Death Masks

I picked up the cane and drew the wooden handle of the old man’s sword out enough to see five or six inches of clean, gleaming metal. I slapped it shut again, stepped up to Shiro, and composed him as best I could. Then I rested the sword beside him.

When he coughed and wheezed, I almost screamed.

I wouldn’t have thought that anyone could survive that much abuse. But Shiro drew in a ragged breath, and blinked open one eye. The other had been put out, and his eyelid looked sunken and strange.

"Hell’s bells," I stammered. "Michael!"

Michael and I both rushed down beside him. It took him a moment to focus his eye on us. "Ah, good," he rasped. "Was getting tired waiting for you."

"We’ve got to get him to a hospital," I said.

The old man twitched his head in a negative gesture. "Too late. Would do no good. The noose. The Barabbus curse."

"What is he talking about?" I asked Michael.

"The noose Nicodemus wears. So long as he bears it, he apparently cannot die. We believe the noose is the one used by Judas," Michael said quietly.

"So what’s this Barabbus curse?"

"Just as the Romans put it within the power of the Jews to choose one condemned prisoner each year to be pardoned and given life, the noose allows Nicodemus to mandate a death that cannot be avoided. Barabbus was the prisoner the Jews chose, though Pilate wanted to free the Savior. The curse is named for him."

"And Nicodemus used it on Shiro?"

Shiro twitched his head again, and a faint smile touched his mouth. "No, boy. On you. He was angry that you escaped him despite his treachery."

Hell’s bells. The entropy curse that had nearly killed both me, and Susan with me. I stared at Shiro for a second, and then at Michael.

Michael nodded. "We cannot stop the curse," he said. "But we can take the place of its subject, if we choose to do it. That’s why we wanted you to stay away, Harry. We were afraid Nicodemus would target you."

I stared at him and then at Shiro. My vision blurred. "It should be me lying there," I said. "Dammit."

"No," Shiro said. "There is much you do not yet understand." He coughed, and pain flashed over his face. "You will. You will." He twitched the arm nearest the sword. "Take it. Take it, boy."

"No," I said. "I’m not like you. Like any of you. I never will be."

"Remember. God sees hearts, boy. And now I see yours. Take it. Hold it in trust until you find the one it belongs to."

I reached out and picked up the cane. "How do I know who to give it to?"

"You will know," Shiro said, his voice becoming thinner. "Trust your heart."

Sanya entered the room and padded over to us. "The police heard the gunfire. There’s an assault team getting ready to-" He froze, staring at Shiro.

"Sanya," Shiro said. "This is our parting, friend. I am proud of you."

Sanya swallowed and knelt down by the old man. He kissed Shiro’s forehead. Blood stained his lips when he straightened.

"Michael," Shiro said. "The fight is yours now. Be wise."

Michael laid his hand on Shiro’s bald head and nodded. The big man was crying, though his face was set in a quiet smile.

"Harry," Shiro whispered. "Nicodemus is afraid of you. Afraid that you saw something. I don’t know what."

"He should be afraid," I said.

"No," the old man said. "Don’t let him unmake you. You must find him. Take the Shroud from him. So long as he touches it, the plague grows. If he loses it, it ends."

"We don’t know where he is," I said.

"Train," Shiro whispered. "His backup plan. A train to St. Louis."

"How do you know?" Michael asked.

"Told his daughter. They thought I was gone." Shiro focused on me and said, "Stop them."

My throat clenched. I nodded. I managed to half growl, "Thank you."

"You will understand," Shiro said. "Soon."

Then he sighed, like a man who has just laid down a heavy burden. His eye closed.

Shiro died. There was nothing pretty about it. There was no dignity to it. He’d been brutalized and savagely murdered-and he’d allowed it to happen to him in my place.

But when he died, there was a small, contented smile on his face. Maybe the smile of someone who had run his course without wavering from it. Someone who had served something greater than himself. Who had given up his life willingly, if not gladly.

Sanya said, his voice strained, "We cannot remain here."

I stood up and slung the cane on its strap over my shoulder. I felt cold, and shivered. I put a hand to my forehead, and found it clammy and damp. The plague.

"Yeah," I said, and strode out of the room and back toward the blood-spattered stairs. "Clock’s running."

Michael and Sanya kept pace. "Where are we going?"

"The airfield," I said. "He’s smart. He’ll figure it out. He’ll be there."

"Who?" Michael asked.

I didn’t answer. I led them back down through the garage area and out onto the airfield tarmac. We hurried down along the concourse, and then out onto the open acres of asphalt that led from the concourses to the landing fields. Once we’d gotten out there, I took off my pentacle amulet and held it aloft, focusing on it in order to cause it to begin to shed a distinctive blue light.

"What are you doing?" Sanya asked.

"Signaling," I said.

"Who?"

"Our ride."

It took maybe forty-five seconds before the sound of a helicopter’s blades whirled closer to us. The aircraft, a blue-and-white-painted commercial job, zipped down to hover over us before dropping down for a precise if hurried landing.

"Come on," I said, and headed for the craft. The side door opened, and I climbed in with Michael and Sanya close behind me.

Gentleman Johnny Marcone, dressed in dark fatigues, nodded to me and to the two Knights. "Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "Just tell me where to take you."

"Southwest," I said, yelling over the noise of the chopper. "They’re going to be on a commercial train heading for St. Louis."

Michael stared at Marcone in shock. "This is the man who ordered the Shroud stolen to begin with," he said. "You don’t think he’s going to work with us?"

"Sure he will," I said. "If Nicodemus gets away with the Shroud and pulls off this big curse, Marcone’s spent all that money for nothing."

"Not to mention that the plague would be bad for business," Marcone added. "I think we can agree to help one another against this Nicodemus. We can discuss the disposition of the Shroud afterward." He turned and thumped the pilot’s shoulder a couple of times, and yelled directions. The pilot glanced back at us, and I saw Card’s profile against the flight instruments. Hendricks leaned in from the passenger seat, listening to Marcone, and nodded himself.