The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [132]
More footsteps upstairs, then a rush of them; something crashing to the floor, a struggle.
Innes turned the knob and the lights came on:
Two figures, all in black, hurtling toward them down the stairs, frozen for a moment by the light from a hallway chandelier.
Presto pulled the rapier from the sheath of his walking stick and charged up to meet them. The first man vaulted over the banister and landed catlike on his feet in the hall, heading for the door, carrying a loose black bag. Innes gave chase. The second pulled a knife from his sleeve; Presto thrust out the foil with great dexterity and ran the point clean through the man's palm, pinning it against the wall. The man in black dropped the knife; Presto leveraged his weight and punched the man in the jaw, knocking him back; his head clubbed hard against the balustrade and he lay still.
Innes sprinted out the front door moments behind the man with the black bag, but he was nowhere to be seen. Innes let discretion serve as the better part of valor, went back inside the temple, and closed the door.
Climbing to the top of the stairs, Presto found a third man in black lying lifeless on the carpeted floor, head jutting at an odd angle from the top of his broken neck. His blade ready, Presto crept toward the half-open doorway, where the lamp they'd seen still burned.
Innes clenched his fists and stepped carefully over the inert man in black on the stairs. Two steps past him, the man leaped to his feet and went flying down the stairs: Innes hurled himself over the banister—so much for discretion—and landed square on the man's back, driving him into the wall. Squat and muscular, the figure stayed on his feet and whirled around wildly, a bull trying to dislodge a rider on its hump. Innes clamped a stranglehold on the man's neck—thick as a fire hydrant—and called for help.
"Hold on!" shouted Presto, coming down the stairs.
The man in black bucked backward, repeatedly slamming Innes against the wall, until they reached the open doorway to the temple and staggered down the center aisle, where they crashed to the floor, the man's compact weight falling heavily on Innes's midsection. The collision knocked every ounce of breath from his body; he wheezed and gasped for breath, crawling helplessly on hands and knees. By the time Presto reached him, the figure in black had fled behind the stage; they heard a crash of broken glass.
"Go," whispered Innes, waving Presto toward the back.
Presto switched on the flash-a-light and rushed after the man. He entered a storage room, crept slowly past the ark where the Torah was kept, and pointed the light at a billowing curtain. He stabbed the rapier into it, then drew the curtain aside to discover the smashed window through which the man in black had escaped.
Innes had sat up and regained his breath by the time Presto returned.
"You're fairly handy with that thing," said Innes, nodding at the blade as Presto slid it back into his walking stick.
"Champion of the epee at Oxford, three years running," said Presto. "Never ran anyone through with it before. Intentionally, I mean."
They moved quickly up the stairs and into the lamplit room.
Rabbi Brachman's body lay peacefully in a chair at his desk, slumped over as if while working he had gently laid down his head to rest. The burning lamp illuminated his open eyes, the white parchment of his skin.
Jack stood facing the body, studying the desk intently as the others entered. "Got away, did they?"
"Two of them," said Presto.
"Not without taking their lumps," said Innes, acutely feeling his.
"Assuming that's your work," said Presto, sliding the sword back into his walking stick. "The one in the hall."
Jack nodded.
"You got one?" said Innes. "How brilliant!"
"Didn't mean to kill him," said Jack coldly. "He's no help to us dead."
Innes noticed Brachman for the first time. "Good God, is he dead too?"
"The gift for deductive reasoning runs deep in your family," said Jack.
"Did they kill him?" asked Innes, too stunned