They ran together through a door to the right of the altar; down a dark passageway and into an inner cloister; then across its courtyard and through a second stone passageway that abruptly terminated in the cliff face itself. Here they stopped. A lateral passage crossed their path, arches and pillars carved out of the living stone.
“He went this way.” The monk turned and raced down the ancient, frescoed corridor. There was an iron door at its end, hanging ajar, and the monk threw it wide. Sunlight flooded the dark passage. D’Agosta followed the monk through the doorway and into open air. A dizzying stone staircase fell away below them, carved directly into the cliff face, no protection from a breathtaking drop save for a rotten iron railing.
D’Agosta leaned away from the cliff face, glanced over the railing. For a moment, vertigo overwhelmed him. Then he glimpsed the red-suited figure below, scrambling down the stone pathway.
“Eccolo!” The monk resumed the chase, robes flapping behind him. D’Agosta followed as quickly as he dared: the stairs were so polished by time, so damp with humidity, they felt as slippery as ice. The staircase was old and disused, so eroded in places they had to step over yawning blue space.
“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.”