The Englishman had wasted no time.
I’d been wearing the night-vision monocular, as instructed. From a forested area unexpectedly close to the house, an infrared flashlight painted horizontal streaks on trees. Montbard’s signaclass="underline" Stand fast, something’s going to happen.
I no longer doubted the man, but I wasn’t in position.
I’d dropped over the wall and jogged toward the rear of the house. The area was landscaped with hedges, like an old English garden. A maze of hedges, literally. Ficus trees cut low, roots like bars, so it was impossible to bust through the hedge when I came to a dead end. I encountered several dead ends. Maddening.
It took a couple tries before I exited into a garden behind the chateau. The chateau was built over a wedge of stone ruins that disappeared into the side of the mountain like a storm cellar. There was a terrace, a lily pond, a marble statue of Saint Francis, trees weighted with moss, bromeliads, orchids. One of the trees had limbs low enough to climb, and I did. Pulled myself up as a light came on inside the house. Someone had struck a match to an oil lamp.
It was Isabelle Toussaint. She was a ghostly figure, carrying the lamp in both hands as she glided through the house. The interior was over-furnished, like a museum storeroom. I could see tapestries and ornate furniture and paintings in heavy frames. There were religious icons on every wall. Crosses… a life-sized carving of Christ in agony. It was like watching a series of TV screens as the woman disappeared, then reappeared inside glowing windows and glassed French doors.
The alarm was still warbling. Toussaint looked concerned-turning her head to listen, sniffing the distant wood smoke, touching a hand to her necklace-but in control. Apparently, power outages were common on the mountain. The alarm, though, troubled her.
She had removed her hood. I watched her lean over the lamp to light a thin black cheroot, smoking unself-consciously as she crossed into the kitchen where there were skillets and pots suspended on hooks above a stainless gas stove. Beyond the refrigerator was a narrow staircase-the servant’s back steps to the second floor. On the wall next to the staircase was an oversized painting: an infant’s white crib in a black room. Bizarre.
The woman poured a glass of wine, sniffed the air once again, testing for fire despite her cigarette. Once again, she touched fingers to the Midnight Star sapphire… then turned toward the window, startled, because of a sudden, piercing sound outside. The screaming had begun.
It was a man’s voice, shrill… vocal cords tearing as terror peaked. After several seconds, the bawling transitioned into a series of ragged shrieks. Terror had become pain.
"Godohgodohgod… HELP MEEEEEEEE!”
The confusing sound of a waterfall became the snarling, clacking chorus of dogs dragging down prey. I kept telling myself it wasn’t Sir James’s voice. But it was coming from the forested area where he’d last used the infrared to signal. Who else could it be?
“Noooooo… NO!”
When horror is converted into childlike cries, panic becomes transmittable.
You have a gun, James… goddamn it, pull your gun!
I felt the panic… so did Isabelle Toussaint. I started down the tree, fixated on the source of the screams, but a peripheral part of my brain noted that the woman was also reacting. She was removing her necklace as she hurried toward the back staircase. I saw her lean
… guessed she was reaching for something out of my view. Then.. . as if on rollers, the middle section of steps opened upward like a hatch.
Toussaint returned for the oil lamp, then crossed again to the hidden compartment. No… it wasn’t just a compartment, it was a second stairway that descended into a basement.
The chateau had been built over stone ruins. The ruins apparently extended underground, into the mountainside. I watched the woman disappear down the steps into an unseen chamber. As she pulled the hatch closed, the man’s screams were fading into a silence of screaming frogs and rain-forest insects.
I now knew where Toussaint kept her valuables. But it had cost James Montbard dearly. Maybe his life.
I dropped from the tree and ran toward the ficus maze, suddenly furious at myself for not using reflective tape to mark an exit route. A stupid oversight. I didn’t have time to waste on more dead ends-I had to find the Englishman.
To my right, a sliding gate opened. Two men with flashlights appeared. The lights scanned the garden terrace I’d just left… then swept toward me.
The men didn’t see me. But the dogs that followed them into the garden did. I would’ve known even if I wasn’t wearing night vision. The dogs had fluorescent collars, bright as glow sticks. The collars illuminated their jowls and bright, black eyes-two gigantic Brazilian mastiffs.
I ducked into the maze, my speed fueled by fear. Seconds later, the dogs skidded into the hedgerow behind me. I could hear their pounding weight and their salivary growling. Make a wrong turn, hit a dead end, the dogs would be on me. Did it matter? They were going to catch me, anyway.
Ahead were three corridors to choose from, none much wider than my shoulders. I took the opening to the left. There was a sharp right turn, then a sharp left. In the monocular’s green light, the hedge walls appeared black, a foot higher than my head. It seemed familiar. But the dogs were closing, tracking me by scent-hopefully. After all the wrong turns I’d made earlier, my scent was everywhere. Maybe they’d get confused.
Two more openings appeared. I chose the inner corridor, running as hard as I could until the maze began to narrow. The other dead ends had narrowed in the same way.
Shit.
As I slowed, I reached to pull the Colt from the holster tucked into the back of my pants… then made another mistake-I fumbled the gun and dropped it. Had to stop, retrace my steps, then kneel to retrieve it. Too late, and I knew it-the dogs were waiting.
As I knelt, a wolfish rumble vibrated near my ear. Both dogs were somewhere in the shadows, so close I could smell them. Because I’d stopped, they’d stopped-pack mentality-and now they were waiting for me to move. I’d found the gun. Had it in my right hand. I remained motionless for several seconds, then slowly raised my head.
I expected to be nose to nose with the mastiffs… but the hedgerow was empty. Where the hell were they?
I stood… then fell backward as a dog lunged at me from above. The animal looked demonic with its glowing collar, straining to get over the hedge. It was joined by the second dog. Their growling was a sustained howl punctuated by snapping teeth. Sir James had said that Brazilian mastiffs were seven feet tall on their hind legs. It was not an exaggeration.
I’d gotten lucky. The dogs had followed my scent into a parallel corridor, one of the dead ends I’d hit earlier. The corridor I’d chosen had narrowed, but I could see that it opened just ahead.
I held the gun ready as I backed away, expecting the dogs to claw their way over the hedge. But each time they tried, the top of the hedge separated beneath their weight, and funneled them into a tangle of ficus roots. From the distance, I could hear one of the men whistling for the dogs. Maybe he thought they’d treed an animal. He would be here soon.
I turned. I ran. I found the trail we’d marked with reflective tape-the shortest route down the mountain. I barely slowed when I got to the chain-link fence. Didn’t look back until I’d vaulted over.
In an area cloaked by elephant-ear leaves, I stopped. Stayed hidden there until I’d caught my breath in the leaning-rest position-hands on knees, head down. I came close to vomiting. My legs were shaking, and a schematic of the back on my brain pulsed inside my eyes. It wasn’t just because of my close call with the dogs. The man’s screams were still banging around in my head. Haunting-as was the guilt I felt for leaving James Montbard behind.