Ascanio struggled to his feet, wincing with pain, and threw his arm around David’s shoulders again. The sweet, subtle smell of gas had already begun to permeate the room.
They hobbled down the stone steps to the old scullery, past the dusty wine racks, and into the hidden escape route carved by the Norman knight. It was too narrow there to walk side by side, so David had to let Ascanio support himself by leaning against the walls. David took out his flashlight to show the way while glancing over his shoulder for any sign of Rigaud.
The pungent aroma of the gasoline they had poured on their way in wafted up from the floor. When they had reached the oubliette, its scent was joined by the dank river water sloshing at the bottom of the shaft.
They were only yards from the side tunnel leading down to the Loire when David heard noises coming from the scullery. He flicked off his flashlight and urged Ascanio to hurry.
“Someone’s coming!” he whispered.
Ascanio pressed on, dragging his splinted leg, while David crouched low right behind him, staring back over his shoulder into the darkness.
He heard the sound of racks being shoved aside, wine bottles smashing, and boots crunching across the broken glass.
And then he saw the pinpoint white light of a flashlight beam, searching high and low.
They were far enough away that it had not reached them, but it was coming closer all the time.
“Who’s in there?” a voice called out. Rigaud’s. “Stop where you are!”
The tip of David’s sword suddenly scraped against the stone wall.
“Stop now, or I’ll shoot!”
“It’s here,” Ascanio murmured, ducking through the hole in the wall.
“I said, Stop!”
The flashlight beam danced toward them, like a firefly, and in the reflections off the wall and ceiling, David saw Rigaud, holding something in the crook of his arm and running toward them.
Ascanio’s arm suddenly extended out through the hole, holding a pack of wooden matches. “Light the pack and throw it!”
David dropped his flashlight, and grabbed the matchbook. But the gasoline trail was several feet behind him now, and he had to creep toward Rigaud, all the while trying to strike a match in the dark. The first one broke in two, the second one was too damp.
Rigaud had undoubtedly heard him by then, and his flashlight swung directly onto David’s face as the third match caught fire and David touched it to the gasoline on the floor. A ribbon of blue flame shot down the tunnel, and in its light he saw Rigaud drop his flashlight and fumble for his gun.
But what David truly remembered, just seconds before the blast nearly threw him through the hole, was the severed head Rigaud was cradling beneath his arm. David could have sworn that the mouth was twisted in a silent scream and the steely blue eyes were furious … and alive.
A fireball had hurtled down the length of the tunnel, then out of sight around the corner, where it collided with the cloud of gas in the kitchen, sending an earthshaking explosion up through the very rafters of the chateau. David and Ascanio, scuttling down the chimney to the river, feared the cliff itself would collapse around them. Dirt and dust filled the air, choking them, and the steps quivered under their stumbling feet.
At the bottom, they crawled out, coughing and sputtering, onto the rocks and mud of the riverbank. David, after catching a breath, turned to look up at the promontory. Bright orange flames were licking up at the sky, as fire burst like streamers from the windows, and the towers, one by one, crumbled and fell.
A burning timber caromed off the cliff top and, turning end over end, splashed with a boiling hiss into the Loire.
“Let’s get out of range!” David said, helping Ascanio up and back toward the old loading dock.
They climbed along the bank, then into the woods, but just where David hoped to see the Maserati, he saw nothing. For a second, he thought he’d lost his bearings, but then a pair of headlights flashed on from the neighboring trees, and he heard a car door fling open.
“David!”
Olivia was running full tilt, in a bulky sweater and a pair of white socks, with her arms out.
“Help me,” he said, and Olivia threw a supporting arm around Ascanio’s waist. Together, they deposited him, as gently as they could, in the cramped backseat of the Peugeot.
And then they held each other close, rocking silently in the moonlight. In the distance, David could hear the crackling of the flames, punctuated by the crash of timbers and stone.
“So you got it,” she said, touching La Medusa as tenderly as one would touch the crown of a baby’s head.
“Yes,” David replied, holding her more tightly. “Now I have everything.”
“Can we get the hell out of here?” Ascanio growled. “It’s a long way back to Paris.”
Olivia slipped behind the wheel and, after taking another gander at the splint, handed the bag of drugs to Ascanio. “I’m sure you’ll find some painkillers in there. I’ll find the closest hospital.”