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 Gard’s profile against the flight instruments. Hendricks leaned in from the passenger seat, listening to Marcone, and nodded himself.
"Very well then," Marcone called, leaning back into the cabin. He took a large-caliber hunting rifle down from a rack and settled into a seat, buckling up. "Best strap in, gentlemen. Let’s go recover the holy Shroud."
I settled in and told Michael, "Now, if only we had a bit of Wagner to send us on our way."
I saw Gard’s reflection in the chopper’s front windows look up at my words. Then she flicked a couple of switches, and "Ride of the Valkyries" started thrumming through the helicopter’s cabin.
"Yee-haw," I said as my elbows and knees started a nagging ache. "As long as we’re going, we might as well go out in style."
Chapter Thirty-two
After a few minutes, the ride got bumpy. The chopper started jouncing at random, lurching several feet in any given direction. If I hadn’t been strapped in, I probably would have slammed my head against the walls or ceiling.
Marcone put on a headset and spoke into a microphone. He listened to the answer and then shouted to the rest of us, "The ride may be a bit bumpier. The stabilizers are run by the onboard computer, which has failed." He gave me a direct look. "I can only speculate as to why."
I looked around, picked up another headset, put it on, and said, "Blow me."
"Excuse me?" came Gard’s somewhat outraged voice over the intercom.
"Not you, blondie. I was talking to Marcone."
Marcone folded his arms in his seat, half smiling. "It’s all right, Miss Gard. Compassion dictates that we must make allowances. Mister Dresden is a diplomatically challenged individual. He should be in a shelter for the tactless."
"I’ll tell you what you can do with your shelter," I said. "Marcone, I need to speak to you."
Marcone frowned at me, and then nodded. "How much time before we reach the southbound tracks?"
"We’re over the first one now," Gard replied. "Three minutes to catch the train."
"Inform me when we reach it. Mister Hendricks, please switch the cabin headphones to channel two."
Hendricks didn’t say anything, and it made me wonder why he had bothered with a headset.
"There," came Marcone’s voice after a moment. "We’re speaking privately."
"Why didn’t you tell me?" I said.
"Tell you that I hadn’t sent Mister Franklin for you?"
"Yeah."
"Would you have believed me?"
"No."
"Would you have thought I was playing some kind of game with you?"
"Yes."
"Then why waste the time and make you more suspicious? Generally speaking, you are quite perceptive—given enough time. And I know you well enough to know that I do not wish to have you as my enemy."
I glowered at him.
He arched an eyebrow, meeting my gaze without fear or hostility.
"Why do you want the Shroud?"
"That’s none of your business."
I scowled. "Actually it is. Literally. Why do you want it?"
"Why do you?"
"Because the Denarians are going to kill a lot of people with it."
Marcone shrugged. "That’s reason enough for me as well."
"Sure it is."
"It’s simple business, Mister Dresden. I can’t conduct business with a mound of corpses."
"Why don’t I believe you?"
Marcone’s teeth flashed. "Because given enough time, you are a perceptive individual."
There was a beep in the headphones, and Gard said, "Fifteen seconds, sir."
"Thank you," Marcone replied. "Dresden, why should these people take the Shroud and this plague of theirs to St. Louis?"
"It’s another international airport," I said. "It’s the central hub for TWA. And hell, as long as they’re there, they could probably go for a swim in the Mississippi."
"Why not simply stay in Chicago?"
I nodded toward Michael and Sanya. "Them. Plus I figure they know that Murphy and SI would give them a hard time. Even the regular cops were out in force looking for them."
He looked speculatively at Michael and Sanya. "I assume you have a means to locate the Shroud if that is the correct train?"