Page 67 of Angel of Vengeance

The response was dramatic. Mary’s eyes fluttered open, then she looked around in a panic. “Who are you?”

“A friend. I’m here to get you out.” Constance wiped the guard’s blood off her face with a nearby roll of gauze. “Come with me.”

They exited the lab the way they had come. Constance grasped the hand of Mary, who staggered along behind her, confused but compliant, slowly regaining her senses. At the tunnel intersection, Constance paused and yanked a revolver from the belt of one of the dead guards. Now she led Mary in the opposite direction: a turn, another turn, then—up ahead—a third. The cell holding Binky and Joe was just beyond it. She could hear, somewhere down the halls, the sound of shouts and running feet.

She took a breath, then swiveled around the corner. Just a foot away, a guard was standing in alarm, rifle raised, back turned to her. She jammed the gun into his kidneys and pulled the trigger. Grabbing him as he fell, she plucked the keys from his belt, ran up to the cell door, and opened it. The two children rushed to her and Mary, Binky crying out loudly.

“Quiet!” Constance said sharply. “No time. Follow me.”

The only way out still available was now up, rather than down: to the main floor, and then out… one way or another.

Heading away from the sounds of footsteps, she made for a back corridor that led to the basement wine cellar; a stairway to the kitchen, she knew, was nearby. She pulled the confused Mary along by the hand, Joe and Binky careful to keep up.

It quickly grew so dark that, with no lantern, they were unable to see. Constance paused, then whispered to the two youngest: “Keep hold of my dress.”

She held Mary’s hand as they continued down the black corridor. Agitated voices echoed through the basement; people were approaching. Constance felt along the damp wall, found a niche, and pulled the rest in with her. A light grew brighter as a patrol approached. Constance slipped the revolver out of her waistband and eased the hammer back, finger on the trigger. The men appeared, walking fast, one holding a lantern, arm outstretched in front of him. They passed hurriedly, not seeing the little group shrinking back into the niche. Constance turned the muzzle to follow them.

Ten seconds later, she eased back the trigger, led the way out of the niche, and continued on. Soon, a musky scent of old oaken barrels told her they were passing the wine cellar. She touched the wall from time to time as they moved—and then her fingers contacted the doorframe of the staircase leading up to the kitchen.

“This way,” she whispered.

They mounted the stairs awkwardly, children clinging, Mary being led by the hand. As they moved, the image of Aloysius, chained to the iron post, returned to Constance. It was true, the three of them had had solo tasks to perform, without aid from the others—but at this late hour, the thought of leaving him alone with Enoch Leng, poisoned or not, was troublesome indeed.

At the top of the narrow stair, she cracked opened the door, then emerged into a back kitchen. It was dim, but there now was enough ambient light for everyone to make out their surroundings.

“You can let go,” she whispered. “We’re almost there.”

The children released their hold. Constance cast around, and her gaze stopped at a ground-level window above a long marble counter. She picked up a heavy copper saucepan, wrapped a dishcloth around it, and swung it into the glass, shattering the window, then used the saucepan to break away the sharp edges around the frame. She grabbed Binky, hoisted her up and out; Joe scrambled out on his own and Mary followed.

“Run to the road along the river,” Constance told Joe, pointing toward the front of the mansion. “Stay near the bushes. Féline is waiting at the Post Road with Murphy and the carriage.”

“Aren’t you coming?” Joe asked.

She hesitated a moment. “No. I’ve got unfinished business inside.”

58

LENG STARED INTO HIS descendant’s glittering eyes. The face remained slightly flushed, and Leng noted a trace of moisture on his brow. This man was a formidable opponent and had to be handled with excessive caution. He quashed a momentary impulse to unshackle the man and allow him to sit by the fire to enjoy a glass of brandy and a cigar with him. No, not yet. He had to be sure the man’s conversion was genuine.

He took a moment to relight his cigar. After a few satisfying puffs, he stood up, went to the cabinet, and poured himself another brandy. He came back and reseated himself, swirled the brandy in the glass, and took a long, lingering sip. Then he set it down, picked up the cigar again, and puffed it back into life. Blowing out a long stream of smoke, he said: “I am pleased to hear your declaration. How did you come to believe?”

“My opinion of myself stands, or falls, on logic. And I find your logic unassailable.”

“It is unassailable.”

Pendergast bowed his head in assent.

“You would no doubt like to be released from those chains.”

“I was hoping. And a brandy would be most welcome on a cold night.”

“It pains me to say—not quite yet. Might you, however, be interested in hearing my plans more specifically?”

“I am indeed. Perhaps I can even make some suggestions, given my familiarity with the next century.”

“I’d appreciate that. The group I propose to assemble will use the machine to go to your time, as I said. We will establish ourselves on a very large piece of land, well fortified, preferably in the American West. We will stockpile food, weapons, and all the necessities of life.”

“I would advise against certain aspects of that plan.”

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