Eric Lustbader - The Testament

She glared up into his sneering face.

"This is how I always knew you would end up." He looked at her as if she were a cockroach he was about to grind beneath his boot. "You're a failure-worse, you're a disgrace." He spat onto the patch of floor between her knees before stalking away.

Jenny swiveled around and put her arms on the table. She thought of the mess she had made of her life. She thought of Ronnie Kavanaugh and of Dexter Shaw. She thought of the other path that might have been, the path that had been snatched away from her, in whose terrible aftermath Dex had appeared to save her. But had he saved her? she thought bitterly. For what? For this?

She put her head down on her forearms. Last of all, she thought of Bravo. She hadn't wanted to think of him, but now in her misery she could not help herself. He could have been the one to save her, truly and finally, as in the end Dex had been unable to do. She thought she understood now why Dex had wanted her to guard his son. With his uncanny prescience, he knew-he had to have known, she was certain of it.

All at once, she heard the low derisive laughter of her guards-her former compatriots-and the sound cut through her like a knife blade. She was immediately ashamed; they could see for themselves the weakness they had always suspected would one day lay her low.

Then, into her mind appeared the image of Arcangela-and with it the memory of the life she had led, of the almost insupportable deprivations she had endured so that her charges could carry out their work. Sacrifice seemed inadequate for the path she had chosen. Either way, though, it was her courage now that seemed to wind through Jenny's veins and arteries like a vine that, though abused by frost and axe, refuses to die. Instead, it grew green in the springtime of her emotions. And now she realized that Arcangela had given her something more precious even than the advice and support she had taken from Dex-the Anchorite had given her a chance to take back her life.

Now, through the lens of Arcangela's uncanny eye, she saw how she was repeating with Bravo the mistakes she had made with Ronnie and, to some extent, with Dex. She had fallen under their spell. Why? Because she felt that on some level they would save her. But no one had come to save Arcangela; she had the inner strength to save herself.

While she was with the Anchorite she had been awed and, to some extent, cowed by both the extremity of Arcangela's circumstances and depth of her inner strength. Now she realized that she herself possessed the same courage. It only remained for her to claim it.

Easier said than done, because here she was, a prisoner, with Paolo Zorzi doubtless on his way to find Bravo, and she had her head in her hands, weeping. No wonder the two Guardians were laughing at her. She was about to lift her head up, to defy them once again, when it seemed as if she felt the touch of Arcangela's hand on her defeated shoulder, staying her.

Wait, a voice inside her head whispered, there's a better way.

She remained where she was, her head on her forearms, and continued to weep. All the while, her mind was working in fifth gear. If they thought her weak, then let them believe it all the more, for once let their perception of her work to her benefit. This was what Arcangela would do, she was sure of it. Arcangela, who had used the means forced on her, the means no one else wanted, to achieve extraordinary ends.

She began to sob, her shoulders hunched and trembling visibly.

"Look at her." One of the guards laughed. "Better bring her a handkerchief."

"A towel is more like it," the other guffawed.

She heard the scrape of boot soles on the worn stone floor, the creak of old wood as one of the Guardians bent over her chair. She could smell him and knew precisely how close he was to her.

"Here, take this," he said shortly, "before you bring on the acqua alta, ha ha-"

She flung out an elbow, putting all her physical strength and her outrage into it. The cocked elbow landed square in his eye socket and he gave a cry, muffled by the hands clasped to his face. The second Guardian started toward her, but she had the first one around the throat, had his throwing knife out, and she brandished it.

The second Guardian checked only for a split instant. Then he grinned.

"Don't make me use this," Jenny warned.

The Guardian lifted his bladed weapon, the scimitar curve gleaming in the candlelight. "Do I look worried?" he said with a smirk. He came on, his weapon swinging back. "You don't have the guts."

Jenny threw the knife butt first. With expert precision, it found the place just above his nose. As he fell, unconscious, Jenny smashed the first Guardian's face into her upraised knee and he, too, collapsed.

Jenny ran through the darkness. As soon as she had cleared the seawall, she could hear the lagoon lapping at the shingle-Overhead, the sky had cleared. Stars, brilliant as Byzantine lamps, blazed down in splendor through the last wispy tendrils of mist. A stiffening breeze lifted stray tendrils of hair from her face, streaming them behind her. Her heart beat fast, but she felt lighter than she had in some time. She had her mission, and for the first time, it seemed, she was sure about who she was.

She ran toward the light that streamed from the cabin, toward the sharp odor of diesel fumes that billowed into the night. The motoscafo was still there. She saw Zorzi and several others in the last stages of preparing for its departure. For some reason, they had transformed the motoscafo into a police vessel, complete with decals and flag flying from the bow. As she entered the black water, the lines were cast off, and the burbling of the engines deepened in pitch.

She swam powerfully, her arms reaching out, her legs scissoring, and she came up alongside just as the engines produced a throaty roar. The bow lifted and she grabbed hold of one of the bumpers on the side as the boat got under way. She felt the sudden pull on her shoulder sockets and compensated, relaxing. She should have been out of breath, but she wasn't. She had taken control of her own life, just as Arcangela had meant her to do, and she was exhilarated.

Bravo and Rule came ashore on the jutting square of Lazzaretto Vecchio that was fully forested. The night was very dark, but some stars were out, and to the west a cloud was illuminated from behind in theatrical fashion by the moon. The cloud looked veined and muscled, like an ancient god awakening from the sleep of eons.

"The traitor has laid low for quite some time," Rule said, "funneling information slowly but surely to the Knights of St. Clement. But now, with you on the hunt for the Testament, he's had to show his hand."

"You mean Zorzi."

Rule nodded. "I'm afraid so." He switched on a flashlight he had found in the cabin of the boat. "He was one of your father's closest associates. He knows almost as much about Dex as I do. He's after you now. He's cunning, devious and extremely dangerous. In fact, there's mounting evidence that he's quietly turned all his Guardians against the Order. They obey him and only him. I'm afraid you can't trust any of them."

Rule spread a tarp used to protect the foodstuffs the Franciscans brought to the island over the motoscafo.

"We were lucky on the way over here," Rule continued. "The monks surely must have reported the theft of this boat to the police. We'll have to keep a sharp eye out for them when we leave."

They turned away from the motoscafo. It was sufficiently hidden from a cursory sighting from a passing patrol boat but certainly would be found by a closer search. They would have to be well away from here before that happened, Bravo knew, which meant he had very little time to find his father's next cipher.

"I'll show you where the ruins of the old church are," Rule said as they struck out for the interior.