But the boom of the rifle shot startled the boy. He dropped his guard and looked around. Westphalen struck then, a fierce, downward cut aimed at the neck. The boy saw it coming and tried to dodge, but too late. Westphalen felt the blade slide through flesh and bone, saw the boy go down in a spray of crimson.
That did it. He jerked his saber free and turned away in the same motion. He felt sick. He found he much preferred to let others do the actual killing. Malleson had dropped his rifle and was scooping handfuls of gems into his pockets.
He looked up at his commanding officer. 'It's all right, i'nit, sir?' He gestured toward the priest and his wife. 'I mean, they won't be needing 'em.'
Westphalen knew he'd have to be very careful now. He and Malleson were the only survivors, accomplices in what would surely be described as mass murder should the facts ever come to light. If neither of them spoke a word of what had happened here today, if they were both extremely careful as to how they turned the jewels into cash over the next few years, if neither got drunk enough for guilt or boastfulness to cause the story to spill out, they could both live out their lives as rich, free men.
Westphalen was quite sure he could trust himself; he was equally sure that trusting Malleson would be a catastrophic mistake.
He put on what he hoped was a sly grin. 'Don't waste your time with pockets,' he told the soldier. 'Get a couple of saddle bags.'
Malleson laughed and jumped up. 'Right, sir!'
He ran out the entry arch. Westphalen waited uneasily. He was alone in the temple—at least he prayed he was. He hoped all those things, those monsters, were dead. They had to be. Nothing could have survived that conflagration in the pit. He glanced over to the dead bodies of the priest and priestess, remembering her curse. Empty words of a crazed heathen woman. Nothing more. But those things in the pit...
Malleson finally returned with two sets of saddlebags. Westphalen helped him fill the four large pouches, then each slung a pair over a shoulder.
'Looks like we're rich, sir,' Malleson said with a smile that faded when he saw the pistol Westphalen was pointing at his middle.
Westphalen didn't let him begin to plead. It would only delay matters without changing the outcome. He simply couldn't let the future of his name and his line depend on the discretion of a commoner who would doubtlessly get himself sotted at the first opportunity upon his return to Bharangpur.
He aimed at where he assumed Malleson's heart would be, and fired. The soldier reeled back with outflung arms and fell flat on his back. He gasped once or twice as a red stain raced through the fabric of his tunic, then lay still.
Holstering his pistol, Westphalen went over and gingerly removed the saddlebags from Malleson's shoulder, then looked around him. All remained still. Foul, oily smoke still poured from the pits; a shaft of sunlight breaking through a vent in the vaulted ceiling pierced the spreading cloud. The remaining lamps flickered on their pedestals.
He went to the two nearest oil urns, sliced open their tops, and kicked them over. Their contents spread over the floor and washed up against the nearest wall. He then took one of the remaining lamps and threw it into the center of the puddle. Flame spread quickly to the wall where the wood began to catch.
He was turning to leave when a movement over by the dais caught his eye, frightening him and causing him to drop one of the saddlebags as he clawed for his pistol again.
It was the boy. He had somehow managed to crawl up the dais to where the priest lay. He was reaching for the necklace around the man's throat. As Westphalen watched, the fingers of the right hand closed around the two yellow stones. Then he lay still. The whole of the boy's upper back was soaked a deep crimson. He had left a trail of red from where he had fallen to where he now lay.
Westphalen returned his pistol to his holster and picked up the fallen saddlebag. There was no one and nothing left in the temple to do him any harm. He remembered that the woman had mentioned 'children,' but he could not see them as a threat, especially with the way the fire was eating up the ebony. Soon the temple would be a smoldering memory.
He strode from the smoke-filled interior into the morning sunlight, already planning where he would bury the saddlebags and plotting the story he would tell of how they had become lost in the hills and were ambushed by a superior force of sepoy rebels. And how he alone escaped.
After that, he would have to find a way to maneuver himself into a trip back to England as soon as possible. Once home, he would just happen to find a large cache of uncut gems behind some stonework in the basement level of Westphalen Hall.
Already he was blotting the memory of the events of the morning from his mind. No use dwelling on them. Better to let the curse, the demons, and the dead float away with the black smoke rising from the burning temple, a temple that was now a pyre and a tomb for that nameless sect. He had done what he had to do and that was that.
He felt good as he rode away from the temple. He did not look back. Not once.
Chapter Seven
Manhattan
Sunday
1.
Jack rolled out of bed with a groan. He’d been lying there dreaming of a big brunch at Jake’s Steaks and Cakes down on Seventh Avenue when he remembered the father-son tennis match he'd promised to play in today.
And he had no racquet. Only one thing to do: Call Abe and tell him it was an emergency.
After Abe agreed to meet him at the store, Jack showered, shaved, pulled on a pair of shorts, a dark blue jersey, sneakers and socks, and hurried down to the street. The morning sky had lost its week-long humid haze. Looked like a nice day.
As he neared the Isher Sports Shop, he saw Abe waddling from the other direction. Abe looked him up and down as they met before the folding iron grille that protected the store during off-hours.
'Tennis balls! You're going to tell me you want a can of tennis balls, are you?'
