Comes a Horseman Page 49

  No one spoke. No one twitched. It seemed to Brady that no one breathed. They all stared at the body, at the dark pool, awed, waiting.

  Alicia tugged at his arm, and he let her pull him backward up the aisle. He could not take his eyes off the still body. Then as he turned he caught the three Council members, the three ephori, watching them leave. Their faces were impassive, resolved. His gaze flicked up to the balcony, where the Viking surveyed the scene. Their eyes met, and Olaf stepped back into the shadows.

  Alicia pulled him through the knot of militia crowding in the threshold. No one moved to stop them. She released him, stooped down, and exchanged her empty weapon for one of the pistols on the floor. She checked the magazine and the chamber, appeared satisfied, and strode away.

  Over her shoulder, she called, “Coming?”

  85

  We need someone to show us the way out,” he said. They were moving fast down the center of the huge corridor.

  “Do you want to go back and ask one of those freaks?”

  He glanced back. The group he thought of as the militia—but who were likely only guards or armed workers—had disappeared into the cathedral. What they might be doing, he did not want to know.

  “This hall has to lead somewhere,” he said.

  When they arrived at the end, however, there were only three passageways, none of which appeared any more promising than the miles and miles of tunnels they had previously traversed.

  “Pick one,” Alicia said, impatiently bouncing the new pistol against her thigh.

  Brady marched into one as though he knew what he was doing.

  They hiked for twenty minutes and came to one of the octagonal rooms that Brady had become too familiar with during his first foray into the tunnels.

  “Okay then,” Alicia said optimistically.

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  He took a step toward a portal and stopped. Coming out of the shadows was a wolf-dog. When it reached the threshold, it stopped. Its head was lowered, and yellow eyes glared at him through wiry brows. A low growl emanated from deep within. One lip quivered, revealing thick, sharp fangs.

  “Brady?” Alicia said quietly.

  “I know . . . I . . .” Then he realized she had not spotted the same wolf he had. She was looking at another, standing in the threshold directly opposite. More growling came at them from a different direction. Slowly, they looked. A wolf-dog, smaller than the others but equally vicious looking, padded into place from deeper down a tunnel. Its claws clicked on the stone floor.

  The Viking stepped up behind the third animal. His face was completely devoid of emotion. He was here on business.

  He held an ax at his side, letting it dangle nearly to the floor. He stepped past the dog. He swung the ax up and caught it with his free hand, holding it at port arms.

  Abruptly, the dogs growled and snapped, jerking forward as if by the sheer force of their anger.

  “What’d you do?” Brady whispered.

  “I moved my gun an inch.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  “We have to do something.”

  “You can’t get them before they get us.”

  “At least I can get him.” She glared at the Viking.

  Brady turned, squaring himself to his enemy. The dogs’ growling became sharp barks.

  “Gostelpa!” the man commanded, and the dogs quieted.

  Brady said, “Olaf . . . ?”

  No response.

  He was trying to think of something to say when Alicia spoke up. “Luco Scaramuzzi is dead.”

  “You know it’s true,” Brady said. “You saw.”

  Alicia continued: “You said you believed because the Watchers believed. They don’t anymore, Olaf. They let us leave.”

  “You know the prophecies,” Brady said. “He should not have died, but he did.”

  One of the dogs whined, apparently uncomfortable with inaction. The dog behind Olaf edged closer, inching around his leg.

  Footsteps rumbled out of a tunnel behind Brady and Alicia. The Viking’s focus shifted to something over their shoulders. They turned to see light playing on the tunnel wall. A few seconds later, the man whose iron-spike fingers had stopped Brady at the airport—Arjan Vos—appeared at the opening. He gripped a large handgun.

  His beady eyes took in the scene. A smile played at the corner of his lips. He held up a bloody palm, and Brady realized he must have examined Scaramuzzi’s body, maybe cradled his head.

  “Olaf!” Arjan snapped. “Get them! They killed Luco . . . they killed the master.”

  Olaf only stared.

  Arjan raised his pistol, leveling the barrel at Alicia.

  Olaf issued a sharp command. The dogs whipped around to face Arjan, whose eyes flashed wide.

  “What is this?” Arjan said, seemingly to the dogs. He squinted at Olaf and instantly read the Viking’s intentions. His aim shifted to the bearded brute.

  The nearest dog sprang.

  The gun fired, blasting a chunk out of the wall next to Olaf.

  The animal clamped its jaws on Arjan’s wrist. The gun flipped out of his hand. The other two dogs were on him. One bounded into his chest, going for his throat. Snapping and snarling, the third went for his free arm. He staggered and fell back into the dark tunnel. His screams turned into gurgling . . . then silence. Only the sound of the dogs’ ravenous anger echoed back into the chamber.

  Alicia and Brady turned away.

  “Enough,” Brady said.

  Olaf called to the dogs: “Hættu flessu!” The animals quieted and padded into the room, licking pink muzzles. Cautiously, they resumed their positions surrounding Brady and Alicia.

  Brady watched Olaf. His face appeared to ripple. The hairs of his beard shifted subtly. The wrinkles around his eyes grew more pronounced. A roulette wheel of emotions was spinning inside. Brady saw puzzlement, curiosity, anger. The feeling that finally settled on his face surprised Brady: a profound grief. He remembered the articles Alicia had dug up about the lost Western Settlement, how they had made it seem that honor and integrity had meant something to those people. It occurred to him that the Viking was not grieving for the loss of a savior as much as for the things he’d done in service to a fraudulent savior.

  Brady said, “I’m sorry.”

  The Viking watched them for a long time. Finally, Olaf hoisted his ax over his shoulder and dropped it into a sheath.

  He snapped out a word, and the dogs trotted to him and lined up behind his legs.

  “What do you need?” he said.

  “We can’t find our way out,” Alicia answered.

  He nodded. He made a noise like a cough, and the dogs ran into the tunnel behind him. His head twitched slightly, a gesture for Brady and Alicia to follow him. He turned and disappeared.

  Alicia leaned close to Brady. Her jaw tight, she said, “That’s the Pelletier killer.”

  “I think you put a bullet through the head of the Pelletier killer.”

  “But, Brady—”

  “The Viking was only a weapon.”

  “I could just—” She raised the pistol toward the tunnel.

  They exchanged a look, and she sighed.

  “I guess we’d never get out of here if I did that.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She squatted and set the pistol on the floor.

  He held out his hand to her. She took it.

  The Viking stayed a good distance ahead. When they sped up, so did he. When necessary, he stopped so they could see which passage he chose. The dogs swirled around his feet like phantoms.

  “There’s no way we would have gotten out,” Alicia said after fifteen minutes. “No way.”

  A dozen turns later, they realized the Viking had vanished. They continued straight and found the catwalk that led to the basement door.

  When they pushed through the exterior door, a breeze brushed their faces. The moon was full and high in the sky.

  They ascended the ramp, hand in hand. At
the top, they turned toward the trees and crumpled together in the grass.

  “I shouldn’t be happy,” Brady said. “But I’m ecstatic, and I haven’t a clue why.”

  “I do,” she said. “You’re alive.”

  She kissed him.

  And the most amazing thing happened: he returned it.

  EPILOGUE

  Two weeks later

  Zach and Brady stood side by side at the foot of Karen’s grave. A breeze played with their hair and made the flowers they had brought wave at them from the headstone’s built-in vase. Zach had his arm around his father’s torso. He squeezed, reminding Brady that his ribs were still healing. As were various bruises, torn ligaments, and lacerations. It seemed his left hand would never be without bandages again. But he could run the fingers of his right hand through Zach’s hair, so that’s what he did now.

  Zach looked up at him. “Do you think she’s happy?” he asked.

  “She’s very happy. That’s the way heaven is. No more tears.”

  They turned away from the grave and headed down the grassy hill to the car. Alicia was leaning against the Highlander’s fender, looking great to Brady’s eyes—legs crossed at the ankles, hair dancing around, a smile on her lips and in her eyes. Zach ran up to her.

  “Wanna race me to the top of the hill?” he asked.

  “Oh . . . I think another day. My poor ol’ body’s not quite there.”

  “You don’t have to use your arm to run,” he pleaded.

  She padded her arm, which was crossed over her chest in a sling. “Arm . . . ,” she said, then pointed at her leg, where gauze covered the wound she had sustained climbing back into the forty-ninth-story window. “Leg . . . face . . .” She touched her finger to her cheek. The deep bluish color had faded to yellow. “I can out-scar a gladiator.”

  “Least you didn’t lose a tooth !” Zach said.

  Brady smiled widely to show off the hole where his vampire tooth wasn’t.

  Alicia shook her head. “How do you eat?”

  “Liquids only,” answered Brady. “I stick the straw right through the gap.”

  “Funny,” she said. “Didn’t I witness you gnawing away on a steak the other day?”

  “Okay, watch,” Zach said, completely bored with the conversation. He tore off up the hill.

  Brady stepped up to her. “I have something for you.”

  “Really? I like gifts.”

  He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew something that he held up to her.

  “A feather?” she said.

  “A swan feather . . . a white feather.”

  She laughed and took it from him as if it were a rose. She twirled it against her face.

  “The Bureau’s not going to admit it, but you earned this . . . for your cap.”

  “Well, you earned one too.”

  “I don’t know.” He looked down at his shoes. “I couldn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Brady.” She seized his shoulder. “I told you before, that kind of thing is me, not you. I couldn’t get inside a killer’s head with a saw.”

  One hundred percent Alicia. He smiled and leaned against the SUV next to her. Zach had reached the top of the hill and was barreling back down.

  He said, “If they let Gilbreath come back, I may have to find a new line of work.”

  He, Alicia, and John Gilbreath had been put on administrative leave, pending an investigation.

  “They won’t fire him,” she said. “Too little evidence. But I hear they’re talking about making him an assistant SAC somewhere far away.”

  “That’s a demotion,” Brady pointed out.

  “They’ll make it look the opposite. He’ll know he screwed up, but no one will lose face.”

  “Too bad.”

  Zach skidded to a stop in front of them. He plopped onto the grass, threw back his head, and panted.

  “Record time,” Alicia told him. “Now let’s go eat. I’m starving.” She opened the passenger door, climbed in, and slammed it shut. Behind the tinted glass, she stuck her tongue out at Zach.

  He returned the gesture, got a hand up from Brady, and leaned in close to him.

  “I like her,” he said.

  “That’s what you keep telling me,” Brady said. “I like her too. And you want to know a secret?”

  Zach nodded quickly.

  Brady looked around, hunched low, and said, “She likes Olive Garden almost as much as you do.”

  “Ahhhh!”

  Brady slapped his son on the rump. “Now get in the car!”

  He did, and Brady made faces at both of them before walking around and climbing in.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A long work of fiction is never the author’s own creation, but born of everyone who shared the vision and shouldered the weight. I am eternally grateful to my family, who tolerated my obsessive and manic behavior—my sons, Matt and Anthony, my daughter, Melanie, and above all my wife, Jodi. My mother, Mae Gannon, cheered me on even before I knew where my love of reading and writing would take me. My father, Tony Liparulo, prodded gently and wisely. My friends encouraged me in more ways than they know—particularly Mark Olsen, John Fornof, Mark Nelson, Jay McGuire, Bob Seeds, Tim Casey, Evangeline Edwards, Connie and Dwight Cenac, Jan Dennis, and Cheri Flores. I am grateful to the brilliant thriller writer David Morrell for the entertainment and education he provided through his many novels, and for his personal encouragement and counsel.

  I extend my profound gratitude to the team at Thomas Nelson, especially Allen Arnold, Amanda Bostic, Caroline Craddock, Jennifer Deshler, Rebeca Seitz, Scott Harris, and Jenny Baumgartner, the best editor a writer can hope for. Thanks, also, to Pat LoBrutto and L. B. Norton for their invaluable advice. And to Joel Gotler, friend, visionary, and agent extraordinaire. “Where there is no counsel, the people fall; But in the multitude of counselors there is safety.”

  Available October 2006