Robert Masello - The Medusa Amulet

Ascanio struggled to his feet, wincing with pain, and threw his arm around David’s shoulders again. The sweet, subtle smell of gas had already begun to permeate the room.

They hobbled down the stone steps to the old scullery, past the dusty wine racks, and into the hidden escape route carved by the Norman knight. It was too narrow there to walk side by side, so David had to let Ascanio support himself by leaning against the walls. David took out his flashlight to show the way while glancing over his shoulder for any sign of Rigaud.

The pungent aroma of the gasoline they had poured on their way in wafted up from the floor. When they had reached the oubliette, its scent was joined by the dank river water sloshing at the bottom of the shaft.

They were only yards from the side tunnel leading down to the Loire when David heard noises coming from the scullery. He flicked off his flashlight and urged Ascanio to hurry.

“Someone’s coming!” he whispered.

Ascanio pressed on, dragging his splinted leg, while David crouched low right behind him, staring back over his shoulder into the darkness.

He heard the sound of racks being shoved aside, wine bottles smashing, and boots crunching across the broken glass.

And then he saw the pinpoint white light of a flashlight beam, searching high and low.

They were far enough away that it had not reached them, but it was coming closer all the time.

“Who’s in there?” a voice called out. Rigaud’s. “Stop where you are!”

The tip of David’s sword suddenly scraped against the stone wall.

“Stop now, or I’ll shoot!”

“It’s here,” Ascanio murmured, ducking through the hole in the wall.

“I said, Stop!”

The flashlight beam danced toward them, like a firefly, and in the reflections off the wall and ceiling, David saw Rigaud, holding something in the crook of his arm and running toward them.

Ascanio’s arm suddenly extended out through the hole, holding a pack of wooden matches. “Light the pack and throw it!”

David dropped his flashlight, and grabbed the matchbook. But the gasoline trail was several feet behind him now, and he had to creep toward Rigaud, all the while trying to strike a match in the dark. The first one broke in two, the second one was too damp.

Rigaud had undoubtedly heard him by then, and his flashlight swung directly onto David’s face as the third match caught fire and David touched it to the gasoline on the floor. A ribbon of blue flame shot down the tunnel, and in its light he saw Rigaud drop his flash-light and fumble for his gun.

But what David truly remembered, just seconds before the blast nearly threw him through the hole, was the severed head Rigaud was cradling beneath his arm. David could have sworn that the mouth was twisted in a silent scream and the steely blue eyes were furious… and alive.

A fireball had hurtled down the length of the tunnel, then out of sight around the corner, where it collided with the cloud of gas in the kitchen, sending an earthshaking explosion up through the very rafters of the chateau. David and Ascanio, scuttling down the chimney to the river, feared the cliff itself would collapse around them. Dirt and dust filled the air, choking them, and the steps quivered under their stumbling feet.

At the bottom, they crawled out, coughing and sputtering, onto the rocks and mud of the riverbank. David, after catching a breath, turned to look up at the promontory. Bright orange flames were licking up at the sky, as fire burst like streamers from the windows, and the towers, one by one, crumbled and fell.

A burning timber caromed off the cliff top and, turning end over end, splashed with a boiling hiss into the Loire.

“Let’s get out of range!” David said, helping Ascanio up and back toward the old loading dock.

They climbed along the bank, then into the woods, but just where David hoped to see the Maserati, he saw nothing. For a second, he thought he’d lost his bearings, but then a pair of headlights flashed on from the neighboring trees, and he heard a car door fling open.

“David!”

Olivia was running full tilt, in a bulky sweater and a pair of white socks, with her arms out.

“Help me,” he said, and Olivia threw a supporting arm around Ascanio’s waist. Together, they deposited him, as gently as they could, in the cramped backseat of the Peugeot.

And then they held each other close, rocking silently in the moonlight. In the distance, David could hear the crackling of the flames, punctuated by the crash of timbers and stone.

“So you got it,” she said, touching La Medusa as tenderly as one would touch the crown of a baby’s head.

“Yes,” David replied, holding her more tightly. “Now I have everything.”

“Can we get the hell out of here?” Ascanio growled. “It’s a long way back to Paris.”

Olivia slipped behind the wheel and, after taking another gander at the splint, handed the bag of drugs to Ascanio. “I’m sure you’ll find some painkillers in there. I’ll find the closest hospital.”

“No!” he objected. “I told you, we’re going straight back. I’m not having some hick doctor meddle with my leg.”

As she pulled the car back onto the trail, she glanced over at David to see what he thought, but he appeared to agree with their passenger. “Paris,” he said, resolutely. “As fast as we can get there.”

“But I’ll still need to know something,” Ascanio said, popping open a vial of pills and hastily swallowing several of them dry. “If you traded the Maserati for this piece of shit, you will please have to tell me why.”

Olivia drove the little Peugeot straight into the hospital emergency entrance, and David had hoisted Ascanio halfway out of the backseat before he protested and grabbed for the Medusa hanging under David’s shirt.

“That belongs to Sant’Angelo!” he said, his words slurred by the Percocets he’d taken. “Give it to me!”

But David pulled back and let the emergency workers running out of the hospital strap Ascanio to a gurney and wheel him inside. It was clear he had lost a lot of blood, and the makeshift tourniquet was all but falling off. One of the doctors was asking David a battery of questions about what had happened and who the man was, when David-pleading that he spoke no French-bolted back to the car and told Olivia to gun it.

“Wait!” the doctor shouted, running down the drive as the Peugeot pulled away. “You can’t do this!”

But David watched the hospital recede in the rearview mirror, as Olivia headed back into the Paris traffic. Even she looked uncertain about what to do next.

“The airport,” he said.

“You don’t want to call the marquis? There’s quite a lot you should tell him, no?” While Ascanio, knocked out by the drugs, had snored in the backseat, David had filled her in during the long drive from the Loire Valley, and it was a miracle that she had been able to keep control of the car the whole way. He could think of no one else in the world who would have been able to do the same.

“Maybe the marquis could help?” she added.

“No,” David said. “Just drive.”

Using the BlackBerry from the doctor’s bag, he hastily dialed Gary’s number in Chicago.

“It’s me,” he said, the second Gary picked up. “How is she?”

“Hanging on. Where the hell are you?”

“On the way to Orly Airport.” He had not wanted to have this discussion with Ascanio in the car-snoring or not.

“You’re not on a plane yet?” Gary said, sounding downright angry.

“I’ll explain later. I’m coming as fast as I can.”

He heard Gary blow out a breath in disgust. “Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough, David. There’s not much time. Emme was here all afternoon, and for all I know, that’ll be the last time she ever gets to see her mom. Sarah’s waiting for you, David. She’s been waiting for you. But there’s only so much she can do.”