He whirled and grabbed for the other man's throat, both of them going down slowly as he exerted pressure. Monk tried to pull the hands away, but Halloran's rage could not be opposed. Monk's small eyes began to bulge. The two men's faces were inches away as they sank to their knees, Monk making snorting noises as his face reddened. His thick lips curled back, the tip of his tongue quivered over his teeth. He spat mucus into Halloran's eyes.
Surprised and blinded, the operative loosened his grip fractionally. A blow to his stomach doubled him over, his fingers raking down Monk's chest. A swipe to his head sent Halloran scudding across the floor.
The other man rose and lumbered toward him, hurling himself forward the last few feet, intending to crush Halloran's chest with his bent knees. Halloran sensed the move as he wiped the stickiness from his eyes and rolled backward, scattering books. His naked opponent landed heavily on empty space. They rose together, but Halloran was faster. His toe cap smashed into Monk's groin. The bodyguard collapsed to his knees again and Halloran moved behind him. Again Halloran pulled Monk back by his long hair, holding him upright. Lightning flared outside, freezing their bodies momentarily. The operative's other fist clenched, middle knuckle raised slightly. His aim was straight and powerful as the fist cracked into a certain vertebra at the back of the kneeling man's neck.
Thunder drowned the cracking of bone.
Halloran reached out to a bedpost for support as the stiffened figure below him swayed, then slumped to the floor. He drew in deep lungfuls of incense-filled air, anger still raging inside, revulsion at Kline and the corruption around him heaving at his stomach.
In that distraction—his rage, his disgust—he failed to notice the figure that had watched everything from behind the door. He heard, or perhaps he sensed, a footstep though, but it was too late.
As he began to turn, Janusz Palusinski brought a short metal bar down against his temple. The oblivion was almost a relief.
41
THINGS FROM THE LAKE
They could hardly believe the power of the rain.
It pounded, weighing heavily on their shoulders and backs, making progress slippery and slow. At least the downpour rendered them less visible, their commander thought as he urged them along.
"What the hell is this, Danny?" McGuire yelled close to his ear. "I've never known the likes!"
A truer word never spoken. The man called Danny looked out at the lake and shivered, not from the cold. The water was as fierce as St. George's Channel in the worst winter months, a crossing he had made with loathing many times in the past. God in Heaven, it was eerie what was happening out there.
From the bank they had watched lightning strike the water more than once, sheening its tossed surface a silvery green, the froth on the shoreline luminous in the dark. The thunderclaps that followed had made their ears ring, caused them to throw themselves against the soaked earth as if mortar shells had dropped among them. His men were frightened, wanted to turn back. But that was not to be, and greater fear of their commander held them steady, kept them mindful of their duty.
They had been caught by the downpour on a steep embankment, the drenched soil slithery beneath their feet, the only handholds a few tree roots here and there. Two of the men walked along in the water itself, arms stretched out to the bank for support when the going got particularly tricky. Danny cursed the freak storm, wondering at it at the same time.
They had come this far and there was no turning back. Their man, their bastard target, was in the grand manor house they had glimpsed from afar, now but a few minutes away, and he was going to pay dearly for what he'd done. He was going to suffer for the suffering he had caused others. No doubting that, no turning tail now.
An alarmed shout from nearby. One of his men was sliding deeper into the churning water, his Armalite raised high. His companion, who had been wading behind, reached out to pull him up.
A jagged lightning streak pierced the lake, a startling irradiation instantly spreading outward. The crack of thunder overhead cowed the group, and in the white glare the leader saw the terrified expression of the two in the water, as if they had both received a shock.
They began to go under.
He slid down the embankment, shouting to the others to help their companions. But when he reached the edge of the water, his boots enveloped, parka smeared by mud, he stared in horror across the lake.
There were shapes out there.
Canescent, hazy, almost lost in the sheeting rain, but nevertheless discernible rearing shapes that were part of the storm itself.
It was impossible. He wiped wetness from his eyes, doubtful of what he saw. But they were there, growing like gray amorphous monsters out of the waves.
Something bumped into him and he turned with a start. McGuire—he thought it was McGuire in the dismal light— was also watching the lake, his mouth working loosely as though he had lost the power of speech.
A scream, and they saw their two companions were in the water up to their shoulders.
"Help them!" Danny yelled, scrabbling forward. He noticed that the Armalite was gone and swore at the frightened subordinate who had dropped it. Another of his men was closer and was leaning over, stretching an arm out to the two in the water.
But everyone stopped when whiteness flooded the sky and another discharge channeled itself to the lake, the shifted air booming. It was what they suddenly saw beneath the surface that had frozen them.
Vague, nebulous forms filled the water below, massing together, squirming spasmodically, tendril-like appendages waving in the currents, occupying the lake as though it were filled not with water but moving, liquid beings.
A waterspout erupted, then swooped down, like a tentacle, curling around the two men who clawed at the bank. It drew them into the lake and their screams became a bubbling froth. It seemed, although it was too dark to be certain, that other smaller tendrils of fluid pulled at them too.
The leader shuddered incredulously, then gasped when something tightened around his own ankle. With a frightened cry, he jerked his leg clear, and perhaps it was merely overwrought imagination that caused him to think a watery claw had risen with his leg to plop shapeless back into the choppy lake.
The two men were gone, he knew that. There was no helping them at all. He scrambled up the embankment, digging toes and hands into the slimy soil, afraid he would slide back into the water to lie among those things stirring there. His two remaining men were following suit, scrambling away from the foamy lake where waterspouts resembling misshapen creatures burst upward into the stormy night.
Waves hurled themselves at the climbing men as if to drag them back, but they plunged their fingers into the mud, using tree roots whenever their fumbling hands chanced upon them, grateful for every inch they could gain.
They collapsed on the grass at the top of the embankment, rolling over and over into the bushes, putting as much distance between themselves and the edge of the water as possible. At last they settled among the trees, trembling and panting, the force of the rain tempered by the leafy canopy above them.
"For God's sake, let's get away from here!"
Danny recognized McGuire's voice, distorted by terror though it was.
"No," he said, loud enough to be heard over the storm. "Whatever it was back there can't harm us now." He was shocked, stunned by what had happened and the loss of two good men. But Danny Shay was a determined man. An executioner who had already tortured and killed one person to locate his intended victim.
He rose and grabbed the shoulders of his exhausted companions, hauling them to their feet.
"Get yourselves moving," he told them. "The house isn't far, and there's a bastard there deservin' to die."
42
SEPULCHRE
As in the dream, there were large, staring eyes watching him. Unnatural eyes. Stone eyes.
Halloran held his breath as pain ached through his head. He raised a leaden hand to his forehead and held his temples, exerting soft pressur
e with fingers and thumb. The ache eased only slightly. He blinked, taking in the statues, a gathering of them, thirty at least, standing a few yards away. Observing. A few were in groups, man, woman, and child. Some were at least five feet high. Their fixed gaze was inescapable.
Among them in a high-backed ornate chair was a figure, this of flesh and blood, for it shifted slightly when Halloran pushed himself up onto an elbow. The figure settled back, a formless shadow amid the sculptures.
The floor was wet where Halloran lay, grimy water seeping through the cracks in the flagstones. The dampness brought with it a putrid smell, a different odor underlying that. Melting wax. The chamber was lit by hosts of black candles, their glow soft and unsteady.
"Help him to his knees," a voice said. It might have been Kline's except its rasping quality reminded Halloran of the lodgekeeper.
Hands pulled at him roughly, and his mind was too dulled for him to resist. As he knelt, something passed around his throat, and a sudden sharpness there jerked him erect. He tried to twist away and the pressure increased. His hands went to the cause, but there was nothing they could grip.
"Struggle and the wire will bite deeper," the same voice warned.
Halloran couldn't see the person behind him, but he could feel whoever it was leaning into his back. A spiciness wafted down among the other smells.
"Youssef is master of the garrote," came the voice again, and this time he was sure it was Kline sitting there in the shadows, even though the tones were roughened. "Try to resist and you'll find out for yourself." There was a weariness to his words that made Kline seem very old.
When Halloran took his hands away they were smeared with his own blood.
"Let him see, Youssef. Let him see where he is."
The pressure slackened and Halloran was able to look around, although his view was restricted. The room was long and high-ceilinged, and the walls glinted in the candlelight as if water were trickling through the brickwork. A solid stairway led upward, and Halloran saw there was a passage but no door in the darkness at the top. There were archways around the sides of the chamber, as though the place might once have been used as a wine cellar; there was no way of knowing what was inside those cavities now, for they were cast into the deepest shadows. In addition to the candies, there were oil lamps here and there helping to light the place, these close to pedestals on which stood delicately worked statues and effigies in shiny metals. On one near to where Halloran knelt there was what appeared to be a goat rearing up on hind legs against a tree of gold, the animal's fleece of deep blue stone and white shell. The small statue was exquisite, but Halloran's eyes did not linger on it for long.
At one end of the room was a large rectangular slab of stone that rose from the floor, its surface a mat black. A parody of an altar. Spread across it, and lying perfectly still, was an obese, naked figure, thick curling hair covering its body. Halloran wondered if Monk were dead.
The rasping voice broke through his thoughts. "Impressive, Halloran. You paralyzed him; he can't move, can't raise a finger. Useless to me as a bodyguard, but valuable in another way . . ."
From outside came a belly rumble of thunder, the sound muted, a long way away.
The shadow stirred again, shifting in the seat. "A bad night up there," Kline said, something of his old, excitable self in the remark despite the distortion in his voice. "Hope your knees aren't getting too wet, Halloran. So many underground streams running through the estate, you see, with all these hills around. When the lake swells, so do they—"
"What is this place, Kline?" The question was quietly put, but Halloran's tone stopped the other man.
Kline studied the operative for a while before giving an answer. When he drew in a breath the sound was wheezy, as though his throat were constricted. "A hiding place," he said finally. "A sepulchre, Halloran, my very own sepulchre. A room no one would ever find unless they knew of it, and even then they'd have problems. Oh, it's always been here at Neath, I didn't have to create it. I had to disguise its existence, though. This place is a subcellar, you see. A passageway extends to the real one, but I had it bricked off so no one'd ever know." His giggle was dry, a scratchy sound. "Ingenious, huh? Just like the old Sumerian tombs. Impossible to get in, and impossible to get out unless you know how. You could rot in here, Halloran, and no one would ever find you."
Halloran tried to rise, but the wire around his neck tightened instantly.
"Two, maybe three seconds is all it'd take for Youssef to kill you, so don't be bloody stupid."
"For God's sake, why, Kline? I'm here to protect you." Still Halloran did not raise his voice. A coldness was in him, one he knew so well. A deadness of emotion.
"God? God has nothing to do with this. Not your God. Only mine." The wheezing breath, a movement in the shadows. Then he said: "You killed the Keeper."
"The gate keeper? He was dying, he'd lost control of the dogs—the jackals. They tore him to pieces. But how did you know he was dead . . . ?"
"You still doubt my abilities?" Kline was shaking his head. "More than just our minds were linked, Halloran. He was surrogate for my ills, my weaknesses. He took my years. Through him I was allowed to live without blemish, without aging, free to use my faculties without hindrance."
"The old man said you'd used him."
"I was allowed that gift."
"Allowed?"
"The power to discharge those physical things we all dread, the disadvantages that come with the years and with debility, was bestowed upon me. Now that power is waning.
Something has happened and nothing is right anymore. You killed my Keeper, you broke the link."
"I told you he was dying before the jackals got to him. The strange thing is he seemed glad to be dying."
"He was a fool."
"Listen, Kline, I want you to tell this idiot to take the wire away from my neck."
"After what you did to Monk?"
"I'm going to hurt him if he doesn't."
"I don't think so, Halloran. I don't think you're that good. Besides, you want your curiosity satisfied, don't you? You want to learn some more history. Last night I only meant to whet your appetite."
"Kline . . ." Halloran warned.
"Be quiet!" Kline's hands clenched over the chair arms. He shuddered, as if it had hurt to raise his voice. "You're going to pay for what you've done. You're going to help stop what . . . what's . . . happening to me." He slumped back, and Halloran could see the rise and fall of his narrow shoulders, could hear the squeezing of his breath.
When he spoke, Kline's voice was low again, the sudden verve gone. He sounded ancient, like the old man in the lodge house. "Be patient and listen, Halloran, because I want you to understand. You deserve that at least. Let me tell you about the god who walked this earth three thousand years before the Christ God. I'm sure you're no devotee of the Scriptures, but no doubt you had them drummed into you by your Catholic priests when you were a boy in Ireland. Let me make some sense of their fairy tales, allow me that."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Yes. Youssef could kill you now."
Halloran said nothing.
A dry snigger from Kline. "How precious time becomes when there's little of it left, even for those who have lived so long . . ."
The candle flames swayed as though a draft had swept in.
"The man-god was called Marduk by his chosen people, the Sumerians," Kline began, while Halloran wondered how long the Arab could keep the garrote tensed. "He civilized the Sumerians, advanced them, taught them the written word, revealed to them the secret of the stars, instilled order into their society. It was from him that they learned to cure by cutting into the human body, how to forge metals dug from rock, to make tools and instruments, to use vehicles for carrying. Was that evil? How could it be? It was knowledge. But for those mortals who ruled, such learning was regarded as a threat because it usurped their power. That was the fear of the Sumerian kings and certain high priests. And hasn't that always been the
fear of your Christian God?"
The question was put slyly, Kline's tenor changing constantly, a shifting of character that Halloran had become used to, but the change never before as abrupt as this. It was as if Kline had little control over himself.
"But perhaps it was the other knowledge that these rulers feared most, because that gave power. I mean the knowledge of magic, the ways of alchemy, the understanding of the Cabala, the art of witchcraft.
"For more than a thousand years he influenced them, and how the Sumerian people enjoyed his control. All he asked in return was their worship, their veneration of his ways. Burnt offerings pleased him, the roasting of men, women, and children. Defilement of the other gods he demanded. The torture of innocents was an appeasement to him, for they also feared Marduk as much as their rulers did. The kings and princes, the other high priests, were powerless to act against him. Until King Hammurabi, that is, who united all the state leaders against Marduk, whom he declared was an evil god who should be known forevermore as Be/-Marduk."
Halloran glanced up at the stairway. He thought he had heard movement in the passage.
"The king denounced Bel-Marduk as a fallen god," Kline went on in a voice that lurched with anger. "Much later the Jews referred to him as the Fallen Angel."
Halloran frowned.
"Ah, I see a glimmer of understanding," Kline remarked. "Yes, I do mean the Fallen Angel of the Bible, later to become known as the Devil."
The lilt of Irish was in Halloran's mild comment. "You're crazy, Kline."