The Doomsday Key (43 page)

Still, Gray had a hard time relaxing. His mind gnawed and worried on the mysteries and dangers they faced.

Thunder rumbled up into a resounding clap. It rattled the panes of glass in the window above the tub. Candlelight flickered beside the bar of soap. The electricity was still out. Before drawing his bath, he had started a small fire in the bedroom’s hearth. Through his closed eyelids, he noted the rosy dance of the flames.

As he sprawled in the tub, a shadow suddenly moved across the glow.

He stiffened, sitting up suddenly, sloshing water over the floor. A figure stood in the doorway, dressed in a robe. He had not heard Rachel enter the room. The thunder had masked her approach.

“Rachel …”

She trembled where she stood, her eyes haunted. She didn’t say a word. She shed her robe with no seduction. She simply let it drop and crossed in a rush of steps to the tub. Gray stood and caught her in his arms. She folded against him, needing him. She buried her head against his neck.

He bent at the knees, scooped an arm under her backside, and lifted her up. She was lighter than he remembered, as if hopelessness had hollowed her out. Turning, carrying her, he settled them both into the hot water.

He cradled her in the steaming bath. Her hand slid down his belly, desperate, hurting, her need raw and on the surface. He stopped her and drew her hand back to his chest. He simply held her, waiting for her to stop trembling. They had been running since the fire in the woods, since she had first learned of the betrayal. He should have known better than to leave her alone now as they waited for nightfall.

If his mind had been troubled and unsettled, what must she be going through? Especially alone. He wrapped his arms tightly and squeezed as if by sheer muscle he might keep her safe from harm.

Slowly her trembling wore itself out against his strength.

She sagged into him.

He held her for a long while more—then with a finger, he touched and drew her face up. He stared into her eyes. They shone with her desire to be touched, to feel alive, to know she wasn’t alone … and deeper down, almost buried, the embers of old love.

Only then did he bring his lips to hers.

4:02 P.M.

Seichan waited inside her room. She stood with her back against the door and an unlit cigarette in her hand. A few minutes ago she had heard
Rachel’s door creak ajar, heard her footsteps pass down the hall, then Gray’s bedroom door open.

Seichan listened with her eyes closed.

The door never reopened.

As she maintained her vigil, she fought against the welling mix of anger and jealousy, along with an ache she could not dismiss. It clutched her lungs and made it hard to breathe. Leaning against the door, she slowly sank to the floor and hugged her knees.

Alone, with no one to see, she allowed herself this momentary weakness. The room was dark. She had not bothered with a fire, or even a candle. She preferred the darkness. She always had.

Rocking ever so gently, she let the ache pass through her.

She knew she was reverting to a time when pain came often, growing from slaps to violations more intimate. There had been a secret closet where she would hide or seek refuge afterward. It had no windows. No one knew about it but the rats and mice.

Only there, tucked away in the darkness, had she felt safe.

She hated herself now for needing that comfort. She knew she should just tell him and end this pain. But she swore not to. It was because of
him
she had made that promise.

And no matter what the agony, she would never break it.

6:55 P.M.

Under cover of night, Gray led the others down the jetty.

The ferryboat rocked in its berth and beat itself against the bumpers. Rain poured out of the dark sky. Ahead, Kowalski stood beside the weathered catamaran. He had gone ahead and made sure that the boat was empty, the keys had been left.

Who would steal the boat in this storm?

It was a question Gray was ready to answer.

They all hurried down the dock.

“Get aboard,” Kowalski said. “I’ll free the ropes.”

Gray helped the others clamber into the stern of the ferry. It took acrobatics and timing as the deck rose and fell.

He took Rachel’s hand.

She would not look at him, but she squeezed his fingers warmly, thanking him silently. He had woken, snarled in blankets, to find her gone. He could not say he was totally disappointed. He knew the score; so did she. What had happened was sincere, deeply felt, and needed—perhaps by both of them. The momentary flash of passion was born out of fear, out of loneliness, out of mortality. Gray loved her, and he knew she felt the same. But even as they lay tangled together before the fire, buried in each other, wracked by a passion that burned away all thought, a part of her remained untouchable.

Now was not the time for anything to be reborn between them. She was too wounded, too fragile. In that room, she had only needed his strength, his touch, his warmth. But not his heart.

That would have to wait.

Gray hopped over the rail to the deck and grabbed the tossed line as Kowalski leaped into the boat.

“It’s going to be a monster of a crossing,” Kowalski warned them all. He hurried to the covered pilothouse. He got the engines started with a burbling roar, then signaled for Gray to let go of the last line.

With the boat freed, Gray headed across the rocking deck. Kowalski idled them away from the jetty and out toward the open water. They would run dark with no lights until they cleared the harbor.

Gray glanced back toward shore. No one came running. In this storm, the boat might not be missed until morning.

He turned back to face the roiling black sea. The wind howled and rain pounded. “Are you sure you can handle the boat in this weather?” Gray asked.

Kowalski’s background was as a seaman with the U.S. Navy. He had the stub of a cigar clenched in his teeth. At least it was unlit.

“Don’t worry,” the man said around his cigar. “I only sank one boat … No, wait. Only
two
boats.”

That was reassuring.

Gray returned to the stern deck. Wallace was passing out neon-orange life jackets from a storage locker. They all quickly donned them, clicking on the safety lights at their collars.

“Keep hold of something at all times,” Gray warned.

As they passed the breakwater, lightning lit up the night. The seas looked even worse. Waves seemed to be traveling in all directions, crashing into one another and casting up geysers of seawater. The currents had turned as wild as the weather.

Kowalski began whistling.

Gray knew that was not a good sign.

Then they were into open water. It was as if they had been dumped into a washing machine. The boat rode high, then low, rocked left and right—and, Gray swore, sometimes all at the same time.

No matter where he looked, all he saw were white-capped waves.

Kowalski’s whistling grew louder.

The ferry hit a steep swell. The bow lifted straight for the sky. Gray clung hard to a rail as everything loose in the boat slid toward the stern. Then they were over it and headed down the far side.

An errant wave hit them broadside at the same time. It washed over the stern like a sweep of God’s hand. Gray took a mouthful and was blinded by the sting of cold salt water.

Then they were clear and rising again.

“Gray!” Rachel called out.

Coughing, he realized the problem at the same time.

Seichan was gone.

Seated on the far side, she had taken the brunt of the wave on her back. It had ripped her off the rail and flushed her overboard.

Gray stood.

He spotted her bobbing far to stern, illuminated by her lifejacket’s small light—then the waves tore her from view.

Fixing her last location, Gray ran and leaped over the end of the boat. They couldn’t lose her.

As he flew toward the sea, Rachel yelled to Kowalski, “Turn around!” Then Gray hit the water, and all went black.

7:07 P.M.

Seichan spun as waves tossed her about like a leaf in a flood. The cold cut to the bone and made it difficult to draw air, which was hard enough with walls of water continuing to sweep over her.

She couldn’t even see the boat’s lights, only mountains of water.

She clung to her life jacket with one hand and wiped salt water out of her eyes with the other. She had to make for the boat.

Another giant wave crested ahead of her, impossibly high, leaning over her, raging white along its lip.

Then it fell on top of her.

She was slammed deep. The current churned her and spun her. She could not say which way was up. Water surged into her nose. She gagged in reflex, swallowing more stinging water.

Then the buoyancy of her jacket dragged her back to the surface.

She tried for a gasp of air, but all she could do was choke. She blinked away the salt, struggling to see.

Another wave rose before her.

No …

Then something grabbed her from behind.

Terrified, she screamed. The wave crashed over her. But still those arms held her. Hard legs wrapped firmly around her hips. They rode out the tumult together. She had no air, but the raw panic bled away, leaving only a steady fear.

Though she couldn’t see him, she knew who had grabbed her.

They surfaced together, riding higher with two life jackets.

She twisted to find Gray clasped tightly to her, his eyes rock-hard and determined.

“Save me,” she whispered, putting all she could into those two words. Even her heart.

7:24 P.M.

The lights of the fishing village glowed through the storm. The beach lay directly ahead. Kowalski aimed toward it.

Gray kept to his side.

He had to admit the man
did
know how to pilot a boat.

While he and Seichan had been battered in the churning waves, Kowalski had found them and brought the boat around in the rough seas. A lifeline was tossed, and they were dragged to the boat and hauled back on board.

The rest of the crossing was brutal, but no one else got tossed overboard. Seichan coughed behind him, still struggling to clear the water out of her chest. She had never looked so pale.

But she would live.

Kowalski worked the wheel and drove the catamaran into the shallows. A final wave lifted the boat and shoved it onto the beach. The twin keels dragged through the sand with a violent shudder of its deck. Then at long last they stopped.

No one had to be told. They all abandoned ship, splashing into the ankle-deep water and fleeing from the last of the waves. Kowalski took an extra moment to pat the side of the catamaran.

“Nice boat.”

As a bedraggled and sodden group, they climbed from the shore up toward the fishing village of Aberdaron. Like Bardsey Island, the place was shuttered against the storm. No one was on the streets.

Gray wanted to be gone before anyone discovered the beached ferry. After the dangerous crossing, he didn’t want to end up locked in a local jail.

He rushed them through the dark town and up to the church of Saint Hywyn. Their stolen truck was where they’d left it, still parked near the church. Gray turned to Wallace as they headed through the churchyard.

“What about your dog?” he asked and pointed to the rectory.

Wallace shook his head, though it clearly pained him. “We’ll leave
Rufus be. He’s better off sleeping next to a fire than traipsing about in this boggin’ weather. I’ll come back for him when this is all over.”

With the matter settled, they all piled into the Land Rover.

Gray got the engine started, quickly headed out of the lot, and spun them away from Aberdaron. He accelerated as he hit the main road out of town.

But they still needed a destination.

“Saint Malachy’s tomb,” Gray said and glanced in the rearview mirror toward Rachel. “What can you tell us about its history?”

They’d never had a chance to discuss the matter in more detail. All he knew from a cursory inquiry with Rachel was that Malachy was laid to rest in northeastern France. Rachel had tried to elaborate, but at the time it had been enough. Gray had needed to concentrate on getting them all off the island.

With a long ride ahead of them, it was time he learned more.

Rachel spoke while staring out into the storm. “Malachy died sometime in the middle of the twelfth century. He expired in the arms of his best friend, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux.”

Kowalski twisted his head. “Saint Bernard? Didn’t he invent those slobbering mountain dogs?”

Rachel ignored him. “Malachy was buried in an abbey that Bernard founded, the Abbey of Clairvaux. It’s about a hundred and fifty miles outside of Paris. Most of the abbey was destroyed in the nineteenth century, but a few buildings and walls still exist, including its main cloister. But there’s a small problem.”

From the way she said it, Gray knew the problem was not small.

“What?”

“I tried to tell you before …” She went suddenly sheepish, as if she thought she should have pressed him harder earlier. But like Gray, she’d also had a lot on her mind.

“It’s all right,” he said. “What is it?”

“The ruins are protected. They may be the best-guarded buildings in all of France.”

“Why’s that?”

“The Abbey of Clairvaux … it lies at the heart of a maximum-security prison.”

Gray swung around in his seat to look her full in the face. She had to be joking. From the stern and worried look on her face, she wasn’t.

“Great. So now we’re breaking into a prison
and
a tomb.” Kowalski sank down and crossed his arms. “Nothing could possibly go wrong with that plan.”

26
October 13, 8:18 P.M.
Svalbard, Norway

Krista paced the length of the ice-cold warehouse on the outskirts of Longyearbyen. Crates were stacked to the rafters. The place smelled of oil and coal. She wore a thick sweater to cover the bandages on her arm. A morphine haze clouded the edges of her thoughts. Other men were in worse shape. Two bodies on the warehouse floor were covered over by tarps.