by Sepulchre
He struggled to keep his head raised, but it was too heavy, the strain was too much. It fell back onto the stone with a sharp crack. He had seen the figures emerge from the passageway though, grouped together at the top of the stairs as if their bodies were joined. The youth moaned aloud, his dread even more acute.
He tried to call out when he heard their footsteps on the stairs, wanting to plead with them, and could only manage an incoherent wailing sound that became a whimper when his head lolled to the side and he saw them approach.
The two Arabs, as ever, were grinning down at him and between them stood—no, sagged, for the others were supporting him—a small man whose ravaged face was so old and so wicked that the youth tried to turn away. But it was impossible—the strength wasn't there; the side of his face could only rest against the stone and his eyes could only stare.
The dark-haired man, whose features were wizened and cruel, skin flaking away as though diseased, gazed on the youth, and his tongue flicked across dry, cracked lips. He extended a tremulous hand, index finger pointing, and trailed a yellow fingernail along the white stomach, bringing the nail up towards the sternum. As it travelled, the finger sank into the flesh, with no apparent effort, leaving a shallow rent behind.
Once more a syringe found a vein in the youth's spindly arm and fluid was pushed into him. The glow rapidly spread through him and he almost smiled his gratitude. Now he could turn his face towards the black, limitless ceiling above.
He was conscious of, but did not feel, the pulling apart of his ,kin, and the vapour that rose from his stomach into the cool air was no more to him than a light cloud rising from a warm dampness.
The dark-haired man shuffled away, aided by one of the Arabs, the other disappearing to a different part of the room.
The youth lay there on his blood-soaked slab, his body opened, and dreamily wondered why they had gone away. He didn't mind, not at all. It was pleasant lying there, watching steam gently curl upwards from a source near him, but just out of sight. He wanted to drift away, to sleep, but for some reason his mind wouldn't allow him. It was nagging, trying to tell him something, something desperately urgent, but he didn't want to know, the peace after so much pain was too intoxicating. Now the needles were tike birthday candles, their heads gleaming as tiny flames. Was it his birthday? He couldn't remember. Any celebration was nice though.
He heard nearby sounds and turned and craned his neck as far as it would go. Nerve-ends twinged only a little. The darkhaired man was inside an alcove, opening something, a cabinet of some kind. No, not a cabinet. One of those . . . what were they called? The sort of thing they had in churches, a box-thing priests were always poking into. Funny, this place was like a church with all the candles, even though they were black. The stone he lay on was like an altar.
The youth giggled, although the noise he made was more like a gurgle.
The three men converged on the pale, prone body, the dark-haired man carrying a dish of black metal, a veil, black again, draped over its edges. Blood was spilling over from the long scission in the youth's body, spreading in pools on the stone's surface, beginning to trickle down the sides. The youth had scant life left in him.
The veil was drawn away, revealing the dish to be more like a wide-brimmed chalice, for it had a base which was clutched in one trembling hand. With his other hand, the dark-haired man removed the contents and placed it inside the youth's stomach, gently pressing down, soaking it in blood, smothering it in slithery organs.
Now the youth did scream, a piercing screech that echoed around the stone walls of the chamber, for no drugs could deaden the pain nor the horror.
He was alive, but barely, when the Arab on the outer side of the stone raised the tool he had collected and began cutting into the youth's outstretched limbs.
And still those myriad eyes stared, never closing, never wavering.
19 CORA'S NEEDS
'I need company,' she said simply. 'I get . . . frightened when I'm alone in this house.' Halloran had opened the door wider and she'd hurried by him, glancing back over her shoulder as if someone had been stalking her along the corridor. He looked out to make sure there really was no one there.
He turned and she was putting the bottle and glasses she'd brought with her on the bedside cabinet.
'I remembered you liked Scotch,' Cora told him, and there was no confidence in her voice.
He shook his head. 'I'm on watch again in . . .' he checked his wristwatch '. . . a couple of hours. You go ahead if you want.' She did. Cora poured herself a stiff measure, turning slightly away from him to avoid his eyes, and he wasn't sure if she felt guilty at coming to him in the middle of the night or because she needed a drink. He closed the door.
Cora wore a white bathrobe against the night chill. 'You must think me silly. Or . . .' She let the sentence trail away.
Halloran walked towards her, lifting the big automatic from its holster and laying it beside the bottle and empty glass. 'We all have fears,' he had said.
Halloran began to move into her, taking care, even though she dug her fingers into his naked back, urging him on. Her teeth nipped his neck, his shoulder, as she squirmed beneath him, thrusting herself upwards. Cora still wore the bathrobe and he pushed it open so that he could caress her breasts. She moaned and there was a desperation to the sound. He lifted himself so that he could see her flesh, could kiss her breasts. He bent to a raised nipple and softly drew on it with his lips, moistening the tip with his tongue. She caught her breath, then let it escape in an unsteady sigh. He pulled the robe from her and tossed it over a chair, then turned back to her welcoming naked body.
He let his fingertips trail away, touching her side, her hip, his hand moving inwards so that it was between them, his palm smoothing her stomach, fingers reaching down into her hair. Her thighs rose around him and he was inside her, pushing inwards, meeting only slight resistance. Cora's hands were low on his back and they pulled him tight so that he lost control of the movement. He was drawn into her sharply, causing her to give a little cry of pain.
Every part of her seemed stretched, her muscles stiffened as if she had been pierced rather than entered.
Halloran's demand now matched hers as he felt the familiar floating sensation, the incredible tensing of his own muscles, the swift rise towards the breaking of that tension. He gasped air and the low moan came from him this time.
But it changed. Her clutching altered in intensity, became fraught rather than encouraging; her cries became those of frustration rather than passion. Halloran slowed his rhythm, aware that he was losing her.
Cora's legs straightened and her motion subsided, then became still. She turned her face away from him.
Perplexed, Halloran raised himself and looked down on her. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye, welling there and finally spilling.
'Please, Liam. Help me.' He frowned.
Her eyes closed. 'In my robe,' she said so softly he scarcely heard.
When Halloran left the bed and found the thin coils of leather inside the bathrobe's pockets, he began to understand . .
20 ABDUCTION
They had watched the man with the strange scar that looked like the continuation of a smile leave the building and the observer in the passenger seat of the car nodded his head in affirmation. The man who had earlier ambled down that same street carrying a rolled-up newspaper leaned forward from the back, resting an arm on the top of the driver's seat, his face keen with interest.
The balding figure had turned in the other direction to where their vehicle was parked and they allowed him to get some distance away before the backseat passenger reached for the doorhandle.
The man in front stopped him with a motion of his hand. Their quarry was unlocking a car parked by the roadside.
The driver switched on the ignition and waited for the other car to pull out. When it did so, they followed.
They came for him before dawn, easily and quietly forcing the lock on the door to his basem
ent apartment without causing damage. He awoke only when they were at his bedside, his cry of 'Wer ist da?' quickly stifled by his own bedclothes. Several blows were dealt to his head, the first two stunning him (the second breaking his nose in the process) but the third, delivered with impatient strength, rendered him unconscious. The fourth blow was just for the satisfaction.
His limp body was removed from the bed and dressed, wallet placed in an inside pocket, watch strapped to his wrist. The bloodied sheet was then stripped from the bed and folded into a neat square. It would be taken with them. The bed was remade and, first checking that everything was in order, they carried Stuhr into the hallway, then up the short concrete stairway to the street where a car was waiting.
The last man carefully closed the front door behind him. There was no wife, no lover, no one at all to witness the German's abduction.
21 BENEATH THE LAKE
Morning had brought with it a low-lying mist, the night's dampness evaporating as the earth slowly warmed again. Trees in the distance appeared suspended in the air; low bushes nearby were like spectral animals crouching in the whiteness, waiting for prey.
Halloran scanned the slopes above the mist as he walked through the neglected gardens, looking for any sign of movement on them, studying one spot for a while, going back to it seconds later to see if anything had altered. He also kept an eye out for the dogs that apparently roamed the estate, even though Cora had told him they never came near the house itself- he had little faith in that particular notion, wondering just how they could be trained to keep away. He thought of her as he walked, confused by the ambivalence of his feelings towards her. The bondage and the harshness of their lovemaking had helped satisfy Cora, but his own pleasure had been limited. True, his arousal had been enhanced to begin with, but the satisfaction afterwards had not been so complete. Prudish guilt, Halloran? Was the Catholicism of his youth still intrinsic to his attitudes? With all he had been through, all he had done, he doubted it.
Maybe he'd been mildly disappointed in her; and yet her inclination, her weakness had made Cora more vulnerable to him. After, when she had risen from the bed to find her robe, he had noticed marks across her back and buttocks. He made no comment, aware that they could only be faded whipmarks. But he couldn't help wondering what else there was to discover about her.
lie rounded the corner of the house and saw the mist shrouding the lake, slowly rolling across its surface, shifted by a mild breeze. His feet crunched gravel as he approached the dew stippled Mercedes.
Halloran dropped fiat to inspect the underneath of the car, searching with a pen-torch for any object that could have been attached during the night. He quickly checked all underside parts, then the wheel wells, shock absorbers and brake lines. Satisfied, he walked around the vehicle looking for grease spots, pieces of wire, hand prints, even disturbances on the gravel near the car doors. Before opening each door fully, Halloran ran a credit card around the tiny gaps to check for wires. This done, he sniffed the interior before entering, seeking the smell of bitter almonds or any other odd odour. Wary of pressure detonators, he checked the dashboard, glove compartment and ashtrays without putting any weight on the seats. He then looked under the seats. He examined the engine, using the credit-card check once more before lifting the hood completely; afterwards he did the same with the trunk. Only when this ritual was complete did he start the engine and let it run for a few minutes, moving the car backwards and forwards a few feet. Sure that the Mercedes had not been tampered with during the night, Halloran switched off and climbed out, locking up again before leaving it.
'Was all that really necessary?' a voice asked from the porch.
He turned to find Felix Kline watching from just inside, his arms folded as he leaned one shoulder against the stonework. He was dressed casually once more—jeans and loose-fitting jacket, a sweater underneath. And he had a grin on his face that dismissed all the fatigue Halloran had noticed the night before.
'I'd have done the same even if the Mere had been locked away in a garage overnight,' Halloran replied.
'I'll check out the Rover if it's unlocked.'
'So you really didn't believe me when I told you I was safe here.' Halloran shrugged. 'It isn't Shield's policy to take chances.'
'Nope, I suppose not.' Kline emerged from the shade, stretching his limbs and looking up at the sky. 'It's going to be a good day. You want to take a trip, Halloran? A little pre-breakfast exercise, huh?
Something to keep you in trim.'
'What've you got in mind?'
'Follow the leader and you'll find out.' He strode off in the direction of the lake and Halloran was surprised at the briskness of his step. Only last night Kline had appeared overcome by exhaustion, his features haggard, all movement wearied; this morning the man exuded energy.
'C'mon, forget about the other car,' Kline called back cheerfully.
Halloran walked after him at a more leisurely pace, although he was far from relaxed: all the while he kept an alert eye on their surroundings, looking for any sudden change in the landscape, any glints of light that might be sun reflecting off binoculars or a rifle barrel; he paid particular attention to the road leading from the estate's entrance.
Kline was well ahead, almost at the lake's edge. Occasionally he would wind his arms in the air or skip full circle, and Halloran halt-expected him to do a cartwheel at any moment. It was as if the small man had too much energy to spare.
The ground dipped slightly towards the water and Kline was stooping, only his head and shoulders in view. Halloran hurried his pace and found his client on a low jetty; moored to it was a rowing boat.
'This'll set you up for the day,' Kline said as he untied the mooring rope.
'No outboard?'
'I like the quietness of the lake, its stillness. I don't like engines upsetting that. Monk or Palusinski usually do the rowing for me, but you can have that privilege today.' Kline hopped into the boat and settled at its stern. 'Let's get going.'
'There won't be much to see with this mist,' Halloran remarked, stepping onto the jetty.
'Maybe,' Kline replied, turning away to look across the cloud-canopied surface.
Halloran climbed aboard, using a foot to push the boat away from the landing-stage. Sitting on the middle bench, he used one oar to set the boat further adrift, before sliding both into their rowlocks.
Turning about, he set course for the middle of the lake, soon finding an easy rhythm, their passage through the curling mists smooth and unhurried. His position gave Halloran an opportunity to study his companion at close range and he realised Kline's change had little to do with any physical aspect, but was linked with the man's volatile nature, his puzzling splitpersonality, for nothing in his features had altered. There was just a brightness to him, a shining in those dark eyes, a sharpness in his tone. Not for the first time, Halloran wondered if his client was on drugs of some kind.
Kline, whose face had been in profile, suddenly swung round to confront him. 'Still trying to figure me out, Halloran?' He gave a short laugh. 'Not easy, is it? Nigh on impossible, I'd say, Even for me.' His laughter was longer this time. 'Thing of it is, I'm unlike anyone you've ever met before. Am I right?'
Halloran continued rowing. 'I'm only interested in your safety.'
'Is that what your bosses at Shield instruct you to tell your clients? Is that in the handbook? You can't deny you're curious though. Wouldn't you really like to know more about me, how I got so rich, about this power of mine? You would, wouldn't you? Yeah, I know you would.'
'I admit I'm interested.' Kline slapped his own knee. 'That's reasonable.' He leaned forward conspiratorially. 'I can tell you I wasn't born this way. Oh no, not quite like this. Let's call it a late gift.' His smile was suddenly gone and, although his eyes bore into Halloran's, Kline seemed to be looking beyond.
'You make it sound as if your psychic ability was handed to you.' An oar had dredged up some rotted weeds and Halloran paused to free the paddle end. T
he tendrils were slick under his touch and he had to tug several times to clear the wood. When he dipped the oar back into the water he found Kline was smiling at him, no longer preoccupied with distant thoughts.
'Did you sleep soundly last night?' the dark-haired man enquired.
Was his smile really a leer? And why the abrupt change in topic? 'Well enough for the time I had,'
Halloran replied.
'You weren't disturbed at all?'
'Only by Neath's lack of security. You're taking unnecessary risks here.'
'Yeah, yeah, we'll discuss that later. Cora's an interesting lady, don't you think? I mean, she's not quite what she seems. Have you realised that?'
'I don't know much about her.'
'No, of course not. Has she told you how she came to be working directly for me? I decided I wanted Cora the first time I laid eyes on her in old Sir Vic's office about three years ago. Recognised her potential, y'see, knew she had . . . hidden depths. Know what I mean, Halloran?' Halloran ignored the insinuations, but had to hold his rising anger in check. 'She obviously makes a good PA.'
'You're right, she does. Aren't you curious though?' Halloran stopped rowing, resting the oars in the water, letting the boat drift. 'About what?' he said evenly.
'Huh! You are. Me and Cora, what goes on between us. Does she do more for me than just arrange schedules, type letters? Maybe you want to know if she and I are lovers.'
'That's none of my business.' Kline's smile was sly. 'Oh no? I'm an extremely aware person, Halloran, and it isn't hard for me to sniff out something going on under my nose. I don't mind you having your fun as long as you remember who Cora belongs to.'
'Belongs to? You're talking as if you own her, body and soul.' Kline turned away, still smiling. He squinted into the low white mist, as if to pierce it. The trees and slopes were faded along the lake's edge, the haziness of the sky belying the sharpness of the early morning air.
