his flashlight and fumble for his gun.

But what David truly remembered, just seconds before the blast nearly threw him through the hole, was the severed head Rigaud was cradling beneath his arm. David could have sworn that the mouth was twisted in a silent scream and the steely blue eyes were furious … and alive.

A fireball had hurtled down the length of the tunnel, then out of sight around the corner, where it collided with the cloud of gas in the kitchen, sending an earthshaking explosion up through the very rafters of the chateau. David and Ascanio, scuttling down the chimney to the river, feared the cliff itself would collapse around them. Dirt and dust filled the air, choking them, and the steps quivered under their stumbling feet.

At the bottom, they crawled out, coughing and sputtering, onto the rocks and mud of the riverbank. David, after catching a breath, turned to look up at the promontory. Bright orange flames were licking up at the sky, as fire burst like streamers from the windows, and the towers, one by one, crumbled and fell.

A burning timber caromed off the cliff top and, turning end over end, splashed with a boiling hiss into the Loire.

“Let’s get out of range!” David said, helping Ascanio up and back toward the old loading dock.

They climbed along the bank, then into the woods, but just where David hoped to see the Maserati, he saw nothing. For a second, he thought he’d lost his bearings, but then a pair of headlights flashed on from the neighboring trees, and he heard a car door fling open.

“David!”

Olivia was running full tilt, in a bulky sweater and a pair of white socks, with her arms out.

“Help me,” he said, and Olivia threw a supporting arm around Ascanio’s
waist. Together, they deposited him, as gently as they could, in the cramped backseat of the Peugeot.

And then they held each other close, rocking silently in the moonlight. In the distance, David could hear the crackling of the flames, punctuated by the crash of timbers and stone.

“So you got it,” she said, touching
La Medusa
as tenderly as one would touch the crown of a baby’s head.

“Yes,” David replied, holding her more tightly. “Now I have everything.”

“Can we get the hell out of here?” Ascanio growled. “It’s a long way back to Paris.”

Olivia slipped behind the wheel and, after taking another gander at the splint, handed the bag of drugs to Ascanio. “I’m sure you’ll find some painkillers in there. I’ll find the closest hospital.”

“No!” he objected. “I told you, we’re going straight back. I’m not having some hick doctor meddle with my leg.”

As she pulled the car back onto the trail, she glanced over at David to see what he thought, but he appeared to agree with their passenger. “Paris,” he said, resolutely. “As fast as we can get there.”

“But I’ll still need to know something,” Ascanio said, popping open a vial of pills and hastily swallowing several of them dry. “If you traded the Maserati for this piece of shit, you will please have to tell me why.”

Chapter 42

Olivia drove the little Peugeot straight into the hospital emergency entrance, and David had hoisted Ascanio halfway out of the backseat before he protested and grabbed for the Medusa hanging under David’s shirt.

“That belongs to Sant’Angelo!” he said, his words slurred by the Percocets he’d taken. “Give it to me!”

But David pulled back and let the emergency workers running out of the hospital strap Ascanio to a gurney and wheel him inside. It was clear he had lost a lot of blood, and the makeshift tourniquet was all but falling off. One of the doctors was asking David a battery of questions about what had happened and who the man was, when David—pleading that he spoke no French—bolted back to the car and told Olivia to gun it.

“Wait!” the doctor shouted, running down the drive as the Peugeot pulled away. “You can’t do this!”

But David watched the hospital recede in the rearview mirror, as Olivia headed back into the Paris traffic. Even she looked uncertain about what to do next.

“The airport,” he said.

“You don’t want to call the marquis? There’s quite a lot you should tell him, no?” While Ascanio, knocked out by the drugs, had snored in the backseat, David had filled her in during the long drive from the
Loire Valley, and it was a miracle that she had been able to keep control of the car the whole way. He could think of no one else in the world who would have been able to do the same.

“Maybe the marquis could help?” she added.

“No,” David said. “Just drive.”

Using the BlackBerry from the doctor’s bag, he hastily dialed Gary’s number in Chicago.

“It’s me,” he said, the second Gary picked up. “How is she?”

“Hanging on. Where the hell are you?”

“On the way to Orly Airport.” He had not wanted to have this discussion with Ascanio in the car—snoring or not.