THE BATTLE OVER
Halloran closed the double-doors of Neath, then strode along the gloomed porchway out into the cleansed night air. The clouds had broken up, the moon dominated. Dampness still lingered, but there was no violence left in this night. Across the lawn he could see the lake, a low-lying mist hovering over its calm surface.
He climbed wearily into the Mercedes, switching on engine and headlights. He looked back at Neath once more, studying it for several moments before swinging the car around and heading up the road into the trees.
As he drove, he wondered about Felix Kline and his terrible and unique powers. He wondered about the story the psychic had told him, of the Sumerians, of Bel-Marduk, their devil-God, the Antichrist who had preceded the Christ. He wondered about the truth of it. And Halloran wondered about himself.
He thought that perhaps he understood.
They waited for him by the big iron gates, the four operatives puzzled and somewhat agitated by the abrupt ceasing of action, while Charles Mather stood with the girl, who wore one of the operatives' jackets draped over her shoulders. Although barefoot and cold, Cora had refused to wait inside one of the cars; her eyes never left the drive leading to the house. She hadn't spoken a word since Mather had brought her away from Neath, despite his questions. Had Liam instructed her to remain silent? Mather wondered.
Cora caught her breath and Mather, too, saw the approaching lights, the car emerging from the tunnel of trees in the distance so that moonlight struck its silver bodywork. It came toward them at a leisurely pace, an indication that the danger really was past.
They watched as the Mercedes drew near, its headlights brightening the road.
But it stopped. By the lodge house.
They saw Halloran lean out of the car window and drop something onto the ground in front of the two strange-looking guard dogs that had been prowling around their dead companions as though disoriented.
One of the animals warily came forward and began to devour whatever it was that Halloran had offered.
He watched the jackal chew on the crushed, blackened meat and waited there until the ancient heart had been swallowed completely.
Only then did Halloran start up the car again and drive onward to the gates themselves.
He climbed out of the Mercedes and Cora took one hesitant step toward him. He raised his arms and she came all the way. Halloran pulled her tight against him.
Mather was bemused. Such a demonstrable show of emotion from his operative was unusual to say the least.
"Liam . . ." he began.
Halloran nodded at him. "I know," he said. The Planner wanted answers, and what could he tell him? Halloran's tone was flat when he spoke. "His bodyguards had turned against him. Monk, Palusinski, the two Jordanians—he'd treated them too badly. He's quite insane, you know. They finally had enough of him. None of it's clear, but I think they worked out a deal with the Provisional IRA to kidnap him. I guess they didn't want to live out their lives in servitude, and the proceeds from the ransom—or maybe just a Judas fee from the kidnappers—would have ensured that they no longer had to. And they got away with it. All except Palusinski and those two outsiders I saw you'd put down. You can alert the police, get them over here, have them watch air and seaports."
"Wait a minute. The IRA . . . ?"
"They were responsible for Dieter Stuhr's death. I suppose the idea was to make sure no one suspected it was an inside job, that information on the Shield cover was tortured out of our own man. Incidentally, Kline's gate keeper was attacked by those animals back there. What's left of him is inside that lodge house."
There was disbelief in Mather's eyes, but Halloran steadily returned his gaze.
"They took Kline," Halloran continued evenly. "But he was badly injured. I think he'll die from his wounds."
"We'll see if we get a ransom demand. We'll insist on having evidence that he's still alive."
"Somehow I don't believe that'll happen."
"Shall I get on to the police now, sir?" one of the other men asked briskly.
"Uh, yes," replied Mather. "Yes, I think that would be appropriate, don't you, Liam? God knows how they'll take all this shooting, but we've been in similar predicaments before. Such a dreadful thing that all our efforts failed."
Not once had he taken his eyes off Halloran.
"Let's sit in the car until the police arrive, shall we?" Mather suggested. "Miss Redmile is shivering. And then you can tell me more, Liam. Yes, you can explain a lot more to me."
There was something chilling in Halloran's smile. He looked back at the brooding lodge house. Then along the road that disappeared into the darkness of the smothering woods, winding its way to the house itself. To Neath.
"I'm not sure you'll understand," Halloran said finally.
He took Cora's arm and helped her into the car.
52
SERPENT
Lights all around. Soft-hued glows.
Shadows, pretty, never still, constantly weaving their secrets.
Ah, the bliss of lying here. A fitting place, this altar. Peaceful. And no pain. Not yet.
Is this how it was for you, O Lord? Did your priests minister drugs to suppress the hurting? Or was your cask, your vessel, dead before it was entombed, your spirit trapped within to wait out the years, the centuries? Your heart had not died, / know that.
So tired, so exhausted. Sleep will be welcome. Yes, yes, even eternal sleep.
It's cold in this chamber beneath the earth. And damp. Yet why can't I shiver? Why can't I move?
Oh yes. I know why.
So finally he believed. Halloran finally accepted the truth of it all. A triumph in some ways, wouldn't you say?
But why didn't I understand that he was the one conditioned to ruin me? Why, with all my perceptive powers, didn't I realize it was Halloran who was the threat? Is that the one weakness that comes with the gift of seeing, O Lord? The vulnerable point, the blindness to one's own destiny, the unforeseeableness of one's own fate? Is that your answer to me? Quite a joke really, don't think ! don't appreciate it.
Even funnier if it was something more than that. It couldn't be, could it, Lord, that he came at my own invitation? Surely not. That would be nonsense, too perverse for words. Yet we enjoy perversity, don't we? Well, don't we? Constant evil can be wearing, don't you agree? But I tried, I did my best for you. The decades were so long though, Bel-Marduk. Surely you, above all, can appreciate that? But that doesn't mean I'd close my mind to my own impending demise, does it?
Does it?
DOES IT?
No, I was happy with the task you set me. Evil for evil's sake. Harm for the sake of doing harm. Corruption for you! Entirely for YOU!
It doesn't hurt yet. What Halloran has done to me doesn't hurt. Not yet. And it shows he believes, he believes in you! I wonder if the drugs were his idea of mercy, maybe to demonstrate he isn't as wicked as I. He seemed to understand, though, when I told him there are no absolutes, that no one— not even I—could be totally evil. Nor totally good. Yes, that appeared to make sense to him. Perhaps that was why he softened my pain with drugs, perhaps he'd already realized that.
(And was that imperfection in me my failing, O Lord? Did I fail because I was not perfectly evil? But I tried, oh, I tried.)
It had to be someone like him, didn't it? The other Lord, your eternal enemy, had to send someone like Halloran. Someone who could be cruel, someone who would carry it through. And someone who might seek a kind of redemption —shit, how / detest that word!
And I was the one who told him how. Should I be laughing, Bel-Marduk? Are you disappointed in me, will I be punished when I finally succumb? Or will we laugh together throughout eternity?
Ah! A twinge of pain at last! Sweet though, very sweet. I wonder which will kill me first? The loss of blood or the agony when the drugs wear off?
At least I'm not lonely here. I have my servants around me, just as you had yours in the secret sepulchre, their lives willingly give
n up to be with you always. But my servants were not so willing. No, they gave themselves up grudgingly. Still, their reluctant spirits are with me now. Listen how they whine.
Will I have to wait as long as you, Dark Lord, before my body is discovered? This, my own sepulchre, is well hidden, as was yours, and I don't have the strength to call others to it. In fact, I have no strength, no power at all. I'm sure Halloran sealed the entrance well, and no one would hear me even if I could scream.
Aaaah! Hurting!
And it's darker now. Are the candles burning low? Will I be left on this altar in total darkness; unable to see, unable to move . . .
Spare me this pain, please, Lord. Take me before the opiums weaken. Forgive me for failing you.
If I turn my head I can see the knife he used on me. Its blade is rich with my own blood. Isn't it funny, Lord? If I could reach it, I could use it against myself, I could hurry along my death. But see there, one of my severed arms lying in a puddle next to it? The other is probably close by. And my legs. Where are they, I wonder? It's not important.
Can there be another time for me, O Lord?
No. Of course not.
What good is my limbless form to you, with my spirit forever entombed inside, my body now my soul's own sepulchre. Say you'll forgive me!
Darker now. Becoming very dim. I can still see the eyes though, those huge unblinking eyes watching from the shadows. They'll watch over me forever, won't they?
Even when the darkness is complete, they'll still be there.
Watching . . .
James Herbert, Sepulchre
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