James Herbert

by Sepulchre

  It came once more, filling the room like a lightning flash. Yet no rumble of thunder followed.

  He quickly moved from the bed, going to the window. He peered out into the night. A muted white glow marked the moon's presence behind a bank of clouds, the ragged-edged, mountainous shapes barely moving, the landscape below blurred and ill-defined. The lake was a huge flat greyness that appeared solid, as if its depths were of concrete.

  Halloran blinked as the light flared again. The source was the lake itself, an emanation from its surface.

  And in that brief light he had seen forms on the water, black silhouettes that were human. Or so he assumed.

  He rolled back over the bed, pulled on his shoes, and grabbed his gun. Halloran headed for the stairs.

  25 LAKE LIGHT

  Monk should have been on guard duty. But the main hall was empty.

  Halloran wasted no time searching for him; he switched off the hall lights, then opened one side of the frontdoors just enough to slip through. He was disturbed that the door had been left unlocked. His steps were barely audible as he hurried through the stone-floored porch, and he stopped only briefly once out in the open.

  The lake was nothing more than a broad expanse, slightly lighter than its surrounds.

  Halloran holstered the Browning and moved off, quickly edging along the frontage of the house, using it as a dark backdrop against which it would be difficult to be seen, his intention being to approach the lake from an angle rather than in a direct line from the main door. Once at the corner he made a crouching dash towards the lawn. Instinctively he dropped to the ground when light flared from the lake again. He blinked his eyes rapidly, feeling conspicuous and vulnerable lying there on the damp grass. But imprinted on his mind was the image the sudden brightness had exposed.

  There was a boat out there, three or four figures huddled together in its confined space. They were watching something that was outside the boat, on the lake itself. Something that was not in the water but on the surface.

  The vision dissolved as his eyes adjusted to the darkness once more. He stiffened when a howling came from the shoreline to his right, an eerie, desolate cry in the night. It was followed by a collective ululation, the baying of wolves—or jackals—a fearful sound wending across the water. He narrowed his eyes, hoping to see them among the indistinct shapes of trees and shrubbery that edged the side of the lake.

  He thought he could make out the jackals, although it might only have been a clump of low foliage, for there was no movement. Halloran rose to one knee.

  And again was temporarily blinded by a fulguration from the lake.

  It had come from below the water, expanding across the surface, a silvery-white luminance swiftly expanding across the flat surface, its extremities shading to indigo and the deepest mauve. The illumination lasted only a second or so, but there was time for Halloran to observe the jackals gathered there at the water's edge. The glare had frozen them. Their heads, with long pointed muzzles and erect ears, stood high from their shoulders, cocked in alertness and perhaps puzzlement. At least a dozen pairs of glowing orbs, set in irregular pattern, reflected the light.

  Darkness, total after the glare. But again an impression lingering. Halloran had seen someone standing among the beasts. A bent figure, a cowl concealing its features. Whoever it was had been watching the lake.

  Halloran heard a voice—no, laughter—and his attention was diverted to the boat. He had recognised the dry cackle of Felix Kline, the sound amplified across the water. Halloran rose to his feet and moved forward at speed, keeping low, taking the gun from its holster as he went.

  He could make out the landing jetty ahead and noted that the boat he and Kline had used that morning was no longer moored there. Did Kline enjoy a night-time boat-ride as well as an early morning one? Or had he been forced into a trip not of his choosing, the lake making an obvious route to avoid the guard dogs? But he had heard Kline laughing, hardly the attitude of someone being kidnapped. Nevertheless, Halloran did not relax. If they moved any further away he would get to a car and be ready to meet them on the opposite bank at the estate's border. He would also have a chance to call in back-up on the journey.

  There was no cover this close to the shoreline, so Halloran moved back a ways, then spreadeagled himself on the ground, his gun pointing towards the dull shape on the lake. He waited and yet again was dazzled by another vast spasm of light. The intervals between had not been regular in length, so there was no way of preparing himself for each surge. The light vanished instantly, neither fading nor receding, snuffed like a candle flame. He rubbed at his eyelids, disbelieving what he had seen, telling himself there had to be a simple explanation, that he hadn't been able to take in everything during that short burst of light. Reason reassured him, but the after-image refused to compromise.

  Halloran had seen four men in the boat—Palusinski, Monk and the two Jordanians. Kline had not been with them.

  He was several yards away. He had been standing on the calm surface of the water.

  Halloran shook his head, resisting the urge to laugh at the absurdity. There had to be something else out there just below the water level, a sandbank, a submerged platform, perhaps even a large rock. There was a logical explanation. Had to be. It was in Kline's nature to play such childish games. But surely they would have come across such an obstruction when he, himself, had rowed out there that very morning?

  In the distance the jackals howled, the sound further away this time, as though they were leaving the shoreline to slink back into the wooded slopes. He heard oars swishing on water. Voices. Drawing close to the jetty. He waited for them all to disembark before getting to his feet and going towards them.

  Moonlight squeezed through the merest rent in the clouds and the group came to a halt when they caught sight of Halloran.

  'No need for weapons,' Kline said, humour in his voice. 'No enemies among us tonight, Halloran.'

  'What the hell were you doing out there?' The question was quietly put, Halloran's anger suppressed.

  'I'm not a prisoner in my own home,' Kline replied jovially. 'I do as I please.'

  'Not if you expect me to protect you.'

  'There's no danger tonight.' Moonlight broke through with greater force and he saw that Kline was grinning at him.

  'The light from the water . . .?' Khayed and Daoud, dressed in the robes of their country, grinned as broadly as their master, while Palusinski glanced anxiously at Kline. Monk remained expressionless.

  Kline's eyebrows arched uncomprehendingly. Then: 'Ah, the lightning flashes. Yes, there seems to be quite an electrical storm raging above us tonight. With thunder soon to follow, no doubt. And then, of course, a deluge. Best not to linger out here, don't you agree?' Once again his manner had changed.

  Kline's disposition had become that of an older, more reasoning man, the insidious mocking still in his voice, but his tone softer, less strident. His persona was vibrant, as if brimming with energy, though not of the nervous—and neurotic—kind that Halloran had become used to.

  'You weren't in the boat,' Halloran said almost cautiously.

  There was elation in Kline's laughter. 'I'm not one for moonlight dips, I can assure you.' Palusinski snickered.

  'I saw you . . . on the water.'

  'On the water?' Kline asked incredulously, continuing to smile. 'You mean walking on the water? Like Jesus Christ?' Halloran did not reply.

  'I see you've been hallucinating again, Halloran. Something in this lake obviously doesn't agree with your mental processes.' The Arabs chuckled behind their hands.

  'I really think you should be resting,' Kline went on in mock-sympathy. 'The strain of the last couple of days is apparently affecting your judgement. Or should I say, your perception? I can't say I'm not surprised, Halloran. After all, you did come highly recommended as a bodyguard. I wonder if your employers realise that stress is getting the better of you.' At last even Monk smiled.

  The clouds resumed their domina
nce and the landscape darkened once more.

  'I think we should talk,' Halloran said evenly, ignoring the stifled sounds of mirth coming from Kline's followers (for that was what they were, he had decided, not just employees, but in some way, disciples of this strange man).

  'But you should be sleeping. Isn't this your off-duty period? That's why we chose not to disturb you—we are perfectly aware that someone under your kind of pressure needs his rest.'

  'Monk and Palusinski had instructions to alert me to any activity, no matter what time it was.'

  'A late-night excursion on the lake was hardly worth rousing you for.'

  'I gave them orders.'

  'And I countermanded those orders.'

  'My company can't function under those conditions. Tomorrow I'll recommend the contract is cancelled, or at least that I'm taken off the assignment. There's too much going an here that I don't like.'

  'No.' At least the mood had been broken; Kline's tone was sharp, urgent. 'You mustn't do that. I need you with me.'

  'You might need Shield, but you don't need me. There are other operatives equally as goad.' He tucked the automatic back into its holster and turned to walk away.

  'Wait.' Kline had taken a step after him and Halloran paused.

  'I suppose I'm being a little unfair,' the smaller man said, and immediately something of his 'other' self was in evidence, almost as though it were another guise. 'You're right, we should have let you know we were coming out here, should've brought you along for safety. But it was a spur of the moment thing, y'know, something I felt like doing. I didn't see any need to worry you.'

  'That doesn't explain why you went on the lake. Nor does it explain the light. Or what I saw.'

  'Look at those clouds. Just study them for awhile.'

  'That isn't nec = A flash of light stopped him. He gazed skywards. Another, fainter, discharge of energy, but enough to throw the tumbled cloud into relief. 'That isn't what happened before. The light came from the lake.'

  'Reflections, that's all. It bounced off the water's surface. The lake's calm tonight, just like a big mirror.'

  A stuttered glare from above lit the group of men standing before him, hardening them into statues, bleaching their faces white. In the distance, as if to confirm Kline's explanation, came a deep rumbling of thunder.

  'Let's get inside before the rain comes,' Kline suggested.

  'I saw -'

  'You were mistaken.' There was a firmness to the statement. 'We'll go back to the house, Halloran, and I'll tell you a few things about myself, about this place. You'll find it interesting, I promise you that.'

  Halloran was tempted to advise his client to go to hell, but part of him was intrigued. The man was an enigma, and unlike any person he'd had to protect before. 'One condition,' he said.

  Kline lifted his hands, palms towards Halloran. 'Whatever.'

  'You answer all my questions.'

  'Can't promise you that.' Light blazed the land again.

  'I'll answer as many as I can, though,' Kline added, and the thunder was nearer this time.

  'Tell your Arab friends to go on ahead.' Halloran indicated Monk and Palusinski. 'You two follow behind. And don't watch us—keep your eyes on those slopes and the road.'

  'Ain't nothin' here to worry us,' Monk protested.

  'Just do as I say,' Halloran snapped.

  Palusinski slapped a hand on the American's shoulder as if to warn him not to argue. 'You go,' the Pole said to Halloran. 'We'll follow. Everything is fine.' As the group started walking towards the house, fanning out so that Kline and Halloran were at the centre of a square formation, the first raindrops spattered the grass. Kline grinned at his protector. 'I told you it was about to rain,' he said.

  The deluge broke as though by command and within seconds the men were soaked through. That didn't appear to worry Kline at all. He laughed and suddenly ran free of the formation, twisting his body around in the air, raising his arms high, fingers stretched outwards. He came to a stop facing the hurrying group, his face turned up towards the sky, mouth open wide to receive the pelting raindrops. He slowly lowered his head and arms and something in his gleeful expression brought the others to a halt.

  Kline pointed behind them. 'Look at the lake!' he shouted over the downpour.

  They turned to look back.

  The broad expanse of water, suddenly lit by another flickering of lightning, was a churning mass, the rainfall exploding into the surface and creating millions of tiny geysers.

  After the light was spent, Halloran was left with the unnerving impression of a million fingers pushing through the surface from the other side.

  26 AN ANCIENT CULTURE

  They sat opposite each other in the drawing room, Kline furiously rubbing at his dark curly hair, grinning across at Halloran as he did so.

  'Refreshing, huh?' he said. 'I love the rain. It purges the flesh. Pure and fresh, uncontaminated by human effluence. You ought to get dry. Don't want my bodyguard coming down with pneumonia.'

  'I'll take a bath before I turn in.' He realised ruefully there would be scant time for sleeping if he were to keep to his own schedule.

  The room was like most others at Neath—sparsely furnished and cold in atmosphere, even the roaring fire Kline had ordered to be lit infusing little spiritual warmth to the surrounds. Save for the fire glow there was no other light source in the room, for Kline had switched it off moments before. On a pedestal in one corner, its face animated by dancing shadows, stood the stone figure of a robed woman; the eyes were wide and staring, her hair swept back in almost mediaeval style. Above the mantel over the fireplace was a frieze depicting chariots and soldiers on the march; its colours, almost lost in the shadows, were of blue and white with the palest of reds for contrast.

  'Made of shell and limestone,' Kline said when he noticed Halloran studying the frieze while Khayed tended the fire and Daoud went off to fetch a towel. 'Part of the Royal Standard of Ur. See one of the enemy being crushed by a chariot? There was plenty of gore in art and literature even in those distant days. People's taste doesn't change much, does it? You know anything at all about the Sumerians, Halloran?' With the feeling he was about to find out, Halloran shook his head. 'History was never one of my strong points.'

  'Not even ancient history? I think you'd have found it fascinating., 'I'm more concerned with what's going on right now. You agreed to answer some questions.'

  'Sure. Just relax. Let me tell you something about these Sumerians first, okay? Never too late to learn, right?' Daoud returned with a towel at that moment, which he handed to his employer.

  'You can go ahead and feed Palusinski,' Kline told him. 'Our Polish friend has been drooling all evening.'

  The Arab grinned. 'I have kept for him some tasty morsels,' he replied and beside him, having completed his task at the fireplace, Khayed chuckled. Halloran noted that, unlike yesterday, Daoud had not bothered to disguise his understanding of the English language. Both Arabs gave a slight bow and left the room.

  Kline dried his hair with the towel, his rain-soaked jeans and sweater apparently not bothering him.

  Halloran watched his client, tiny orange glows fluttering in Kline's dark eyes, his features sharp as if he were eager for conversation, with no thought for the lateness of the hour. One side of the psychic's body was in shadow, the side close to the fire warmly lit, shades of yellow dancing on his skin. His chair and body cast one corner of the room into deep, wavering gloom, but from its midst Halloran could see and feel those enlarged eyes of the stone woman staring at him.

  Kline draped the towel over his head like a shawl so that only the tip of his nose and chin caught the glow from the fire. 'Did you know they invented the written word' At Halloran's quizzical expression he added, 'The Sumerians.'

  'No, I didn't know that,' Halloran answered tonelessly.

  'Yep. And they were the first to count in units of ten and sixties. That's how we got sixty minutes to an hour and sixty seconds in a minute. The
y applied it to time, y'see. It's why we divide a circle into 360

  degrees, too. Not only that, but those old boys invented the wheel. How about that?'

  'Kline, I'm not really -'

  'You might be.' The retort was sharp, but a hand was immediately raised, palm outwards, to indicate no offence was meant. 'They knew about algebra and geometry, even had some idea of anatomy and surgery. I'm talking about 3000 BC, Halloran, 3000 BC and earlier. Can you beat that? Shit, the rest of the world was barely past Neolithic!'

  'You haven't told me why you went out on the lake tonight.'

  'Huh? I thought I had.'

  'No.'

  'Okay, okay. Look, would you believe me if I told you that the lake acts as some kind of conductor to my psychic power? That my psyche draws strength from certain physical sources. You know how a divining rod in the hands of special people is attracted towards an underground spring or subterranean lake, how it vibrates with energy and bends towards the source? My mind does the same thing, only it also absorbs psychic energy from these places.'

  'That's impossible. You're mixing the physical with the psychical.'

  'And you naturally assume there's no connection between the two. Never heard of kinetic energy, Halloran? How d'you imagine certain gifted people can move inanimate objects through the power of their own minds? It's that very connection I'm talking about, the link between the physical and the psychical. There's energy in everything around us, but energy itself has no form, no substance—it's an incorporeal thing, just like our own mindwave patterns. Is it getting through to you, or are you the type that never wants to understand?' Kline was leaning forward so that his whole face was in the shadow of the cowl. Halloran did not respond to the last question.

  'It's the reason I bought Neatly' Kline went on. 'In these grounds I have my own psychic generator—the lake itself, one huge receptacle for spiritual force. You saw for yourself tonight how the lightning was drawn to it, and how those mysterious properties of the waters reacted. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of such fields on our earth, places that different races have worshipped from, built their shrines on, paid homage to, since man first became aware of the other side of his nature. They still do to this day.