The Executioner Part 4

The page and the squire retreated to their stations at the side of the arena, this time moving hastily.

The Bailiff raised his black staff and pennant, held it poised until the Chief Justice nodded, then lowered it with a flourish. A trumpet sounded one high, clear note.

The signal had been given.

Jacques remained motionless, waiting for a sign from Ann. But she, too, waited, her chin slightly lifted. What was she waiting for? What did she expect from him?

In the stands, the breathing of a hundred thousand people was a rasping sound.

And then Ann moved, so quickly that the surprise was complete. Her pistol flashed up, fired while still in its arc. The bullet blasted the air beside Jacques' ear, so close that for a fraction of a second he thought he had been hit.

Ann's voice drifted across to him, across the stunned silence, and it contained both a taunt and a plea:

"I won't miss next time, Jacques!"

And he knew she would not. He had seen too many guns fired not to recognize technique. If she had learned to shoot that well, there was no doubt she could have hit him the first time.

Jacques still couldn't fathom her motive, but there was no longer any chance to consider it. His conscious mind wanted to let her fire again, to put an end to this terrible dream. But the instinct of self-preservation was too strong; the lessons at the FBIT academy had been taught too well. Numbness went out of him, and he watched her eyes for the telltale flicker that would give a split-second warning of her next move.

The warning came, and he was ahead of it. His shot struck Ann high on the right shoulder. Her second and last bullet ploughed into the dust midway between them. She twisted around from the force of the impact, and half slipped, half fell from the pedestal. But she kept herself erect, bracing against the pedestal with her left hand. A red blotch was spreading from her shoulder to her breast and down her side. There was shock and pain in her eyes, but the half-smile was still on her lips.

"Une!" shouted the crowd, counting his first shot.

Jacques no longer needed a will of his own. The momentum of a thousand deaths swept him along, overpowering everything else.

"Deux!" screamed the hundred thousand voices. "Deux! Deux!"

His second shot struck Ann well below the left shoulder, knocking her away from the support of the pedestal, sprawling her in the dust. Yet so indomitable was her will that she brought her hands together and raised herself to her knees. Her entire upper body was covered with dust and spreading fingers of crimson.

"Trois!" shrieked the maddened crowd. "Trois! Trois!"

Women tore away pieces of their clothing and waved them with savage abandon.

"Trois! Trois! Trois!"

The third shot could barely be heard. Ann was lifted from her knees and hurled backwards. She rolled over twice, then lay face downward, her fingers digging in the hard earth.

With his last shot, the fierceness drained out of Jacques. He blinked like a man awakening from a horrible dream. He stared at Ann's shuddering body, not believing he could have done this. He cried out to her, and ran to her side with great, lunging steps. His body shook with dry sobs.

He turned her over tenderly, smoothed back the tangled hair from her forehead, tried to wipe some of the dirt and bubbles of red from her lips.

An FBIT man rushed toward them with a microphone. With one terrible look, Jacques sent him scurrying back.

"Ann ... Ann ..." he cried. "What have I done?"

Her glazing, pain-filled eyes cleared for a moment, and drew him closer.

In them, for all the pain, there was peace at last. No reproach, no disappointment. Only peace. And he knew then, what he should always have known: That when a man lived as one with Death, he could not give less to any person, nor expect more.

Ann's fingers crawled through the dust and touched the toe of his boot.

Her quivering lips twisted in a final grimace of ecstacy. And out of the lonely void of the dying came the words he had always hoped to hear, and would never hear again:

"Good night," she whispered. "You--were wonderful--my lover--my husband."