'The bedroom,' Tom shouted as they reached the landing.
The Acolyte was at his shoulder and Tom swung at him once more. This time the bat made contact with the Acolyte's shoulder, a glancing blow that barely slowed him. Tom flailed again. He missed and the bat caught between two banister struts and slipped out of his grasp. In the split second before he started to run, Tom looked again into the eyes of the Acolyte. All he could see there was his own death.
Jo was at the door of the bedroom and rushing inside as Tom sped along the corridor. Tom was super-fit and fast, but as he hurtled down the corridor his pursuer was no more than a pace behind. Jo held open the bedroom door and slammed it behind Tom, but instantly the Acolyte was forcing it back inwards with all his strength.
'Bolt it!' Tom hollered as he pushed his body against the wood. Jo just managed to slip the bolt home. She was shaking and on the verge of hysteria; her eyes were wild, her cheeks drained of blood.
The Acolyte began to hammer on the door with incredible force. A panel shattered. Jo screamed.
'Get out of the window,' Tom shouted. 'Get out. . jump. . whatever. . just get out.'
'But-'
'Go!'
Jo was at the window and trying to work the latch, but her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Nauseous with terror, she managed to unfasten the window just as a plastic-clad hand thrust through the splintered door panel and reached for the bolt. Tom grabbed the nearest thing to hand, a heavy glass vase, and brought it down on the Acolyte's plastic-covered fingers. He felt gratified to hear a muffled groan from behind the visor as the gloved hand was pulled back.
Tom backed away towards the window as the door shattered from a furious kick. The Acolyte knew that f his moment had passed — the astrological conditions had changed — but he was now driven on by sheer bloodlust. He rushed towards the young couple.
Monroe turned off the High Street into Ridley Street. Ahead were three police cars, their lights off. He switched off his own lights and eased forward.
Four officers dressed in full body armour and with high-powered rifles were moving to the side of the house. Two of them dashed forward as the others covered them.
Laura was pushing open the door even before the car had stopped.
Monroe grabbed her arm. 'Don't be bloody stupid. My men are going in. . they can't do their-'
Laura yanked her arm away. 'If you think-'
'If you go in there you could get yourself killed,' Monroe shouted. 'You could be responsible for your daughter's murder. Think, woman — is that what you want?'
Laura went limp suddenly and her hands went up to her face. 'Oh, my God,' she said. Philip put a comforting arm around her.
Monroe ran over to the nearest squad car. PC Smith was there, talking into his radio. Monroe was about to instruct him to go around the other side of the house when a loud crash made them look up to the bedroom windows. There was a piercing scream. Monroe yelled into his radio. 'Jenkins — report!'
There was no reply.
'Smith, follow through, round the side there.' Monroe took out his own gun and ran to the rear of the house.
As they entered the shadows at the side of the house, an upstairs window swung open. It was pushed outward with such force that it shook on its hinges. Laura saw it from inside Monroe's car and she was running towards the front lawn before Philip could stop her. Looking up, she saw Jo's petrified face appear. She was pulling herself up onto the window ledge when three gunshots rang out. They came from inside the house. Another shot followed, then a fifth. Laura flinched and closed her eyes for a fraction of a second. When she opened them again, Jo had disappeared.
The Acolyte's body lay face down in the bedroom; it looked like a red and white mannequin. The back of his hood was shredded and crimson-splashed, and two gaping holes marked a pair of bullet wounds between his shoulder blades. All around lay chunks of shattered wood.
Tom and Jo were talking to Monroe as Laura and Philip rushed into the room. Laura gathered her daughter into her arms.
Philip placed a hand on Tom's shoulder. 'Well done,' he said.
'Nothing like a good piece of willow to get you out of a spot,' Tom replied, his voice a little shaky.
Philip looked puzzled.
'I kept a cricket bat on my lap all evening. After the break-in I wasn't taking any chances,' Tom explained.
'Good for you, Tom,' Philip replied, walking over to where Laura and Jo were hugging. Embracing his daughter, he kissed her on her tear-streaked face. Then he placed one arm around Jo's shoulders and pulled Laura close with the other. 'Happy families,' he said.
Chapter 46
Los Angeles: two days later.
A tall, slender man wearing baggy cargo shorts and a fedora stepped out into the blazing sun of a perfect Californian morning. It was quiet along the beach strip and still too early for the stalls to be open.
Crossing the boardwalk, he strolled barefoot through the powdery warm sand of Venice Beach to the water's edge. He turned and looked back at the spacious beach house painted brilliant white and girdled by steel and glass balconies, before settling himself down onto the sand to stare out at the ocean.
His mobile bleeped. He looked at the screen and read the text. It said: 'Task completed. Last girl saved. Master and servant both dead. I wish you eternal happiness. Bradwardine.'
Charlie Tucker smiled and pondered the waves. It had not been easy faking his own death in London, but as the leader of the Guardians he had many resources at his disposal. The police and ambulance
crews at the scene of his 'murder' had been loyal members of the fraternity. They had performed their tasks perfectly and, even as he had begun to acclimatise to the Californian sun, others had arranged his funeral in Croydon. He had felt bad about leading Laura into danger but, as he had told her on the DVD that he had left behind, she was immersing herself in the mystery anyway.
He had much to thank the twenty-first-century Bradwardine for Bradwardine had been the code name used by his most trusted companion and fellow Guardian, Malcolm Bridges. Malcolm had had the most dangerous job of all, and he had risked everything. He had been planted in MI5 and at Oxford to monitor occult activities, just as John Wickins had been placed in Cambridge almost three and a half centuries earlier to watch over Newton. There was little that Bridges could have done to alert the authorities. Instead, he had acted in the way all Guardians had acted through the centuries: he had watched and waited, befriended and interfered as best he could without drawing attention to the ancient organisation of which he was a part. Charlie understood this because he had done exactly the same thing — he had used others, manoeuvring them to do the things that he needed them to do.
And from across the world, Bradwardine/Bridges had kept him appraised of the whole sequence of events. He had been informed when Lightman went underground, literally. The Professor had used tactics similar to his own and had faked his disappearance even down to the detail of having a witness claim that they had seen his abduction. He also knew that Laura and Philip had penetrated the labyrinth. From six thousand miles away, he could do little more than wait, hoping he had given them enough information to get through safely without blowing his own cover. Now he knew that Jo was safe and Lightman and Spenser were both dead.
With a sigh, Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out the precious object he carried with him everywhere now: a perfect ruby sphere. He held it up to the light, considering the fine lines of hieroglyphics that ran in a closely packed spiral from pole to pole. The sun caught in its fathomless depths. Returning the orb to his pocket, he looked out at the glassy blue ocean, feeling content with the world.
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