The List Of Seven (45 page)

Bright light and the rush of many footsteps entered the cathedral. Sparks picked up the lid and ran out the door.

"Hurry!" he said.

Doyle and Eileen gathered the snowshoes, and they scrambled after Sparks. He dropped the lid so it hung over the lip of the hill that sloped steeply away from the ruins and anchored it with his foot.

"You first, Doyle. Grab the handles and hold on," said Sparks.

The main band of pursuers burst out of the abbey behind them toward their position, a black-cloaked figure in the lead. Doyle pocketed his gun and jumped aboard. Sparks grabbed Eileen around the waist, pushed her down on the middle of the lid, and followed her onto it, using his weight to tip them over the edge. They slid forward and rapidly accelerated down the incline as the pack reached the lip: Two hoods hurled themselves after the makeshift sled, one raked a hand across Sparks's back, nearly dislodging him before they pulled away from the tumbling bodies. The sled gained speed as they plummeted down the embankment in the dark; every bump and hillock sent them flying into the air, only to be rocked heavily as they hit the snow again.

"Can you steer?" shouted Sparks.

"I don't think so!" answered Doyle. It was all he could do to hang on. The sheer cliffs falling to the sea somewhere on the right and their unknown proximity to them hurtled into his mind.

"Can you see?" asked Eileen.

"A little!"

The next thing he saw were two figures standing ahead of them waist-deep in the snow, frantically waving their arms. In the split second before the sled reached them, Doyle thought they might be Barry and Larry, but then he saw the hoods and the weapons in "their hands. Doyle leaned all his weight to his right, and the lid veered slightly in that direction, enough to crash into the hoods, bowl them like ninepins, and scatter them down the hill. The collision knocked the wind out of Doyle, changed their direction, and shaved an edge off their velocity. He gasped for breath, trying to figure out where they were when he felt a sensation of skidding, looked to his right, and just ahead saw the white expanse of the snow pack end abruptly in sheer blackness.

"The cliffs!" cried Sparks.

Doyle threw all his weight to the left. Sparks stuck out his right foot as a runner to push them away from the brink, and a moment later that foot was suspended out over thin air. They screamed as the sled rocketed along the edge of the cliff for twenty yards, scraping stone, whipping through saplings that had grown up over the lip, before Doyle's crude course correction inched them away from the precipice and back onto solid snow. He could see the shape of the new abbey ahead on their left, but Doyle had barely a moment to register relief, idly wondering what those gray shapes coming out of the snow straight in front of them were when he realized they were headed directly into the cemetery.

"Headstones!" Doyle shouted.

Doyle guided them through the first group of markers, then the next, but as they moved to the middle of the yard, the concentration of stones grew denser and the stones themselves larger and more grandiose. There was no way to brake, and a massive mausoleum dead ahead suddenly gave no opportunity to maneuver. Doyle yanked on the handles, turning them sideways; they went into a skid, hit a bump, flew skyward, and the coffin lid splintered beneath them. Doyle hit the snow, clutching the broken handles in his hands. Eileen and Sparks were thrown high into the air, landing out of Doyle's sight.

Doyle lay still a moment, trying to gather his wits. He was unable to loosen his grip on the handles—his knuckles locked and frozen around them—but he could move everything else,

having touched down in a drift without suffering any disabling injury.

"Jack?" he said tentatively. He first thought the sound that came back to him was sobbing. Was it Eileen? "Are you all right?"

He realized Eileen was laughing. She emerged from a nearby snowbank, covered head to toe in white, overcome with infectious laughter. Then he heard Sparks laughing, captivated by the same relieving impulse, before he appeared from behind the mausoleum that had precipitated their crash. The sight and sound of each other's laughter seemed to redouble their own. Jack bent over, hanging on to the edge of the monument. Eileen fell back into the snow and guffawed. The recent terror had been so completely overwhelming that for the moment there seemed no more sensible a response. Doyle felt the giggles come over him as well, and he gave into them.

"I thought we were dead," said Doyle.

"I thought we were dead four separate times," managed Eileen.

Doyle's entire body began to shake. They staggered toward a meeting point, put their arms across each other's shoulders, and let the healing laughter run its course. It was all they could do to breathe. As the laughter was cresting, Doyle revealed the handles stuck in his hands, which set off another round of hilarity.

"JONATHAN SPARKS!"

The words rolled down the slopes from the ruins high above. The voice was harshly sibilant, but at the same time lush and orotund; it could cut glass and never leave a splinter. No anger in its tone, only insinuating derision that bespoke no disappointment at their escape but rather suggested satisfaction, that this was its desired outcome.

"Is it him?" asked Doyle.

Sparks nodded, looking toward the hilltop.

"LISTEN!"

Silence thicker than a church bell.

Then a bloodcurdling scream twisted and built to a hideous crescendo before fading away into exhausted, piteous bleating.

"Oh God. The brothers," said Eileen.

Another scream, more tortured than before. Was it the same voice?

"Bastard!" Doyle raged, surging forward. "BASTARD!"

Sparks put a restraining hand on Doyle's shoulder. His jaw was tight, but his voice stayed measured and calm. "That's what he wants from us."

The scream cut off abruptly. The ensuing quiet was even more unsettling.

"We must go," said Sparks. "They may still come after us."

"You can't leave them—" protested Eileen.

"They're soldiers," said Sparks, gathering up his snow-shoes.

"He's killing them—"

"We don't know that it's them. Even if it is, what would you have us do? Throw our own lives away? Sentimental lunacy."

"Still, Jack, they're so loyal to you—" said Doyle, trying to soften the argument.

"They know the risks." Sparks wanted no more discussion. He walked away.

"You've got your brother's blood in you, Jack Sparks," said Eileen to Sparks's back.

Sparks stopped, tensed, but didn't turn, then continued on.

Eileen wiped the tears from her eyes.

"He's right, you know," said Doyle gently.

"So am I," she said, watching Sparks go.

They slipped into the snowshoes and trudged out of the graveyard after him. The trip back to the inn was passed in silence.

A note had been pinned to Stoker's door. Sparks tore it down and briefly scanned it.

"Stoker's hired a carriage and started back to London," he said to the others. "He says he has his family to consider."

"Can't blame him for that," said Doyle.

"He's bequeathed us the use of his room." Sparks pocketed the note and opened the door. Eileen entered. Doyle looked at his watch: half past two in the morning.

"Excuse us a moment, Miss Temple," said Sparks, detain-

ing Doyle in the hallway and closing the door. "Stay with her. If I'm not back by dawn, try and make your way to London."

"Where are you—"

"They've probably done their worst for tonight, but keep your pistol loaded and at hand," said Sparks, walking away down the corridor.

"Jack, what are you going to do?"

Sparks gave a wave without looking back as he moved quickly downstairs. Doyle looked at the door and cracked it open. Eileen lay on top of the bedclothes, her back to him. He was about to close the door....

"Don't go," she said without moving.

"You should rest."

"Not much chance of that."

"Rest is what you need—"

"Stop being a doctor, for heaven's sake." She turned to face him. "I don't particularly wish to spend my last night on earth alone, do you?"

"What makes you think this is—"

"Come in here and close the door, would you? How plain do I have to make myself?"

Doyle acquiesced but remained across the room, standing rigidly near the door. She gave him a wry look, shook her head slightly, sat up on the bed, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the vanity. Her hair was tangled in disarray, fair complexion burned by the wind.

"Frightful," she said.

"Not so bad as all that," offered Doyle, instantly regretting it.

Another sardonic look from her consolidated his remorse. She moved to a chair by the mirror and dispassionately surveyed herself.

"I suppose a hairbrush is too providential to hope for," she said.

"As a matter of fact, it's one of the few possessions I have remaining to me," said Doyle. From his bag, which he'd left at the foot of the armoire, he produced his brush-and-comb set.

"You really should smile, Doctor," she said, her eyes brightening. " 'Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.' "

"I don't mean to be unkind ... Ophelia," he added, recognizing the passage.

Eileen took off the mannish jacket, unpinned her hair, and let the soft black mass of it cascade down the back of her blouse. She shook it out and ran the brush down its lustrous length in long, sensuous strokes: an effect, to Doyle's eyes, of breathtaking intimacy, a balm to his battered spirits. It was the first time since they'd heard the screams on the hill that the brothers had been out of his thoughts for even a moment. "Did you ever see me onstage, Doctor?" she asked. "I never had the pleasure," said Doyle. "My name is Arthur."

She gave the slightest nod, acknowledging the new increment of familiarity. "There were good reasons why our guardians of decency wouldn't allow women to perform in public for so many hundreds of years." "What reasons would those be?" "Some would tell you it's dangerous to see a woman on

the stage."

"Dangerous in what way?"

She shrugged slightly. "Perhaps it's too easy to believe the actress is exactly who she appears to be playing on any particular night."

"But that is the desired effect, after all. To persuade us of

the character's veracity."

"It should be, yes."

"Then how does that represent a danger? And for whom?"

"For someone who encounters the woman off the stage and finds it difficult to distinguish the actress from the role she was playing." She looked at him in the mirror, out from under the wave of a curl. "Didn't your mother ever warn you about actresses, Arthur?"

"She must have felt there were more obvious dangers lurking about." Doyle held her eyes steadily. "I have seen you onstage, haven't I?"

"Yes, you have. After a fashion."

A long pause followed. "Miss Temple—"

"Eileen."

"Eileen," said Doyle. "Are you attempting to seduce me?"

"Am I?" She stopped brushing. Her forehead crinkled. She

seemed as unsure of the answer as was he. "Is that your impression, really?"

"Yes. I would have to say that it is." Doyle felt surprisingly and utterly calm.

A poised thought flew over the plane of her face like the shadow of a flock of doves. She carefully laid the brush down on the table and turned to face him. "What if I were?"

"Well," said Doyle, "I would have to say that if this does prove to be the last evening of our lives, and I, for whatever reason, remained resistant to your charms, it would surely be the most senseless regret that would soon enough accompany me to the grave."

They looked at each other without pretense.

"Then perhaps you should lock the door, Arthur," she said simply, all aspect of performance gone from her voice.

He did exactly as she requested.

chapter seventeen MOTHERS OWN

DOYLE LEFT THE BEDROOM BEFORE FIRST LIGHT. ElLEEN WAS

sleeping restfully. He gently lifted her arm from where it lay lightly across his shoulder and kissed the sweet nape of her neck before rising. She made a small murmuring as he dressed, but it must have been a response to a dream. She did not stir again.

He was astonished by the absence within him of shame. That conditioned Catholic response to pleasure of any variety—let alone carnal—had never quite been rooted out. Perhaps this time would prove the exception; it had been what she wanted, he told himself, and lest he forget, what he had wanted as well. He had often seen surgeons similarly moved when among the dead and dying by the need to reaffirm the life coursing inside them. What did this mean with regard to his continued relations with her? He hadn't a clue. Having satisfied the physical insistence of the moment, with almost equal urgency he required some small distance to assess the repercussions to his emotions.

Doyle quietly locked the door and pocketed the key. He looked at his watch: nearly five. He would allow Sparks until nine at the very least to return, well past dawn, perhaps longer, directly countermanding his orders. He walked downstairs to see if a cup of tea could be found.

No one was in the kitchen, and he heard nobody moving below. The inn carried the expectant repose that settled the air just before dawn. Timbers groaned expressively. Looking out a window, he noticed that the clouds had lifted; when it came, the morning would be bright, clear, and cold.

She had been sweet and yielding and, yes, experienced, undoubtedly more so than he was, a powerfully tempting avenue for bad feeling from which he turned resolutely away. What had moved him most, what moved him now, was how real in that hour she had seemed, how tangible, reachable: how close. No artifice or barrier between him and a direct experience of who she was. She had wept at one point, silently, wiping away the tears but asking him with her touch and movement not to stop or pay attention. He had complied. What was he feeling now? That knowledge danced away, just out of his grasp. Why did his emotions always lag so infuri-atingly far behind his ability to reason?