Merlin barked. “You’re right,” James said to the dog. “We’re wasting time. Find her for me.”
A moment later Merlin had disappeared down the stairs, with James and Ryder in close pursuit.
Chapter Twenty-Two
She couldn’t breathe. Alone in the deep, cocooning darkness she thrashed and struggled, unable to make a sound, and she was going to die alone, never found, her body rotting and eaten by rats . . .
Her breath returned with a giant whoosh, and she collapsed on the floor, then immediately shoved herself up again. She’d had the breath knocked out of her, and now she was lying in a pool of foul-smelling water, trying to find the strength to get to her feet.
Pain radiated from every part of her body, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and weep, but she didn’t dare. She could hear them, or maybe she was imagining it, voices, footsteps, so she started to run, straight into the darkness, into cruel hands that waited, clamping down on her. She opened her mouth to scream, but a meaty hand slammed over her face, and she didn’t make the mistake of thinking it might be someone who wanted to help her. She fought, twisting in their hands, kicking, desperate, but she was helpless. There were at least two men holding on to her, impervious to her blows. Steeling herself, she bit down on the hand across her mouth, hard, and the man loosened his hold for a fraction of a second, cursing.
It was all that she needed. She tore herself away from them, throwing herself into the shadows. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the inky blackness and she could see shapes well enough to avoid them, a glowing red light in the distance that she hoped and prayed was an exit sign.
She darted through the impenetrable darkness, hiding behind piles of crates, avoiding the steel pillars that seemed to be holding the place up. The stink of it made her gag—the old building had been used as a toilet—but she didn’t have time to think about that, only that she needed the fresh night air, that she needed to get away from the men who were hunting her. She tripped, going down again, but this time she held still, squatting low in the darkness, as the flashlights beamed over her head.
“She’s gone out there.” The voice was gruff, foreign sounding, and a moment later the exit door slammed open, letting in marginal light from the night outside. She counted three of them—bulky figures, holding guns—as they poured out the door, and it slammed shut behind them, closing her inside.
She didn’t make the mistake of moving. Had all of them left, or was it simply a trick to lure her out? She held her breath, listening, and a scratching noise came from her left. Soft, scuffling, it was a noise that could only come from rats.
Evangeline froze. They wouldn’t come closer, would they? If she stayed where she was, unmoving, would they think she was just another piece of meat to gnaw on? Did she dare stay where she was for long enough to catch her breath, or was someone else inside with her, waiting for her to make another mistake?
The scrabbling came closer, the only sound in the dank basement aside from the slow drip of water, and she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. If something touched her, she’d start screaming and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop.
Were they waiting outside the door, watching for her, guns drawn? No, they hadn’t shot her when they had their hands on her. They didn’t want her dead—at least, not right away—or they would have already shot her. She’d escaped once—if they were waiting for her, then she could escape again.
She wasn’t even going to think about what she was walking through on bare feet. Cut feet were really the least of her worries—a cut throat would be permanent. As she edged closer to the door, none of the shadowy forms around her moved.
She found the door by feel alone, and she rested her cheek against the cool, sweating metal, listening for the telltale sounds of voices, for traffic, for any sign of life. She was at the opposite end of the alley from where she’d been trapped—with any luck this door would open onto a major thoroughfare, and she’d take her chances with the police. Or maybe, just maybe, James would have discovered she was missing, and he was coming after her, coming to rescue her once more, as he had so many times before.
Or maybe he’d finally given up. She couldn’t count on rescue, either way. All she could do was try to rescue herself. She pushed at the bar across the door, and it opened slowly, with a creaking sound so loud she thought it would wake the entire neighborhood. She peered outside, ready to yank the door shut again, but all was silent. She stepped forward into the night and let the door close behind her, realizing too late that there was no way to get back in if she needed to.
She looked around her. The streets were still wet from the earlier rain, steam rose off the pavement, and the streetlights glistened in the puddles of water left from the drenching. She was in some sort of cul-de-sac—there were shuttered storefronts, a bar with noise and light streaming from it, and a small white Catholic church built of stone in such a state of disrepair it looked as if it had been abandoned years ago.
There’d be a phone in the bar. Someone could call the police for her. She started toward it, when three figures darted from the entrance, the overhead light illuminating their cold faces, and she knew they were the men who’d followed her into the basement of the abandoned building, the men who’d been after her since she’d escaped the apartment.
She froze, and it seemed to her she could see into their flat, dead eyes, even though that would have been impossible given the distance and the dark. She could recognize the silhouettes of guns though, and her immobility shattered. The church was her last chance—she sprinted across the littered street, ducking into the shadows, moving as swiftly and silently as she could, ignoring the shooting pain in her foot when she finally stepped on something sharp, stumbling up the front steps of the church and flinging herself at the doorway.
She half expected it to be locked, and when it opened beneath her icy fingers, she wanted to fall inside and fling herself on the floor crying “Sanctuary!” like some medieval thief. The door closed with a heavy thud behind her, and she staggered forward into the light.
It was a small church, with only a dozen rows of pews, but it was far from abandoned. The altar was filled with tall brightly lit candles and a black-robed priest stood there praying, his back to her. He turned at the sound of the door shutting, and looked at her ragged, barefoot appearance without any surprise at all. Then again, maybe she wasn’t that strange-looking for New Orleans in the small hours of the morning. There must be a need for a priest to be on duty.
“My child,” he said in a gentle, welcoming voice. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” He started down the aisle, his long robes swishing on the stone floor, his elderly face full of compassion. “You’ve hurt your foot. Give me your hand and I’ll help you to a seat.”
“I need you to call the police, Father,” she said, her voice cracked and shaking. “There are some men after me—we need to lock t
he church doors or they might hurt you as well.”
He smiled at her. “There’s no need. These streets are lawless, but everyone knows that the Church of the Blessed Martyr is protected. Come and let me see to your feet.” He took her hand in his. The skin was soft, but the hand was surprisingly strong, and he pulled her along to the front of the church, setting her down gently in the front pew. Candles were burning on the altar, a soft, reassuring glow, and she gasped in awe at the candlesticks. They were tall and ornate, and looked as if they might be solid gold.
“Is it safe to use those candlesticks? Won’t someone rob you?”
He glanced behind him, as if he’d forgotten them, and chuckled softly. “No one would dare rob this place. And you have a good eye, my child. Those are very old—from the time the French ruled New Orleans. Their value in gold is estimable, their historical value is beyond calculation. But no one would dare such sacrilege. Now you sit here while I get something to bathe your feet and call the police.”
“But if those men find me . . .”
“Don’t worry, my child. Trust me.” He disappeared, and she leaned back against the pew, trying to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. Would murderers and members of organized crime really respect the boundaries of a church? James and Claudia . . . Claude . . . certainly hadn’t when they carried out an execution in the tiny mountainside church.
Evangeline had left bloody footprints up the narrow center aisle of the tiny church. Her feet were filthy—if the men didn’t storm the church, she’d probably die of typhus or some hideous disease anyway. She ought to leave. She was putting that sweet old man in danger. Surely there’d be a way out the back, and she could keep running . . .