Part 36 (1/2)
”I can't help it. I'm easily frightened.”
”Well, you have another chance to overcome it. Better that than letting a little fear send you to h.e.l.l.”
”They threatened me with torture!”
”I think we'll both face that, Father. They do torture priests.” The haunted expression crossed his face again.
Harry's mind returned to Mike. ”We can save my friend. We've got to! They're torturing him him now!” now!”
”Who, exactly, has captured your friend?”
”A man named t.i.tus. Franklin t.i.tus.”
In an instant Father Conlon's face s.h.i.+fted from calm resolution to terrible dread. ”t.i.tus! He's here?” here?”
”In the crypt.”
He smiled ruefully. ”Very well, Father Goodwin. I may already have lost my particular battle.” He held out Harry's pistol. ”Will you be at the wedding?”
”I am being made to officiate.”
”t.i.tus and his mordant wit. When the moment is right, I am afraid we have no alternative but to kill the groom. If I am prevented from doing it, you must.”
Harry was astonished. A priest, plotting murder?
”I know how awful it must sound to you. But you don't know the alternative. Believe me, this execution will be a great mercy not only for the groom, but for all mankind.”
”His Holiness condones this?”
”The Holy Office is empowered to act in defense of the Faith. Believe me, it is a terrible thing when we are forced to such a measure. But we do not shrink from duty.”
A sudden movement at the top of the stairs caught Harry's eye. As he turned toward it Father Conlon pressed the pistol into his hand. ”Hide it, Harry! It may be our only chance!” Conlon began backing into the study, pulling a pistol of his own from under his suit.
”No you don't, Conlon! Drop it!”
Father Conlon threw his large, black pistol to the floor. At the same instant Harry put his own palm-sized one into his pocket.
A troop of armed men came running down the stairs. ”Your priest is lucky, Laurent,” Conlon said to the leader.
For a moment Harry didn't understand. Then he did: Father Conlon was gambling that the two of them hadn't been overheard. ”Thank G.o.d you came when you did,” Harry blurted. ”He was going to kill me!”
Father Conlon was edging toward the window. ”Not so fast,” the one called Laurent snarled. An instant later they took Conlon by the arms. He commenced a mild and hope-less struggle. They surrounded him, then picked him up and began to carry him away. His bald head was bobbing be-tween the shoulders of his captors, his feet were rattling against the floor. His gla.s.ses were gone. There was a gash under his right eye.
”Come with me, Harry,” said a voice from the dark. Harry knew it at once: t.i.tus, back from his business with Mike.
”Yes. I'm coming.” The pistol felt enormous in his pocket. Surely t.i.tus would see the bulge.
t.i.tus led him through the dark rectory. ”That man will burn to death, Harry.” They went across the dusty living room, into the overgrown rectory yard.
Harry followed him as if in thrall. Those three words kept echoing in his mind: burn to death, burn to burn to death, burn to death, burn to death. death, burn to death.
He saw the young people stuffing Father Conlon into a car. Even with the windows closed his shouts could be heard clearly. ”Sounds like he's been given the bad news,” t.i.tus commented mildly. Again and again, in a frantic, breaking voice, Conlon called ”Je-e-sus! Je-e-sus!” Then the big Mercedes drove away.
”Conlon knows what a hard death is like, Harry. Do you?”
”Yes, Mr. t.i.tus, I do.”
”You agree very quickly, for a man who has just been proselytized by the Inquisition. Tell you what, Harry. You go down into the crypt. See what you can do for your friend.” He smiled distantly. ”You had best be loyal to us if you don't care for hard deaths.” The smile broadened. ”Go on. Mike needs a friend right now.”
With a toss of his head t.i.tus disappeared into the sacristy. Harry wanted to do anything but continue with this horrible mission.
Gingerly, afraid to do it but more afraid of t.i.tus, Harry lifted the storm door that led into the crypt.
Chapter Twenty-five.
THE SAME BLOW that had knocked Mike unconscious had also given him a pounding headache, which woke him up.
He heard music. Church music. ”Aeterne rerum conditor noctem diemque qui ”Aeterne rerum conditor noctem diemque qui...”
It was very beautiful, being sung by a children's choir. But so far away. He could barely hear them.
”. . . regis et temporum das tempora . . .”
He wanted to hear more. When he tried to get up he was. .h.i.t a flaring blow in the center of his forehead.
He lashed out with his fists and encountered sides and a top.
What the h.e.l.l was this? They had put him into a box. the box was lined with satin upholstery.
A coffin.
Just like Terry! He sucked air frantically. He beat on the top, he squirmed, he kicked.
Then he stopped. He started taking controlled breaths, trying to quell the panic. If he was going to get out of here he had to do some very clear thinking.
Before they had put Terry in his coffin they had infected him with a disease. Was Mike also sick? He took a deep breath. Lungs clear. And he didn't feel feverish. The only thing that hurt was his head.
He remembered the expert way t.i.tus had pistol-whipped him, a single stunning blow to the side of the head.
He didn't seem to have anything else wrong with him. Then it occurred to him why they hadn't infected him. They already knew their disease worked from trying it on Terry.
They wanted this to be as slow as possible.
It was already awfully hard to breathe. How long had he been unconscious, innocently breathing up his little bit of air? Not too long or he'd be dead. Not a lot of air to begin with.
Okay, guy, let's give this one h.e.l.l of a good try. He braced his hands against the head of the coffin. Then he kicked with all his might against the foot. The whole thing quaked, but it didn't even begin to give way.