"You know where he's headed?" D'Agosta asked between gasps.
"To the forest below."
The stairway leveled off briefly, and they moved slowly over another gap. The iron railing had rotted away at this spot, and rough handholds were their only protection. A stiff, cold wind buffeted them.
A shot rang out from below. The monk slipped, clutched at a handhold, scrambled to regain his balance. D'Agosta pressed himself against the rock face. He was completely exposed, unable to help, unable even to move forward. With both hands clutching the rock he could not even unholster his gun.
Another shot rang out. D'Agosta felt a spray of rock slash his face. Glancing down, he could make out the killer a hundred yards farther down the stairway, pointing his handgun directly at them.
There was no help for it: he couldn't just stand here, waiting to get shot. D'Agosta let go with one hand, desperately bracing himself against the cliff edge with his feet and his knees, and drew out his gun. Aiming as best he could, he fired once, twice.
Two close shots, missing by inches. The man gave a cry and ducked out of sight below. Meanwhile, the monk had recovered and moved on to a safer spot. D'Agosta felt himself slipping; he was going to have to drop his gun.
"A me!” said the monk.
D'Agosta tossed him the Glock, which the monk deftly caught. Then he pulled himself back into position and leaped over the gap. Just as he got to the far side, another shot rang out.
"Down!"
They crouched on the stone walkway, in the feeble cover of a small projecting rock. Another shot, another spray of rock.
Christ, thought D'Agosta, we're pinned . Unable to move forward, unable to go back. He would have to return fire again.
The monk handed him his gun.
D'Agosta slid out the magazine, checked it. Eight rounds left. He slapped it back in place.
"When I shoot, you go. Capisci? "
The monk nodded.
In one motion, D'Agosta rose, aimed, squeezed off a string of suppressing fire, just clipping the top of the rock behind which the shooter was crouching, keeping him down, unable to fire. The monk scrambled across the open section of trail, finding good cover at the far end where the pathway once again began to descend a crude staircase.
Magazine spent, D'Agosta ducked back behind the rocky projection. He slapped in his spare magazine, then ran across the open area until he reached the monk and the safety of the staircase, pausing to peer over a rocky wall. The shooter was nowhere to be seen.
Quickly, he rose and resumed the pursuit, the monk at his heels. Down and down they descended until, quite suddenly, they reached the bottom. There was a small vineyard here at the base of the cliff. Beyond rose a dense wall of forest.
"Which way?" D'Agosta asked.
The monk shrugged. "He is gone."
"No. We'll follow him into the forest."
D'Agosta took off again, half crouching, down the row of vines toward the trees. Within moments, they were inside the forest, the cathedral-like trunks surrounding them, silent and smelling of resin and cold, stretching ahead into darkness. D'Agosta scanned the ground, but there was no indication of footsteps in the thick bed of pine needles.
"Do you have any idea which way he went?" he asked.
"Not possible to know. Need dogs."
"Does the monastery have dogs?"
"No."
"We can call the police."
The monk shrugged again. "Takes time. For dogs, two, three days maybe."
D'Agosta looked back into the endless forest. "Shit."
Back at the chapel, the scene remained one of confusion. Pendergast was bending over the prostrate form of the monk, applying heart massage and artificial respiration. Several of the monks were kneeling in a half-circle, apparently led by the head of the order; others were standing well back, murmuring in low, shocked tones. As D'Agosta walked across the chapel, utterly winded, he could hear the distant beat of a chopper.
He knelt and took the old priest's frail hand. The man's eyes were closed, his face gray. In the background, the steady murmur of prayers continued, soothing in its measured cadence.
"I think he's suffered a heart attack," Pendergast said, pressing down on the man's chest. "The trauma of the gunshot wound. Still, with the medevac arriving, he might be saved."
Suddenly the monk coughed. A hand fluttered and his eyes opened, staring directly at Pendergast.
"Padre," said Pendergast, his voice low and calm," mi dica la confessione più terribile che lei ha mai sentito."
The eyes, so wise and so close to death, seemed to understand all. "Un ragazzo Americano che ha fatto un patto con il diavolo, ma l'ho salvato, l'ho sicuramente salvato." He sighed, smiled, then closed his eyes and took one long, final, shuddering breath.
A moment later the paramedics burst in with a transport stretcher. There was an eruption of furious activity as they worked to stabilize the victim: one attached a cardiac monitor while another relayed the lack of vitals to the hospital and received orders in return. The stretcher was rushed back out the door, and within seconds the sound of the helicopter was receding again. And then it was over. The church seemed suddenly empty, the smell of incense drifting on the air, the steady sound of prayer adding a curious note of peace to a most shocking act of violence.
"He got away," D'Agosta gasped.
Pendergast laid a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Vincent."
"What did you say to the priest just now?"
Pendergast hesitated a moment. "I asked him to recall the most terrible confession he'd ever heard. He said it was from a boy-an American boy-who had made a pact with the devil."
D'Agosta felt revulsion constrict his stomach. So it was true, after all. It was really true.
"He added that he had certainly saved the boy's soul. In fact, he knew he'd saved his soul."
D'Agosta had to sit down. He hung his head a moment, still breathing hard, and then looked up at Pendergast. "Yeah. But what about the other three?"
{ 68 }
The Reverend Buck sat at the desk inside his tent, the beams of bright morning sun slanting through the door net and setting the canvas walls ablaze. Everybody in camp was still keyed up from the showdown with the police, still abuzz with energy. Buck could feel that same energy coursing through his being. The passion and belief of his followers had astonished, had heartened him. Clearly, the spirit of God was among them. With God, anything was possible.
The problem was, the police would not rest. They would act decisively, and act soon. His moment was about to arrive: the moment he had come so far, worked so hard, to fulfill.
But what moment? And how, exactly, would he fulfill it?
The question had been growing within him, gnawing at him, for days now. At first, it had been just a faint voice, a sense of disquiet. But now it never left him, despite his praying and fasting and penitence. God's path was unclear, His wishes mysterious.
Yet again he bowed his head in prayer, asking God to show him the way.
Outside, in the background, he could hear the excited hum of a hundred conversations. He paused to listen. Everybody was talking about the aborted attempt to arrest him. Strange that the police had sent in only two. They probably didn't want to make a show of aggression, have a Waco on their hands.