As Houston swung, he aimed his useless automatic, crouching to defend himself.

  His brother wasn't on the balcony; he was down here facing Houston. How? The wall had no door, just tapestries and paintings. Worse, his brother wasn't wounded; Houston's shot had missed him.

  "Go on," Charles said. "Pull the trigger."

  Houston's heart froze. He peered helplessly at the gun.

  "You're out of bullets," Charles said. "Otherwise you would have shot again."

  Houston planned to throw the gun and lunge at Charles. He didn't see another way. But Charles aimed his gun, finger tensing on the trigger. Houston seemed to stand in neck-deep mud. His body wouldn't move.

  "No! This must stop!"

  The voice belonged to his father, who staggered forward, hands out, interceding, shielding Houston. "There's no sense! They've caught us! What's the point in killing him?"

  "You damned old fart." Charles shot him.

  Houston heard the liquid passage of the bullet through his father. Blood spattered.

  His father didn't even groan. His spastic lifeless body shuddered back toward Houston, who reflexively pushed forward, and the corpse appeared to walk, to stalk mechanically toward Charles.

  In disbelief, Charles screamed. The body lurched against him, throwing him off balance. As the corpse fell, Houston charged. He braced one foot before the other, crouched, and squeezed an angry fist.

  His tight-drawn knuckles struck his brother viciously across the cheek, and Houston felt with teeth-clenched satisfaction how a bone cracked in his brother's face. Now Houston's fist became a stinging fury, knuckles crushed and burning, swelling. Houston moaned. He kicked the gun from Charles' hand. He punched again. And then again.

  His brother's face contorted, wrenching to one side in mispro-portion. Charles was stupefied. He stumbled back, making no attempt to ward off Houston's blows.

  Pursuing his advantage, Houston swung in closer.

  He discovered his mistake. His brother had merely been waiting. With a savage straight-armed thrust, Charles struck at Houston's ribcage.

  Houston gagged in pain. He felt as if a plank had hurtled into him. His speeding heart skipped several beats. His knees went weak.

  Through swirling vision, he watched as Charles glanced toward his handgun on the floor. Instead of reaching for it, Charles assumed a martial arts pose, legs splayed, body crouched, his fingers wriggling like a nest of agitated serpents.

  "This is better," Charles said through his swollen lips. "You've ruined everything. Before I'm caught, I'll make you wish you'd gone back home." He pointed toward where Houston massaged his ribs. "Don't worry, they're not broken. That's too soon, too easy. I don't want a splintered bone to lance your lungs." Blood foamed from his lips. He swallowed. "You'll be awake for every painful second. Toward the end, you'll beg for me to kill you or at least to knock you out. I won't, though. When I let you die, you'll still be conscious, terribly aware of what I'm doing to you."

  Houston's fear swept through him, cancelling his pain. He threw his gun, but Charles stepped sideways, and the gun soared past him, gouging the hardwood floor. Charles darted forward. Houston jumped on the table, vaulted past a chair, and dropped with knees bent on the other side. The jolt shot through his injured ribs and took his breath away.

  Charles followed, leaping on the table, crouching like an animal.

  From one distorted side of Houston's vision, he saw Simone crawl from beneath the table, running to avoid them toward the far side of the room.

  Charles dove. He landed, poised to strike; Houston felt the crackling fireplace behind him. Heat licked at his clothing.

  Houston whirled in search of something with which to defend himself. Along the wall, medieval weapons were displayed. He yanked a sword from its hooks, unprepared for the weight. The sword drooped in his hand. He had to clutch it with his other hand as well, and listing from his burden, Houston swung.

  The sword sliced through the air. Charles jumped back, but even so, the sword's tip slashed his shirt, severing the chain on his medallion.

  Charles bumped against a chair. He scowled at his medallion, which had fallen to the floor.

  Houston swung the sword again.

  Charles dodged in anger. "That's the way you want it?" Charles lunged toward the other weapons on display. "It's hardly sporting. I'm an expert."

  He pulled down a ball and chain. The ball had spikes. He swung the ball so fast that Houston saw only a blur. The weapon hissed.

  In panic, Houston fought the urge to run. He swung again.

  The sword collided with the chain. The stunning impact jolted Houston off his balance, but the chain, instead of wrenching free, spun savagely around the sword, entangling it, jerking Houston forward.

  Houston lost his grip. Charles yanked the chain. The sword spun through the air.

  Charles grabbed it, dropping the chain. He needed only one hand to control the sword. He flashed it back and forth as he struck a fencer's pose, faced sideways, feet apart, left hand on his hip. He darted forward.

  Houston tried to get away, but Charles aimed to the right and then the left, and Houston stumbled closer to the fire. Once again he felt the heat.

  He blinked and saw a figure rising ghostlike from the far side of the room, stalking toward his brother's back. Simone!

  Get the gun, Houston thought, then realized there wasn't time. He blanched as he saw her pull a dagger from the wall.

  Charles didn't notice her. Even as he slashed the sword toward Houston, he did not suspect her presence until he saw that Houston wasn't looking at him.

  Rather, Houston's eyes were directed past him toward the weapons on the wall.

  Charles understood then, broke his movement, and began to turn. Not soon enough, however, for Simone had raised the dagger in both hands. She gritted her teeth as she brought the blade down, gasping from the impact.

  Houston heard the muscle-rending stab. And worse, the scrape of metal over bone.

  Charles rose on his tiptoes, shuddering. He clawed at his back but couldn't reach the knife. He dropped the sword. His face went white. His mouth hung open in excruciating pain.

  He bellowed, retrieving the sword. He shouted, "Bitch!" and in a rage he swung toward her.

  The fire! Houston's clothes began to smoke. He snapped in panic from the flames, and on the mantel of the fireplace, he saw a lance hooked to the wall, its point lodged strangely in a cup.

  Reflexively he grabbed the lance, yanking it from the cup and, spinning, shouted, "Charles!"

  His brother sensed more danger and turned awkwardly, his sword raised.

  Houston threw the lance, impaling Charles above the groin. The point projected out the other side.

  Simone screamed, stumbling to avoid the falling body.

  Charles dropped back on the knife. It pierced him to its hilt. His heels drummed. He was still.

  Houston stumbled toward Simone and clutched her. Blood soaked his jacket and his pants. Fatigue took charge. He understood how much his wound had weakened him.

  He sagged against her.

  "It's all right. It's over," she said, holding up his weight.

  She was wrong.

  Chapter 53

  With a sudden roar, the door exploded. Planks and shrapnel flew. The shock wave knocked Simone and Houston backward.

  Figures burst inside the room. In white. With automatic rifles. Their faces were hidden by ski masks as they aimed their rifles at the room.

  As Houston stooped to grab the sword Charles had dropped, he knew he didn't have the strength to use it.

  "Houston?" one man said. He reached his white gloves up to pull off his ski mask. Sweating, tense, Bellay's thin features contorted with relief. "I was afraid we were too late."

  "You are too late," Houston told him bitterly, squinting toward his father's corpse.

  "What? My God, you're bleeding!"

  Houston peered down at his crimson jacket. It clung to him, sticky, warm. "My penance."

  "You're not making sense."

  "Who's with you? We, you said."

  "The best squad from our agency. We followed you from the time you met with Andrews."

  "When he gave us those three numbers? At the cafe? He told you he was going to meet us?"

  "It was cynical of me, but I decided we'd use you as a catalyst, to force Verlaine to make another move against you. This time we'd be ready, though."

  "You tricked us? We were decoys?"

  "You were under constant watch. You remember when you stopped outside the castle at that scenic lookout?"

  Houston glared at him.

  "A car pulled up?" Bellay continued. "And a family got out? A man, a woman, and three kids? They work for us."

  "If you were close, what took you so long getting in? You could have saved my father! And Simone's!"

  Bellay was shaken. "You surprised us."

  "What?"

  "We never guessed you'd go inside. It seemed impossible for you. A man alone.

  The castle seemed too well protected. We assumed you'd try to make them come outside. Then, when we realized . . . We watched you at the cliff behind the castle. After you went down, the guards appeared and grabbed Simone. We mobilized as fast as we were able."

  "Andrews?"

  "I'm right here." Another man took off his ski mask. Andrews grinned with nervousness.

  "You lied to me. You used me." Houston trembled, almost hitting him.

  But Andrews held his hand out.

  Houston stared at it, then told him, "Damn you," and shook hands reluctantly. He turned to Bellay. "At the hotel. There's an assassin. I can identify him."

  Bellay frowned. "As soon as this is over. What about St. Laurent? We've searched the castle. We can't find him."

  Houston blinked, dismayed.

  He suddenly thought of the tunnel. His skin tingled as he swung to face the far end of the room the balcony, the wall where Charles had appeared. The tapestries!

  "What's wrong?" Bellay said.

  Houston didn't answer. He ran toward the tapestries. There had to be a hidden door, a way for Charles to have come down here from the balcony. He yanked one tapestry and saw a wall. He yanked another; an archway.

  "Here!"

  Bellay and Andrews ran across the room. A stairway led up to the balcony. But straight ahead a corridor met other stairs, and these went down.

  "This place is full of hidden passages," Houston said. "Below us there's a tunnel." He turned to Simone. "I have to do this."

  "I'll go with you," she said.

  "No. I need you too much. I don't want to lose you."

  "What if I lose you?"

  "I promise I'll be careful. If there's trouble, I'll make Andrews go ahead of me."

  "Hey, thanks a lot," Andrews said.

  "You owe me."

  "Stay with her," Bellay told his men.

  Houston ducked beneath the tapestry and ran along the hidden corridor with the superintendent and Bellay. They started down the stairs. It seemed their descent would never end.

  But then they reached the bottom, in a cold dark granite tunnel sloping upward toward what seemed to be the castle's rear.

  Bellay pulled out a flashlight from his snowsuit. The beam lanced up the tunnel; they crept forward. Andrews aimed his rifle. Soon the tunnel sloped much higher.

  Houston heard the howling wind. He felt the deeper cold.

  "We must be heading toward the mountain. Toward the ridge above the castle."

  Houston's voice reverberated in the tunnel.

  Through the flashlight's ghostly beam, he saw his frosty breath. They reached a corner. As they peered around it, Bellay aimed the light.

  A door. They hurried forward. Cautiously they pulled the door. The shrieking darkness of the blizzard burst on them.

  "There," Bellay said, pointing.

  Houston raised his arms to protect his face from the storm. He peered toward where the flashlight showed half-filled footprints in the snow. A man, not far ahead of them, had run out toward the mountains.

  Houston's cheeks felt frozen, numb. Despite the angry wind, he left the tunnel, following the footsteps.

  "You won't find him," Bellay said.

  "I have to try! I have to get my hands, on him!"

  "You'll freeze to death." Andrews tried to stop him. Houston pried his hands away and stumbled on.

  "The storm will kill him for you," Bellay said. "He doesn't have a chance out here."

  The footprints disappeared. As Houston stared in puzzlement, he feared he was hallucinating. The snow on the ground changed color. White became a vivid, splattered red.

  Bellay groaned and fell, dropping his flashlight.

  Houston crouched in fierce alarm. He'd heard a shot. From where? The wind played tricks, redirecting sound.

  Andrews scrambled toward Bellay.

  The blood had sprayed forward, Houston realized. Then the shot must have come from Houston swung to see what was behind him. He stared toward the tunnel's open door, but St. Laurent was not in sight. Was there a hiding place inside the tunnel from where St. Laurent had stalked them?

  Frantically, Houston scanned the darkness. He saw a sudden crimson movement. Not inside the tunnel. Higher! On a ledge above the tunnel's exit! St. Laurent apparently had known he was being chased. Instead of racing forward through the blizzard, he'd walked backward on the footprints he had made. He'd climbed up to the ledge. He'd waited, planning to shoot the men who followed him.

  Staring at the sudden crimson movement up there, freezing in the darkness, Houston understood that St. Laurent still wore his red-lined cape.

  The man had been in such a rush to get away he hadn't found outdoor clothing.

  There had been no time.

  Now Houston saw the handgun St. Laurent was aiming. Something had gone wrong, however. St. Laurent could easily have shot them all and stripped a body for a snowsuit. What was stopping him?

  The freezing wind that deadened Houston's cheeks. My God, his hand is bare! It's frozen to the gun! His fingers he can't move them!

  St. Laurent pawed desperately to free his fingers. He pried, wailing.

  Houston had no weapon. "Andrews! Up behind you!"

  But the warning came too late. In anguish, St. Laurent dove, arcing down. The crimson lining of the cape spread in the wind. The hurtling figure came from hell.

  As Houston stumbled back, he felt the body strike him. He lurched backward, gasping from the blow. He fell, and St. Laurent lunged at him, pounding with the useless pistol frozen to his hand.

  Andrews shouted. St. Laurent and Houston began to roll. They were on a slope.

  They tumbled downward through the snow.

  Away from Andrews and the flashlight. He and St. Laurent were hidden by the chaos of the blizzard. They rolled in the darkness, punching ineffectually at each other. Houston's side scraped past a rock beneath the snow. His head glanced past a tree. He clawed at St. Laurent. He jabbed. He gouged.

  And Houston suddenly felt weightless. Oh, my God, we're on a cliff! We're going off! His stomach rose. His breath ached from his lungs.

  The two men twisted as they fell. The wind kept howling. Snow enshrouded them.

  They landed with a sickening abruptness. Houston felt the cold seep through him, numbing him as he fought.

  His right leg dangled into open space. Though Houston couldn't see what was around him, he was sure they'd landed on an outcrop. In panic, he squirmed to escape.

  But St. Laurent kept striking at him with the gun, and Houston's mind began to dim as if the snow were streaking through his brain. His strength diminished. He relaxed his grip from where he stabbed at eyes and tore at ears.

  A shout from somewhere. "Houston!"

  Yes, Andrews searching for him. But too late. I've reached my limit. I don't have the strength to fight. The cold. It's wonderful. I need to sleep. I have to rest. The flashlight's beam probed through the blizzard. "Houston!" Coming closer.

  St. Laurent was frantic. Striking once more with the gun, he scrambled to his feet. He seemed to realize he couldn't fight both Houston and Andrews. He glanced around in search of somewhere he could run and hide. He rushed away. The wrong way.

  Toward the cliffs edge, which he couldn't see. And for a moment Houston thought his eyes played tricks. The cape spread. St. Laurent appeared to fly.