Sepulchre

  Monk might well have rushed him there and then, and Halloran didn't think it was the memory of what had happened last time that prevented him from doing so: no, it had more to do with getting into trouble with his employer. Monk flicked his tongue across his lips, glistening them, his mind still not made up.

  "I want you downstairs in two minutes," Halloran told him curtly. Then he walked away, hearing something shatter in the room behind. Monk's bedroom must have been even more of a shambles with his dinner things scattered across the floor. Halloran smiled, knowing that a score would have to be settled when this affair was over; he himself, was prepared to let it lie, but he knew the other man wouldn't share the same view. That was going to be Monk's misfortune.

  He returned to his bedroom on the second floor, pausing to look out over the center courtyard on the way. The moon palely laminated the flagstones, the fountain throwing a misshapen shadow across the whiteness, an irregular stain on a pattern of rough squares. He searched to one side of the fountain, wondering about the sealed door he had found in the short corridor there. It had been Youssef Daoud who had disturbed him as he tried the door.

  Halloran had asked where the door led to and why was it locked, but Daoud's comprehension of the English language (it was mentioned in their files that both Arabs spoke good English) had suddenly become very poor, and he could only grin at Halloran and shake his head. Halloran had gone back outside to the courtyard. Later Cora told him that the staircase the Arab had watched him from led to Kline's private quarters.

  Darkness crept over the rooftops and down into the well below, thick clouds claiming the moon for their own, dim lights from windows around the house asserting little influence over the blackness. He moved away, going to his room and quietly closing the door behind him, relieved to shut the rest of Neath away for a short while. He shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on one of the posts at the foot of the bed. Taking the Browning Hi-Power from its waist holster, he placed it on the bedside table, then set his soft-alarm clock for ten minutes to four. With one last scan of the grounds outside the window—there wasn't much to see save for the black humps of hills and an orange glow over a nearby town—he lay on the bed, undoing two more shirt buttons, but leaving his shoes on and laced. He put one pillow on top of its mate and rested back, his eyes closing immediately, the dim light from the bedside lamp no bother at all.

  Sleep was not long in coming. And with its dream came a memory . . .

  . . . He could hear the harsh breathing from behind the wood latticework, as though drawing in air was an uncomfortable process for the priest . . . Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . . Liam wondered why he did not feel the shame he was supposed to. He recounted his "crimes" against the Holy Father in Heaven and smiled in the unlit confessional, feeling no resentment even in having to reveal secrets to a man whom he had no liking for, and worse, no respect for . . . I've lied, Father, I've stolen things . . . the bow of the priest's large head in the diamond holes of the struts, a nodded acceptance of the confessor's iniquity . . . I've abused my own body. Father— that's how the boys were taught to say it, "abused" instead of "pleasured" . . . and I've called God dirty names . . . movement stopping in the adjoining cubicle, the priest's breath momentarily held . . . Liam's smile widening . . . I've asked God why He's a wicked bastard, Father . . . The bulky head turning toward him, the priest's eyes, unseen but felt, burning through the latticework. He took him from Mam an' me . . . the boy's smile hard, his eyes staring ahead, seeing nothing . . . Liam, gunmen took your father's life, not God . . . why He . . . why He made me Mam . . . why He made her. . . the boy's eyes moistened, the smile still there . . . do things . . . mad things . . . why she's to go away . . . Liam—the priest again, gentle now . . . why . . . the boy's first sob, the hunching of his shoulders, hands reaching up, fingers sinking through the black diamonds of the grille, curling around, clutching and pulling as if to wrench away a barrier against' truth . . . the shadow beyond moving, light thrown to show emptiness there . . . the door beside Liam opening, Father O'Connell reaching in, touching the boy's shoulder . . . Liam pushing him away, shrinking down into the booth's corner, forcing his head hard against his raised knees, tears uncontrolled, thin body jerking with the outflow . . . the priest, a burly and dark silhouette, bending forward, arms outstretched . . .

  . . . A tapping on the door.

  Halloran's eyes opened immediately, consciousness returning almost as fast. The dream remained as an image, one that could be put aside for the moment. He was moving toward the door, gun tucked into holster, before the tapping resumed. He opened up, one foot rigid against the base of the door so that it couldn't be forced wider.

  Outside stood Cora.

  18

  UNHOLY COMMUNION

  There were candles all around him, tall thick-stemmed candles, candles that were black. They hardly lit the chamber, though his wretchedly thin naked body glistened highlights under their subdued glow; the two dark-skinned men had used oil on him, their excitement enhanced by the slippery smoothness of his skin.

  And there were eyes watching him constantly. Large, unblinking eyes, grouped together at the far end of the room.

  The youth moaned, twisted his head, movement weakened by the frequent injection of fluid into his veins. They kept him passive. But not all the time. Sometimes the Arabs liked to hear him screaming.

  No sound could escape this room, they had said, grinning at him, holding each other's hand. This was a secret place, one of worship, where the walls were strengthened by the very earth itself. Scream, they had urged him. Shriek, for our delight, they had said as long needles pierced his flesh. Let us see you weep, they coaxed as sharp things were imbedded in his genitalia.

  They had taken the hair from his body, even pulled free the eyelashes, plucked his nostrils clear, so that he remained only gleaming colorless flesh, a languid, loose-muscled object one moment, a fitful shivering creature the next. And sometimes, perhaps because of the drugs, the pain was exquisite.

  They had removed his tongue when they grew tired of his words, suspending his body so that he would not suffocate on his own blood, sealing the wound with liquid that blazed more than the cutting. Then they had mocked his gibbering as they used his body with their own, thrusting into him with a force that tore and bloodied him inside.

  The youth attempted to move his limbs, but they were restrained, not by drugs but by manacles. He lay on the hard flat surface, arms and legs stretched outward, body punctured by wounds, many needles still protruding, metal dull in the poor light, thin rivulets of blood, now dried and crusted, on his skin. Every part of him seared pain and, had his senses been more lucid, the agony might have checked his heart. While one channel of his mind struggled for reason, others closed down, refuting the hurt to his body, the degradation it had suffered, instinctively knowing that full acknowledgment could only mean insanity. The remaining dregs of morphia were an ally to their cause.

  The low flames wavered, caressed by a breeze. He raised his head from the cold slab he was chained to, the motion sluggish, taking all his strength, and looked down along his own body. The slender spikes in his chest were huge to his fuddled brain, rising like crooked metal poles in a greasy snow field, and their undulation as he breathed became mesmerizing. But light from above was seeping into the chamber. 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 s
o 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 toward the sternum. As it traveled, 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 toward the black, limitless ceiling above.

  He was conscious of, but did not feel, the pulling apart of his skin, and the vapor 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 upward 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 like 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 dark-haired 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, supine 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 that 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 other 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 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 toward 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 upward. 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 inward 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 inward, 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 toward 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.

  "Cora . . . ?"

  "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 pockets of the bathrobe, 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 door handle. 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 basement 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, and 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 toward 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 afterward 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.