The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(153)
“And then there were three.”
“Damn you, you son of a bitch,” Wells spluttered, feeling his rage burning in his throat. “I hope you pay for all your crimes.”
“I very much doubt it, Professor.” The creature grinned. “Well, the time has come to hit you where it hurts most,” he said, training the pistol on Jane.
Seeing his wife threatened was enough to make Wells lose any semblance of calm, and the book’s destruction and that of the multiverse itself paled into insignificance. He made as if to grab Jane’s bag, but she clasped it to her chest. The Villain understood.
“Ah, so that is where it is. Then you are no longer of any use to me, Professor.” His pistol swept through the air until it was pointing at Wells. “This is between your charming wife and me.”
Wells looked at the muzzle of the pistol trained on him and then at Jane. It broke his heart to see her face contorted with fear, her cheeks damp with tears. He gave her a tender smile, to which her lips responded instantly. There was no need for words. During their many years together, they had learned to communicate with their eyes, and so Wells let all his feelings for Jane flow out from them. Their life had been extraordinary, an adventure worth telling, and he had enjoyed sharing it with her—the best possible traveling companion he could have had on the path toward Supreme Knowledge. I love you, he said to her silently, I love you in all the possible and impossible ways imaginable, and she replied the same . . . but Wells felt that she was speaking to him from very far away. He gazed intently at her beloved face, and he had the impression it was no longer there in front of him but was more like a memory. Then he saw that Jane’s eyes were clouded by a kind of giddiness and instantly realized what was happening to her: he knew those symptoms well. He knew that she, too, had understood, and with one final smile, brimming with pride and encouragement, he bade her farewell, wishing her all the luck in the world. Then he turned to face the Villain, who at that precise moment (only a second after Wells had turned to his wife, because a second was all they had needed to tell each other everything I have just told you, dear reader) pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through Wells’s heart, where he kept his love for Jane, as she started to fade, and everything went black.
Jane had to stifle a cry when the man she loved collapsed at her feet. She was grateful not to be able to see the expression on his face because the giddiness was clouding her vision. She wanted to cling to that last look Bertie had given her, the memory of which she would need in order to confront the sinister fate threatening her. She straightened up, turning to face the Villain’s pistol. She clutched the bag to her as tightly as she could, so she would not lose it during the jump. Her gesture appeared to amuse Rhys: he was not expecting to have any difficulty wrenching it from her.
“Good-bye, Marcus,” said the old lady.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Lansbury.” The Villain smiled politely.
He pulled the trigger. But the bullet never hit her. With nothing to hinder it, it flew through the air, slamming into one of the framed photographs on the wall at the level of Jane’s heart. The impact caused the glass to shatter into a dozen pieces. It was no longer so easy to identify Wells and his wife in that little boat, he rowing cheerfully while she sat behind, gazing at him with infinite tenderness, as if reality were no more than what they could see and touch and they had all the time in the world to enjoy it together, always together.
30
EXECUTIONER 2087V FINISHED READING AND left the bundle of papers on the desk. He remained motionless, and his sphinx-like figure, modeled from the first darkness that enveloped the world, merged into the shadows.
After a while, he heard a key being inserted clumsily into the front door, but he did not stir. He was content to trace the movements with his auditory sensors: he heard his victim open the door, light the oil lamp in the hall, hobble through to the kitchen, open the pantry door, and put away a meager bag of groceries. Finally he heard the sound of footsteps slowly climbing the stairs to where bedroom was, and the tiny study, inside which Death lay in wait. When the footsteps reached the top of the stairs, they turned toward the bedroom before halting abruptly. The Executioner understood that the Latent had just noticed that the study door was ajar. There followed a moment’s silence, in which the ruthless killer could feel his victim’s fear firing through his circuits. Had someone opened the study door, his victim must have been wondering, petrified in the middle of the corridor. Then he heard the footsteps moving cautiously toward where he sat, wrapped in darkness. A shaft of light seeped into the study as his victim stood in the doorway. Although the sound it made was barely audible, the Executioner could hear his victim’s hand resting on the door, pushing it open gently, letting the lamplight trace the contours of the furniture in the study, including the huge shadow waiting for his victim in the chair. The Executioner rose to his feet, tall and dark, like an archangel of death, and victim and slayer exchanged looks for a moment, recognizing each other. The Executioner fingered his cane almost imperceptibly, but Mrs. Lansbury said, “Since you have invited yourself in, I hope you will at least be kind enough to share a cup of tea with me before killing me.”
? ? ?
“ER . . . DO YOU TAKE milk?”
The Executioner and Mrs. Lansbury were sitting at the tiny kitchen table, lit only by the flickering flame of the oil lamp. On the table sat a chipped teapot, two steaming cups, and the little porcelain jug, which the old lady had just picked up with trembling fingers.