The Pegasus Secret (44 page)

Gurt stopped to let Grumps explore a particularly interesting few square feet. “I don’t understand: if the money comes from the church to the Templars to you, why not simply return it to the church?”

Lang knew from experience she had given this some thought. She rarely asked pointless questions. “Two reasons:
First, if it goes right back to the church, the Templars will find out and simply raise their extortion if they haven’t already. Second, the church’s priorities aren’t the same as mine. Not to put too fine a point on it, but in countries with limited resources, kids need to learn about birth control early, safe sex to avoid AIDS, stuff the church doesn’t exactly favor.”

“And the church, the Catholic Church, will continue to pay this money to these men because they do not want the world to know Jesus’s body did not ascend into heaven?”

Grumps lunged forward, almost snatching the leash from Gurt’s hand.

Lang reached across her body and grabbed it, reining the dog in. “Not so fast, fella. Yep. I’m no theologian, but it seems Christ could have been divine either way. The church just made a mistake early on that they don’t want to admit.”

She took the leash back. “To touch the tomb of God’s son . . . It must have really been a journey, a trip.”

There was something appealing about Gurt’s occasional mismanagement of the American idiom, the way she twisted her face into a pout when she wasn’t sure she had it right.

“I didn’t think of it that way at the time. I. . .” He stopped, putting both arms around her. “Screw the tomb, the Templars, whatever. Gurt, I don’t want you to leave.”

She rested her head against his shoulder. Another couple smiled as they detoured around them.

“What is the edge, er, point of staying? I had to practically force you to let me come. I know I cannot replace Dawn.”

“Nobody can. But you’re not a replacement, you’re . . . you’re you and that’s plenty good enough.”

“Then I guess I will stay as long as it does you happy.”

“That, madam, will be forever.”

He kissed her lightly, oblivious to the honking horns and good-natured jeers of passing motorists.

The moment was shattered by the scream of brakes and a gut-wrenching thump.

Gurt shoved herself free. “Grumps! Mein Gott!”

“Shit!”

Each had thought the other had the leash.

A mound of black fur was crumpled on the curb where the dog had landed after impact with a car.

A woman, pale and shaken, got out of a Volvo. “I didn’t see him until he ran right in front of me.”

Lang and Gurt ignored her, rushing to the still-quivering animal. Oblivious to the blood that ran down her blouse, Gurt scooped him up, clutching him tightly.

“Liebchen, Liebchen,” she moaned. “Es tut mir so leid.”

Grumps licked her face before his eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp.

Lang had never seen Gurt weep before. The knowledge she had coolly shot and killed made her grief all the more touching. He took the body from her, surprised at how cold it had already become. There was no breath or heartbeat. Kneeling, he gently lowered Grumps to the ground and put his arms back around the distraught Gurt, whispering anything that might be of comfort.

A small knot of joggers, bikers and other walkers gathered, bonded by morbid curiosity, their voices respectfully low.

Later, Lang was unable to remember what happened first, the murmur of surprise or the tug at his pants leg. He looked down, certain he had momentarily lost his sanity. Grumps, growling playfully, had the cuff of Lang’s trousers in his mouth. Where the dog had lain seconds before, a puddle of blood was disappearing like the morning’s dew.

Neither Gurt nor Lang spoke as they walked away,
Grumps renewing his search of the grass. Lang was thinking of a hillside in France, of the unexplained warmth he had felt from a stone box whose existence most of the Christian world would deny.

Maybe . . . He shook his head, dismissing the thought as impossible. What he felt for Gurt was miracle enough.