He 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 flat to inspect underneath the car, searching with a penlight 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, handprints, 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 odor. 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; afterward 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 backward and forward a few feet. Sure that the Mercedes had not been tampered with during the night, Halloran cut the motor 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 Merc 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 edge of the lake. Occasionally he would wind his arms in the air or skip full circle, and Halloran half-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 toward 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 rowboat.
"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 does the rowing for me, but you can have that privilege today." Kline hopped into the boat and settled at its stem. "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 oarlocks. 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 realized Kline's change had little to do with any physical aspect but was linked with the man's volatile nature, his puzzling split personality, 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 around 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. The 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 inquired.
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 realized 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. Recognized 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.
"Hah! 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 edge of the lake, the haziness of the sky belying the sharpness of the early-morning air.
"Can you feel the weight of the water beneath us?" Kline suddenly asked, still looking away from the other man. "Can't you feel the pressure underneath these thin wooden boards, as if all that liquid down there, all the slime and murkiness that lies on the bottom of the lake, wants to break through and suck us down? Can you sense that, Halloran?"
He almost said no, a to
tal rejection of the notion. But then Halloran began to feel the potency beneath his feet, as if the water there really could exert itself upward, could creep through those tight cracks between the boards like some glutinous absorbing substance. Kline's suggestion had somehow turned the lake into something less passive. Halloran shifted uncomfortably on the rowing bench.
A ripple in the lake caused the boat to sway.
Kline's attention was on him once more and his voice was low in pitch, less excitable, when he spoke. "Look over the side, look into the lake. Notice how silky is its skin beneath this mist, and how clear. But how far can you see into the denseness below? Come on, Halloran, take a peek."
Although reluctant, Halloran did so. No big deal, he told himself, no reason to be churlish. He saw his own shadow on the lake.
"Keep watching the water," came Kline's quiet voice. "Watch how it swells and falls, as soft as anything you could ever wish to touch. Look into your own shadow; how dark it makes the water. Yet somehow the darkness allows you to see more. And what if the whole lake was shadowed? What depths could you perceive then?"
Halloran was only aware of the blackness of his own reflection. But the blackness was spreading, widening in tranquil undulations, forcing away the mist as it grew. Kline's voice coaxed him to keep his eyes fixed on the lapping water, not even to blink lest that merest of movements disturb the placid surface, to stare into the darkness until his thoughts could be absorbed . . . absorbed . . . absorbed by the lake itself, drawn in so that what was hidden before could now be viewed . . .
" . . . There are monsters beneath us, Halloran . . ."
He could see the shapes moving around, sluggish, lumbering patches of greater darkness, and it seemed to him—it was insinuated to him—that these were grotesques who knew nothing of light, nothing of sun, creatures who slumbered in the depths, close to the earth's core. Among them were sleeker denizens, whose very tissue-like structures prevented pulverization under such pressure; they glided between their cumbersome companions, two opposite natures coexisting in a nocturnal underworld. There were others with them, but these were less than fleeting shadows.
Halloran sensed their yearning, the desire to ascend and make themselves known to the world above, weary of perpetual gloom but imprisoned by their own form. Yet if they could not rise, perhaps something of what they sought could be lured down to them . . .
The boat tilted as Halloran leaned further over the side.
"Touch the water," he was softly urged. "Feel its coldness . . ."
Halloran stretched his hand toward the lake that had become a huge liquid umbra, and there was a stirring below at his approach, a kind of quivering expectancy.
" . . . sink your fingers into it . . ."
He felt the wetness and its chill numbed more than his flesh.
" . . . deeper, let it taste you . . ."
The water was up to his wrist, soaking his shirtsleeve.
" . . . reach down, Halloran, reach down and . . ."
He heard laughter.
" . . . touch the nether region . . ."
Halloran saw the shapes rising toward him, mutations that should only exist in the depths, mouths—were they mouths? They were openings, but were they mouths?— gaping, ready to swallow him in . . . to absorb him . . .
The laughter was sharper, startling him to his senses. Halloran pulled his hand clear, standing in the boat as if to push himself as far away from those rearing, avaricious gullets as possible.
Still they surged upward, climbing as a single gusher, an almost solid stream of misshapen beings, terrible, unearthly things without eyes but which had limbs that were stunted and as solid as their bodies, while others were only tenuous substances housed around jagged needle-teeth . . . coming closer, rushing as if to shoot above the surface itself . . .
. . . Until they began to disintegrate, to shatter, to implode, for they were never meant for the fine atmosphere of the upper reaches.
He heard their anguished screams though there were no sounds—their torment was in his mind only. All around the boat the water was bubbling, white foam spouting upward as if the lake were boiling. Here and there geysers appeared, jetting into the air and carrying with them—or so Halloran imagined—remnants of flesh, all that was left of the abyssal creatures.
The boat pitched in the ferment and Halloran quickly sat, both hands gripping the sides for support, staying that way until the turbulence began to subside, the lake becoming peaceful once more.
The two men were in an area of clarity, for the mist had been driven back to form a wide circle around the boat. Everything was still within that clear area, the boat now barely drifting.
The only sound was Kline's low chuckling.
22
FOOD FOR DOGS
Charles Mather was kneeling among his shrubs when his wife called him from the terrace steps. Always used to rising early; he had found the habit hard to break after leaving military service. So nowadays, rather than disturb Agnes, who did not share his fondness for early-morning activity, he would creep from their bedroom, dress in the bathroom, take tea in the kitchen, then wander out into the garden, which had become his second love (Agnes would always be his first). Whatever the season, there was always work to be done out there, and for him there was no better way to start the day than with lungs full of sharp—and at that time of the morning, reasonably untainted—air. The only negative factor was that the chill (always a chill first thing, be it winter, spring or summer) upset the metal in his leg.
He looked up from the bed he had been turning over with a short fork. "What's that, m'dear?"
"The telephone, Charles. Mr. Halloran is on the telephone. He says it's important that he speaks to you."
Agnes was a trifle irritated because she'd had to climb from a bath to answer the phone, knowing that her husband would never hear its ringing in the garden. Here she stood shivering with the morning freshness and catching pneumonia by the second.
Mather pushed himself up from the padded kneeler, the tip of his cane sinking into the soft earth as he hobbled toward the terrace.
"I should get back inside if I were you, Aggie," he said as he awkwardly climbed the steps. "You'll catch your death of cold standing around like that."
"Thank you for your concern, Charles, but I'm sure poking around in the damp grass for a couple of hours hasn't done much for your leg either," she replied more tartly than she felt. "I think you'd better take a bath right after me."
"Mother knows best," he agreed with a smile. "Now you get yourself back indoors before I whip off your dressing gown and chase you naked around the garden."
She quickly turned to hide her own smile and walked to the patio doors. "That might give the neighbors a breakfast thrill," she said over her shoulder.
"Y'know," he murmured, limping after her and admiring her rear with almost as much enthusiasm as when they were younger, "I really believe it would."
He took the call in his study, settling down into an easy-chair first and waiting for the click that signaled Agnes had replaced the upstairs receiver. "Liam, Charles here. I hadn't expected to hear from you today."
There was no urgency in Halloran's voice. "I've been trying to contact Dieter Stuhr since eight this morning, but had no luck."
"As we have an ongoing operation he'll be at Shield all weekend," said Mather. "I assume you've already tried to reach him there though."
"I thought I'd probably catch him at home earlier, then I rang the office. No answer from'there either."
Mather checked his wristwatch. "Hmm, just after nine. He'd have one other coordinator with him today, and she should have arrived by now."
"Only Stuhr would have a key."
"Then she might be waiting outside at this moment. It's not like Dieter to be late, but perhaps he's on his way. That could be why you missed him."
"I rang his apartment over an hour ago."
"Well, he could have been delayed. Look, I'll get on to Snaith—don't see why
his Saturday shouldn't be disrupted— and between us we'll see what we can find out. No doubt it'll prove to be something trivial—his car's probably had an upset." With his free hand, Mather rubbed his aching knee. "D'you have a problem there at Neath, Liam?"
"I wanted to arrange for extra patrols outside, that's all. And I think our men should be armed. Security here is virtually nil."
There was a pause, but Mather sensed that Halloran wanted to say more. When no further words came, the older man spoke up: "Anything else bothering you, Liam?" The question was put mildly, but Mather knew his operative well enough to understand something was wrong.
More silence, then, "No, nothing else. Our client is unusual, but he can be handled."
"If there's a problem between you two, we can switch. No need for added complications, y'know."
"Uh, no. Leave things as they are. Let me know what's happened to the Organizer, will you?"
"Surely. Soon as we know something ourselves. Perhaps Stuhr stayed somewhere else overnight—I understand it frequently happens to single men. Could be whoever he's with has found ways to detain him."
"It's not like him to be out of touch."
"I agree, particularly when there's an operation in progress." Mather was frowning now. "We'll keep you informed, Liam, and in the meanwhile we'll organize some extra cover for you. I assume last night went without incident?"
"It was quiet. Anything more on the stolen Peugeot?"
"Still drawn a blank there, I'm afraid. Police can't help. You're sure our client doesn't know more than he's telling?"
"I'm not sure of anything."
Mather stopped soothing the ache in his knee. Again he waited for Halloran to continue, but all that Came through were atmospherics on the line. "It might be an idea if I paid Neath a visit myself," he suggested.
"We'll be back in London on Monday. Let's you and I meet then."
"If you say so. Look, I'll get back to you as soon as I've got some news."
"Fine."
He heard the click as Halloran hung up and he held his own phone close to his ear for several seconds before putting it down. Mather was thoughtful for several more moments before he lifted the receiver again.