The Ninth Buddha Read Free Page B

he cried, writhing with pain He reached for the knife handle but his hand had lost all its strength.   It slipped on blood and fell against his chest.   With his last strength, he traced a clumsy cross over his heart.   His hand shook and fell away, his legs jerked, then he became still.
    Christopher pressed up against the muzzle of the gun, but a hand pushed hard against his shoulder and forced him down again.
    “You bastards!”   he shouted.
    “You murdering bastards!”   But the man with the gun did not relax his grip or move the barrel.   A light went on in a window across the street.   There was the sound of a sash being raised.
    “What’s going on out there?”   someone shouted.
    “Get the police!”   shouted Christopher.   But the thin man struck him hard across the cheek and pressed a hand down heavily against his mouth.
    He saw the heavy man wipe the blade of his knife on the priest’s cassock and stand up.   His face showed no sign of emotion, no hint of regret.   He had killed the priest as he might have killed a sheep or a pig, and thought as little of it.   Christopher wanted to kill him just as wantonly.   At least William had got away.   Whatever happened to him now, the boy was safe.
    There was a sound of footsteps.   Someone was coming up the street.
    People had heard their cries: someone was coming to help.
    A man stepped out of the shadows, a tall man dressed in a coat and hat like those of the first two men, but of better cut and quality.   In front of him, his hands pinned and a cloth tied tightly round his mouth, was William.   The man was supporting the boy, forcing him to walk in front of him.
    There was a rapid exchange of words in a language Christopher did not recognize.   He guessed it might have been Russian, but the men said so little he could not be sure.   He opened his mouth to call to William, to reassure the boy somehow that, come what may, someone would track him down and rescue him.   But before the words could reach his lips, the thin man raised the gun and struck him across the temple.   The world leapt at him then shrank away again as quickly as it had come.
    He did not lose consciousness completely.   There was a taste of snow in his mouth and he realized he had rolled over on to his face.   As he struggled to move, he heard the sound of car doors slamming and a motor being started.   Somewhere in the darkness, voices were calling.   He saw lights weaving through the shadows and red blood on the snow and the dark shapes of men and women standing and staring at him.   There was a roaring sound, then the headlights of a large car stabbed through the darkness at him.   A second later, they were gone and he was in the darkness, sobbing into the bitter snow.
    The clock on the Abbey tower chimed six times.   It was Tuesday evening, and the market-place, recently filled with people buying geese and turkeys for the coming Festival, was deserted.   Snow had begun to fall, gentle and bright against the uncertain halo of a street lamp.
    Christopher was growing cold.   Winterpole should have been here by now.   On the telephone he had said he was taking the midmorning train from King’s Cross to Newcastle, then driving the rest of the way to Hexham.   Even allowing for a quick lunch, he should have been here two hours ago.
    It was two days now since the attack and William’s kidnap, and still the police had nothing to report.   A superintendent had grilled Christopher for hours, asking questions both men knew could not be answered.   Scotland Yard had been notified, and an alert put out to watch every port; but nothing had been seen of three foreigners and a boy in a large car.   The kidnappers themselves had remained silent: no message, no telephone call, no ransom note.   It was as if they had vanished into thin air.
    Christopher walked up and down in an effort to keep warm.
    Behind him, the coloured windows of the Abbey hung suspended in the