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 doubtless 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 flower blossomed on 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 pit; 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 any remaining children 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, it would not be too long before 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. It would do no good to dwell on them. Better to let the curse, the demons, and the dead float away with the black smoke rising from the burning 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, august 5, 198-
1
Tennis!
Jack rolled out of bed with a groan. He’d almost forgotten. He had been lying there dreaming of a big brunch at the Perkins Pancakes down on Seventh Avenue when he remembered the father-son tennis match he’d promised to play in today.
And he had no racquet. He’d lent it to someone in April and couldn’t remember who. Only one thing to do: Call Abe and tell him it was an emergency.
Abe said he would meet him at the store right away. Jack showered, shaved, pulled on white tennis shorts, a dark blue jersey, sneakers, and socks, and hurried down to the street. The morning sky had lost the humid haze it had carried for most of the week. Looked like it was going to be a nice day.
As he neared the Isher Sports Shop he saw Abe waddling up 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.
“You’re going to tell me you want a can of tennis balls, are you?”
Jack shook his head and said, “Naw. I wouldn’t get you up early on a Sunday morning for tennis balls.”
“Glad to hear it.” He unlocked the grille and pushed it back far enough to expose the door. “Did you see the business section of the Times this morning? All that talk about the economy picking up? Don’t believe it. We’re on the Titanic and the iceberg’s straight ahead.”
“It’s too nice a day for an economic holocaust, Abe.”
“All right,” he said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “Go ahead, close your eyes to it. But it’s coming and the weather has nothing to do with it.”
After disarming the alarm system, Abe headed for the back of the store. Jack didn’t follow. He went directly to the tennis racquets and stood before a display of the oversized Prince models. After a moment’s consideration, he rejected them. Jack figured he’d need all the help he could get today, but he still had his pride. He’d play with a normal size racquet. He picked out a Wilson Triumph—the one with little weights on each side of the head that were supposed to enlarge the sweet spot. The grip felt good in his hand, and it was already strung.
He was about to call out that he’d take this one when he noticed Abe glaring at him from the end of the aisle.
“For this you took me away from my breakfast? A tennis racquet?”
“And balls, too. I’ll need some balls.”
“Balls you’ve got! Too much balls to do such a thing to me! You said it was an emergency!”
Jack had been expecting this reaction. Sunday was the only morning Abe allowed himself the forbidden foods: lox and bagels. The first was verboten because of his blood pressure, the second because of his weight.
“It is an emergency. I’m supposed to be playing with my father in a couple of hours.”
Abe’s eyebrows rose and wrinkled his forehead all the way up to where his hairline had once been.
“Your father? First Gia, now your father. What is this— National Masochism Week?”
“I like my dad.”
“Then why are you in such a black mood every time you return from one of these jaunts into Jersey?”
“Because he’s a good guy who happens to be a pain in the ass.”
They both knew that wasn’t the whole story but by tacit agreement neither said any more. Jack paid for the racquet and a couple of cans of Penn balls. “I’ll bring you back some tomatoes,” he said as the grille was locked across the storefront again.
Abe brightened. “That’s right! Beefsteaks are in season. Get me some.”
Next stop was Julio’s, where Jack picked up Ralph, the car Julio kept for him. It was a ’63 Corvair, white with a black convertible top and a rebuilt engine. An unremarkable, everyday kind of car. Not at all Julio’s style, but Julio hadn’t paid for it. Jack had seen it in the window of a “classic” car store; he had given Julio the cash to go make the best deal he could and have it registered in his name. Legally it was Julio’s car, but Jack paid the insurance and the garage fee and reserved pre-emptive right of use for the rare occasions when he needed it.
Today was such an occasion. Julio had it gassed up and waiting for him. He had also decorated it a bit since the last time Jack had taken it out: There was a “Hi!” hand waving from the left rear window, fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, and in the rear window a little dog whose head wobbled and whose eyes blinked red in unison with the tail lights.
“You expect me to ride around with those?” Jack said, giving Julio what he hoped was a withering stare.