(22) Crucia [Conclusion]

Sanguineus descended a ravine that cut its way down to a level stretch of ground covered in low brush.

He saw the two crosses hit the sides of a jumble of boulders, splinter, cartwheel, a crossbeam flying off and dragging one of the women-- was it Marianne?-- into a bush that seemed to explode on impact. But this was not his concern.

He had slung the carbine's shoulder strap across his back and was running as fast as the terrain permitted, his Glock out, rounding the clumps of brush toward the moon-washed ground where a heap of horseflesh lay, a heap that had no claim to the myth of Pegasus anymore, nor ever again.

Ambrosia was on her knees, cradling the girl whose feet were knocking together. She looked up at Sanguineus as he came over to her, close enough to see the anguish on her face and the twigs and leaves stuck in her unraveled braid.

"She's hurt!"

"Who's in the car?"

Ambrosia reacted as if slapped by his words. She cursed under her breath. "Grigoris and the Sarantikos sisters," she said angrily. "We need to get Fabienne to a doctor!"

"What are the sisters doing in a car with Tragos?"

"They're keeping a watch on him, what else? Didn't you hear me, Fabienne is hurt!"

"Then the sooner you lead me to the car, the sooner Fabiennne gets to Dr Wingate."

"Why do I have to lead you to the car? It's right up there in plain sight! Go and see for yourself! And don't take all night, she needs attention!"

Sanguineus said coldly, "You're going ahead of me to the car. I'll be right behind you."

He watched the nuances of her indecisive expression. Forgotten in her eyes was the injured Fabienne, whose arms and legs were bleeding. Ambrosia's mouth was a straight taut line and her throat muscles flexed in a tension that spoke of a suppressed panic.

This told him what he needed to know. It squeezed his insides like a ruthless, enraged fist. It stunned his mind for a few seconds only, then a light shone within him that calmed him, that burned away every trace of reluctance.

She asked him quietly, in a posture of feigned indifference: "Christofer is dead?"

Sanguineus said, "He has gone the way of his horse. This will take a few minutes. Is Fabienne breathing all right?"

Ambrosia turned her face away from him. But she could not hide her voice. "Yes, but don't be gone long," she said with an unmistakable tone of relief.

Even better.

Sanguineus strode off to the foot of the ravine and climbed it on the run. At the summit of the hill he hurried along the curving line of olive trees without a glance at the befouled clearing.

When he came to the place Sally Anne had crouched under, he followed suit. Dropping to all fours he traced the line of her crawl through the grasses, the blades bent and crushed.

He whistled. She raised up on one hip and stared back at him.

When he had come up beside her he asked, "Have you seen anyone?"

"I think I did," she said, "someone in the back seat, and up front behind the wheel. Couldn't see much detail, even through the scope."

"Man or woman?"

"Front or back?" she asked, lifting her brows.

"Either."

"A man in the back, I'm pretty sure, and the woman's head was turned around looking at him, for just a sec."

Sanguineus unslung his carbine.

"Aim for the front seat," he said. "I'll take the back. Full auto. Empty your clips into it. If anyone tries to get out, cut them down."

* * * *

The secretary, Gina Kinnon, wrapped the yarn around its fuzzy pink ball and stuck the knitting needles into it.

She put it in her handbag. Then she brushed back her greying hair, got up from the swivel armchair, and put on her coat and her Queen Elizabeth hat, as she called it.

Lastly she picked up the manila envelope. She turned off the lights and closed the door.

At the end of the corridor she smiled at the grumpy security guard and remarked, "Another one!"

He grunted.

The secretary turned to her right in the transverse corridor and, a few steps later, pushed through double doors into the cafeteria.

The row of windows high up on the far wall were at street level and were covered in iron mesh bars. The walls were of brick, the floor of hardwood, and the dozen tables were gleaming walnut, each with four chairs having padded round backrests and cushioned seats.

The kitchen adjoined the dining area without a wall between them, just seven pillars with goodly space from one to the other. She went left behind the far pillar and carefully negotiated an L-shaped flight of stairs to an arched tunnel lit with electric candles in wall sconces.

There were doors of dark varnished oak on either side, but it was the door at the far end that she favored with a press of its green button.

She waited, fanning her rouged cheeks with the envelope.

The door clicked. She pushed it open and walked into the Meeting Room, setting the envelope on the long mahogany table near the Director's chair.

"Welcome back," she said to Hermann 'Bear' Claus, who turned from the sideboard where he was mixing a cocktail.

"Until the Fall, I'm afraid," he said and smiled at her grandmotherly image. "If you're taking the subway I'll have old grumpy escort you."

"No, my nephew the cab driver is picking me up."

Claus rubbed his chin.

"In that case," he said, "ask him to swing by the Tarleton and pick up Miss Chora. She's our Sally Anne's guest tonight on Broadway."