His mind and spirit began to hum in a sweet unison. His feet moved him across the kitchen, stopping before the huge gas range. There was a smell of gas in the air, and he noticed that one of the dials was not in the off position. This kind of carelessness offended his sense of order. The voice in his head spoke just as his hand reached the dial, and he paused a moment to absorb the message. Yet only a moment; thought was the destroyer of action. He turned the dial to the high setting, without igniting the gas. Then he turned the other three dials as well, all four silver burners throwing invisible fumes. He waited a minute or so until the odor was strong, then stepped back. Was it enough? He went around and squeezed his arm into the space behind the stove, pulling hard on the narrow tube he guessed was the gas line, loosening it-did it hiss?-but not breaking it clean. He removed his arm. By the sink was a large bottle of industrial cleaner, which Ioannes emptied over the counters and floor. The noxious smell was now making him quite dizzy. What next? On impulse he followed the bearded fellow into the dining room.
The man was crouched by the long, dark table, gazing fixedly into the hallway beyond. He had clearly been there for some time, listening, waiting. He must be warned of what was about to happen, and Ioannes took a step forward, the floor beneath him groaning softly. The big man came out of his crouch and turned, finger to his lips and gun hand fiercely gesturing the priest back into the kitchen.
The air exploded with the sound of gunfire. Blood erupted through the big man’s jacket and Ioannes doubled over as something punched him in the stomach. They fell together, the bearded man twisting as he did to fire once at a thin figure standing in the hall.
The priest realized he had been shot as he hit the ground, and he waited for the pain to come. He rolled onto his side, looking to his unfortunate companion. The big man dragged himself into a sitting position against the wall, bleeding copiously through his shirt and jacket. He was angry.
“Son of a bitch,” he hissed, fumbling at his shirt with one hand and lifting the pistol with the other. It roared twice more, blowing chunks of plaster out of the opposite wall. “Damn it all to hell.” He looked at his oozing chest, then at Ioannes, shaking his head. “Fucking priests.”
Ioannes attempted to reach out a comforting hand, but the arrival of the pain stopped him. A long shudder racked the bearded man’s body and his wide eyes became fixed at a distant point. The pistol fell from his right hand. “Fucking priest,” he whispered again, and then was still.
It grew silent once more. A circle of throbbing discomfort was expanded from Ioannes’ diaphragm to encompass his whole body, and he had to bite down against the agony, taking shallow breaths. The test was always more difficult than expected, he reminded himself, but the thought was hard to hold on to. He succeeded now in reaching a hand out to wrap around the ankle of the man whose death he had just caused. Give rest with thy saints, O Lord, to this thy servant…he didn’t know the man’s Christian name, or if he even was a Christian, but the matter would be sorted out above. Too damaged to indulge in scolding or grieving, he refocused his mind on the task. Everything happened for a reason. The wound replaced his agitation with a mind-cleansing pain, and removed the possibility of escape. Slowly, excruciatingly, Ioannes pulled himself up on his elbows and dragged his stricken body back into the kitchen.
The smell of gas was strong; not as strong as he would have liked, but then, he was on the floor. An alcove with drawers was beside the range, and he pulled himself over there, noting the snaking blood trail behind him as he rolled over. He coughed wetly, tasting iron. His limbs were almost too heavy to use, but he pulled open the drawers, searching for one thing. There was not much time. The man who had shot him was probably the same one the big man had faced in the rear corridor. They had each circled around the house to ambush the other, the thin man winning the game because of Ioannes’ interference. Now he would circle back and find the bloody priest sprawled here. Very good, but let Ioannes find what he needed first.
“Father, forgive me,” said an arch voice from the rear corridor.
“You should not have stood so close to him. It was an accident.”
There are no accidents, thought Ioannes, his hand finding, at last, the familiar cardboard box. Calmness swept over him, and the keen euphoria of great possibility. The fumes were so potent he could barely stay conscious.
“I have great respect for priests,” the man spoke again, closer.
“My uncle, you know…” The surly fellow caught the smell then, and rushed across the room to the gas range. Ioannes saw the blond hair and narrow face, just as the cool blue eyes saw him lying there in the alcove. The man’s hand was upon the first dial, twisting it to OFF, but the eyes grew wide when they saw what it was the priest held.
“Don’t,” breathed the Dutchman.
“I forgive you,” said Ioannes, striking the match.
26
The muffled boom reached Matthew through the cool tiles of the bathroom floor. He had been lying there with a blood-soaked towel wrapped around his right hand, greasy sweat covering his face and neck, legs vibrating uncontrollably. Fear or shock, he wasn’t sure which. Whispered voices had come to him from the corridor, and several times a shadowy movement could be seen in the space under the closed door. They would find him. That seemed certain, and he would die like a wounded animal, quivering here on the floor. It was a sickening thought, but he had not been able to figure out any kind of plan.
The noise below filled him with a perverse sense of hope. It was possible that the attackers themselves had caused it, but to what purpose, especially downstairs? More likely someone else had joined the fray, or some device had detonated prematurely. Matthew had no idea, only a strong guess that chaos was his friend. He waited a few minutes to see what would follow. There was no sound in the corridor, but the smell of smoke began to reach him. He must get out.
Gently, Matthew pulled the bathroom door open with his good hand. A few inches, then a few more. Still nothing. Finally, he shuffled out on his knees. Black smoke billowed up the back stairs and raced across the ceiling, and the thick snap of flames below was audible. Crawling with the injured hand was difficult, but the acrid fumes required that he stay low. As quickly as he could, Matthew scampered around the corner into the next corridor, then along the wall to Fotis’ bedroom.
Just inside the door, two old men were wrestling on the rug. The one on top, in the gray suit, must be Muller, who was cuffing furiously at Fotis’ head, but without sufficient force to do much harm. The Walther was half under the bed. There was no sign of Muller’s gun. Matthew guessed that they must have surprised each other at the door and come to blows before either one could fire. He sensed rather than saw that there was someone else in the room, but he chose to ignore this for the moment.
Getting most of the way to his feet, Matthew attempted to drag Muller off using only his left hand, but a fierce wave of dizziness and nausea pushed him back to his knees. The old men ignored him. Fotis bit Muller’s hand and the German howled, striking the Greek on the temple with real force. Fotis went slack, and Muller scrambled off him, sprawling on his face as Matthew punched him in the shin. Smoke hung thick on the ceiling. The light through the windows was becoming obscured, and the air was bad.
Matthew’s gaze went to the mantel, and the other figure was there, all in shadow. The burned man, standing by the icon. They were a pair, the burned man and the ruined Mary, now surrounded by a weird glow. The same eyes, the same color to their robes; they were a matching set. The man stood in for John the Baptist, the third member of the triumvirate, on the right. And there was Mary on the left, with Christ, the object of their veneration, invisible in the air between them. Of course it was not real. An illusion of smoke and light, the delusion of a shocked brain and troubled spirit. Indeed, when he tried to look straight at the figure it seemed to lose its substance. It was only when Matthew’s hungry gaze fixed on the icon that the man grew strong again, great-eyed, solemn, waiting. There was a choice involved. Many before had faced it. The three living men in the room faced it now.
Muller was on his knees at the foot of the bed. He had retrieved his pistol and was searching his jacket for something, perhaps bullets, coughing hideously all the while. Fotis was shaking his head, attempting to rise. Matthew was watching them both, watching it all. The air was becoming poisonous, and he must do something at once. The icon called. He half stood, mind reeling, and imagined crossing
