CHAPTER 58

It had been a gamble, but one Thomas had thought worth taking. He had left the basilica to call Claudio at the Vittoria Parc, and then shut the phone off again. If they were tracking him through it, they’d come here, thinking he was inside. In fact he was hastily moving through the narrow streets, wending his way back to the road where Claudio was to collect him. But he had to kill fifteen minutes, and the castle across the road seemed the most secure place to do that.

He rounded a corner at speed. At the end of the street ahead he could see the sky and the edge of the castle wall. He could also see Brad Iverson coming toward him. As Thomas skittered to a halt, Iverson’s surprise evaporated and he dropped to one knee, the oversized pistol sliding from under his jacket, extending and firing in a single, smooth movement.

Thomas flung himself down and rolled as shot after shot cannoned toward him. A planter under someone’s window exploded in a shower of dirt. Smoke kicked up from the cobbles as another bullet ricocheted whining away. Then Thomas was scrambling back and Iverson got purposefully to his feet and came forward.

Thomas ran blind, ducking down an alley, barely keeping his feet as he broke into a sprint, hurling himself through a laundry line of tablecloths, all conscious thought shut down. He saw a half-open door, considered it for the briefest of moments, and then ran on, taking care to slam it hard as he passed.

 
War was in pursuit. Up ahead he heard the clang of a door and, when he turned the corner, was just in time to see it juddering on its hinges.

“Clever,” he thought, running past it.

 
Thomas knew he couldn’t outrun Iverson. He’d seen him up close and the guy was clearly an athlete who worked hard to stay in shape. Thomas had only guile and the peculiarities of the town on his side.

Here come the Saracens, he thought, weaving right and taking the first intersection to the left. He had no idea where he was now, no idea how close Iverson was behind him.

Two more intersections. He was slowing. A third. Then he was out, back in the main street, and finding a surge of speed to take him across the bridge to the castle.

 
“He’s in there,” shouted War.

Famine had joined him, his eyes burning with anger at the way Knight had slipped away from him in the church.

“What happened to the signal?” said Pestilence, over the phone.

“It’s the streets and the buildings,” said War. “There’s too much interference.”

“Either that or he knows.”

“No,” said Famine suddenly, brandishing his own phone as if it were a knife. “It’s back.”

“Okay,” said War, gazing over to the castle. “You go in first. I’ll back you up. Pestilence, monitor the signal and respond to its movements. It’s going to cut in and out in there, but when it’s clear I want you close and tracking. Move.”

 
Another gamble. Thomas had bolted into the castle, shut the phone off, and taken a moment to get a sense of the place. The gatehouse was at the western corner of the perimeter wall. Inside was a keep with two carved entrances and cars parked along the front-facing wall. The keep was hollow, containing a flagged courtyard, its walls the inner side of rooms, offices, and exhibit halls. It was completely self-contained. Standing in the middle of the courtyard beneath four palm trees, Thomas flicked the phone on for one more moment.

It rang.

He hesitated, then answered.

“You can’t hope to get out of this alive,” said a familiar voice.

“Sister Roberta,” he answered. “Calling about my spiritual welfare?”

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” she said.

“That was probably a mistake, yes,” said Thomas, thinking fast. He knew they were coming, trying to pinpoint his location. For all he knew, they had a sniper somewhere . . . He moved to the nearest ground-level door and stepped inside a dim hall, its walls hung with vivid and outlandish masks: the local craft show. “Hello?” he said. “I’m afraid I’m losing your signal . . .”

There was a crackle, a descending series of electronic notes, and then silence. He hung up, and ran back to the courtyard and out, back the way he had come. Beside the gatehouse was a stone arch and a flight of stairs with a sign prohibiting entrance. He brushed past it and climbed up onto an open roof with access to the castle walls. He was on the corner tower overlooking the bridge.

He flung himself down. He was on a roof rather than in a turret, and the rim of stone was only a couple of feet high. He crawled to the wall and looked down. Running across the bridge toward him was Brad Iverson. Twenty yards behind him was a Fransiscan nun.

So where’s . . . ?

He rolled onto his back as the ghoul sprang from the staircase, knife in hand.