Eric Lustbader - The Testament

Taking out the cuff links, he inserted the one that wouldn't open the lock in St. Malo. Sure enough, it fit. Just as he was about to open the beggar's purse, he heard a noise, the sharp bang as of a casement window flying open, followed by what sounded like a groan wrenched from a strangled throat.

In two swift strides he reached the door and flung it open. "Jenny? Father Mosto?"

An empty corridor stretched in either direction. It was eerily silent. Bravo could hear his heart beating, the rush of blood in his ears. A slow drip of water from someplace close at hand. Where the hell was Jenny?

Quickly pocketing the beggar's purse, he hurried down the corridor. At the first turn, he saw a large shape lying on the stone floor.

His heart skipped a beat. "Jenny?"

He ran, and skidded. The flagging wept with the damp of the canal and something more, something sticky and slightly viscous. Blood. A body in priest's robes sprawled grotesquely at his feet. Father Mosto's face, pale and almost greenish, stared up at him, his eyes fixed and glazed. His neck was slit and blood, having at first gouted out, still seeped. Next to him, in the widening pool of blood, was the murder weapon-a knife.

Kneeling down, Bravo examined it closely without touching it. It was a slender switchblade with pearl scales-the one Jenny had used to open the bottle of wine.

Jenny killed Father Mosto? He could hardly believe it. But if she was innocent, where was she?

Hearing a soft scrape, he rose and hurried after what sounded to him like the furtive patter of footfalls. The lamps in this section of the corridor had gone out, and the farther he got from the body, the more steeped in gloom it became until he could barely see a foot ahead of him.

Still, he continued-what else could he do? All at once, he became aware of something behind him and whirled just in time to have his head snapped back by a blow to his forehead. Staggering back, he slammed against a slimy wall and was struck again.

He allowed another blow to strike, but this time grabbed the wrist of the extended arm and was startled to discover how slender it was, how smooth the skin. He was being attacked by a woman.

"Jenny," he panted, "why are you doing this?"

Another blow rocked him, but he refused to let go of the wrist, bending it sharply back, hearing the quick hiss of pain escape from between his adversary's lips. Brushing against her as he turned away from still another blow, he felt the swell of her breasts, and he turned her, about to slide his arm around her throat. But just then she slammed the heel of her hand into his nose. His head snapped back and his vision blurred as tears started from his eyes, momentarily blinding him. His adversary used her advantage to break his grip. He had a brief impression of a female figure running, then it was silhouetted blurrily against the white glare of daylight as she pulled open a side door and vanished.

Bravo shook his head, trying to clear it. Then he stumbled forward, reaching for the door. He found himself on a narrow street running beside the dank water of the canal. A mass of reflections, moving and rippling, rose up to him as if from a painting still being altered by an artist's brush.

Up ahead was the stone arch of a bridge. Sunlight struck his face like a blow, and squinting, he thought he glimpsed a female figure in the crowd hurrying across the bridge. Wiping the last of the tears out of his eyes, he shouldered his way through the mass of sweaty tourists, but he reached the apex of the bridge without having been able to positively identify Jenny. He stood there for a moment, his back to the throng, scanning the people in the square on the other side. All at once, he was swaying, his head swimming, not only from the glare and sodden heat but also from the blows he'd sustained in the corridor outside the rectory.

What other woman would have the physical power and expertise to fight hand-to-hand like that? And then, as if a picture snapped into focus, he remembered what Jenny had said when he'd shown her the Sig-Sauer: "Maybe you ought to give the gun to me." If she were the traitor, of course she'd want the gun.

He was so lost in this excruciating line of conjecture that he didn't notice the two men who came up behind him. Before he understood what was happening, they had pushed him over the side of the bridge. He fell, landing on the deck of a motoscafo. Immediately, a sack was drawn over his head, and the boat took off. His feet were swept out from under him, someone was saying something urgently quite close; he ignored it and fought, but soon his arms were pinioned to his side. Using his forehead as a weapon, he struck out, colliding with one of his captors. He bulled forward, trying to press his advantage, but a precise blow that landed behind his right ear drove him into unconsciousness.

Jenny awoke in utter darkness. She groaned. Even touching the back of her neck set off a wave of dizziness and nausea that made her cry out. She held her aching head for some time. What had happened? She had been talking to that priest and then…

Woozily, she stood against a wall. It was cold and damp. She put her hand out, encountered stone. Slowly, she moved along the wall until she came to a door. She tried the wrought-iron handle, but the door was locked. She retreated two steps, took a deep breath and slowly let it out. She repeated the process three times, each inhalation and exhalation deeper than the last. Then, gathering herself, she kicked the door open. She staggered back and almost fell. The effort setting off another bout of vertigo and nausea. This time, she turned her head to one side and retched, vomiting up the contents of her stomach.

Out in the corridor, she was greeted by more blackness. It was then she remembered her pocket flashlight. Digging it out, she switched it on, played the beam this way and that. It took her a moment before she saw the body. At first, she thought it was Bravo, and her heart lurched painfully, the ache at the back of her neck redoubling. As she came closer, she saw the curtainlike drape of a priest's robes and recognized Father Mosto.

Cautiously, she went toward where his body lay twisted and bloody. A sudden flash caught her eye, metal reflected by the light. Closer still, she found herself staring at a puddle of blood turned black and shiny as oil by the beam of light. In it, glimmering evilly, was a knife that looked-no, it couldn't be! Checking her pocket, she found her knife gone. She peered more closely at the switchblade on the floor. She picked it up, needing visceral confirmation.

Oh, my God, she thought, it is mine!

Someone had attacked her, stolen her knife and used it to slit Father Mosto's throat. But how did they know she was carrying a knife? No time and no way to answer those questions now.

"Bravo!" she called. "Bravo!"

Running back toward the rectory, she came upon the side door, which was open enough to allow a narrow triangle of light into the corridor. It seemed logical that whoever had taken him had used this to make their escape. Still, just to be certain, she searched the rectory. There was the armoire, its doors agape, an inner panel removed, but no Bravo. Cursing herself, she flew back down the corridor and out the door into the blazing heat.

Almost immediately, she noticed the commotion on the stone bridge that spanned the canal. People were all too willing to tell her about the man who had been pushed over the side of the bridge into the waiting motoscafo.

An old man dressed in impeccable Venetian fashion was incensed. "The terrorists spirited him off!"

"How do you know they were terrorists?" Jenny said.

"They kidnapped him, didn't they? What else could they be? And in broad daylight, can you imagine!" He made a rude gesture, his anger at its apex. "When did Venice become America?"