The Seven. Good Christ. 'Who are the Seven?'
'They serve ... have served It before.'
'What do they want?'
'To prepare the way. They are on this side.'
'Who are they, Joey? Who are the Seven?'
There was a pause before Joey shook Ms head again.
'What does It want?'
'It seeks the throne. It will be King ... King a thousand years.'
Quince went on about crowns or thrones as well, when he took hold of the medium's picture.
'What is It, Joey? What is this thing?' asked Doyle, trying to will more energy into the boy, feeling him going limp in his arms.
Joey's face grew paler. He seemed to reach down to a deeper level of responsiveness. Froth foamed from his lips, a bright salmon shade of pink. His chest heaved with effort; his voice lowered considerably.
'It has many names. It has always been. It waits outside. Souls nourish It ... It feeds on their destruction. But It will not ever be satisfied ... not even the Great War will satisfy Its ...'
The boy inhaled, and his eyes opened, clear and conscious. He looked up at Doyle, fully wake for the first time, with a pitiable awareness of his own frailty.
'Joey?'
Joey shook his head with a beatific air of acceptance; then, looking past Doyle, he feebly raised a hand and pointed directly at Sparks.
'He is an arhanta,' said Joey.
Sparks was watching the boy raptly, a dark edge of dread shading his lowered eyes. There was a sharp barking sound, and Doyle turned back to Joey. He'd heard an explosive cough as the boy's insides fatally hemorrhaged; a flood of hot
pink fluid was cascading down from his chin and onto the satin blouse. The boy's weight increased suddenly, settling and collapsing down into Doyle's hands; he could feel that life had entirely fled from Joey's small body. Doyle gently lowered him to rest on the bed.
'Is he dead?' asked Sparks.
Doyle nodded.
'We must go. Quickly,' said Sparks. 'There'll be too many questions.'
Sparks took Doyle by the arm, his fingers digging deep, directing him back into and through the chaotic scene around them toward the door. Nurses, doctors, and guards were still trying to mollify the children. Two bobbies appeared at the door through which Doyle and Sparks had entered. Doyle felt the grip on his arm tighten as Sparks steered Doyle away, and they headed for a door at the far end of the ward. Behind them, the acrobats were moving toward the screens where Joey's body was lying. Sparks and Doyle were about to clear the edge of the crowd when Big Roger the clown stepped directly into their path.
'Wot's 'appened wit' me boy, then, Mister? Got a right to know, 'aven't I? It's me wot paid for 'im, quite the investment that boy is—' A cry of alarm sounded from behind the screen.
'He's dead! Joey's dead!'
Big Roger grabbed hold of Doyle. ' 'Ere, what'd you do with *im, then?'
The bobbies moved through the crowd toward the acrobats, who had emerged and were looking around the ward.
'You killed 'im!' The clown's face twisted with sclerotic rage. 'Wot about my readies! You killed my—'
Sparks reached out, and Big Roger was on the ground making muted, strangulated sounds while clutching at his neck, the blow struck with such blinding speed Doyle could not remember seeing it applied.
'Keep walking; don't run,' said Sparks.
Doyle pulled up short and shook off Sparks's grip; they looked hard at each other. Doyle's ambivalence shot through his studied mask of passivity, and Sparks did not misinterpret it.
'There! Over there!'
The acrobats had spotted them and were pointing frantically through the crowd. The bobbies headed in their direction.
'Doyle, this is no time—'
'I don't know.'
'I can't allow you to stay here—'
'You're telling me I have no choice?'
'It's a longer conversation—'
'We need to have it.'
'Not now. For God's sake, man.'
Doyle wavered but would not be moved. The bobbies closed in.
'The boy, what he called me: Do you know what an arhanta is?' asked Sparks.
Doyle shook his head.
'It means savior.'
The bobbies were only a few yards away.
'Here, then, stand clear, you two!' said one of them.
Doyle shoved a bed in their direction, breaking their stride, and then he broke for the door. Sparks flew after him, and they burst through the door into a hospital corridor. An alarm sounded, and the pursuit behind them intensified.
'Which way?' asked Sparks.
Doyle pointed to their left, and they ran, dodging a host of startled patients and doctors and medical paraphernalia. Using his intimate knowledge of the hospital, changing directions frequently—in and out of wards, up and down stairs—and finally through a ground-floor window, Doyle led them to the entrance where Larry waited. A half-dozen bobbies were just arriving via Black Maria; Sparks blew a silver whistle that he'd pulled from his pocket and authoritatively waved them toward the doors.
'Inside, hurry! They're getting away!' shouted Sparks.
The bobbies hustled toward the entrance and collided with the officers and guards who were just running out of the building. A smaller coach pulled in behind the Black Maria; Doyle saw Inspector Leboux step out onto the running board as it slowed.
'Doyle!' Leboux cried. There was a pistol in his hand.
In a rush and clatter of hooves, Larry brought their carriage racing through the half-moon drive directly between them
and Leboux, showering the air with gravel. Sparks grabbed Doyle and leapt up onto the moving cab. Through the windows, Doyle could see Leboux aiming his pistol at them, trying to clear a shot. Sparks and Doyle hung on to the rails as Larry steered into the turn; momentum edged them up onto the two outside wheels, a fraction of an inch from toppling over, before the cab crashed back down onto all fours. Doyle and Sparks bounced hard but clung to the frame, arms looped around the bar of the open window.
'Don't stop!' Sparks yelled.
Larry cracked the whip and made straight for the hospital gates ahead. Behind them in the drive, Leboux's carriage and the Black Maria started after them. Hand-cranked siren wailing, a hospital cab was coming directly at them through the gates at a steady clip. There was barely room for two carriages to negotiate the opening when both were at a slow walk; a head-on collision seemed certain.
'Hang on!'
Sparks and Doyle flattened themselves against the outside of the cab as the two vehicles passed within inches. The wheels sparked as they engaged, but the hubs failed to lock. Doyle felt the side of the ambulance brush his shoulder as they rushed clear through the gate. But in the immediate aftermath of their near collision the ambulance driver was not so fortunate; trying to brake as he confronted the following police sent him into a disastrous skid; horses reared and the ambulance went over, blocking the drive and any immediate access to the gate. Leboux's cab stopped short of the wreck; bobbies poured from the Black Maria and rushed to the fallen horses, but it would be too late to effectively follow Larry. He drove Sparks and Doyle, still holding fast to the outer rails of the cab, around a corner out of sight of the hospital gates and into the covering flow of London traffic.
