ridges. He shifted his jacket to his other arm so that his gun hand was free.
Nothing stirred inside the lodge. At least, not as far as he could tell. But the urge to run from there, to put as much distance between himself and that uninviting abode, was immense. A whisper, whose source was somewhere deep in his own mind, cautioned him against further investigation. Irrational, he told himself. Are you sure? his sub-conscious taunted.
He raised a hand to his forehead as if to dispel further insinuations that had gathered, warnings that something nasty, something unclean, was waiting for him inside the lodge-house, and that contained within its walls were secrets that should remain secrets; but physical action was useless against the tenacity of the psyche. The thoughts continued.
Halloran almost sagged under their force. He willed their dispersion and it was only gradually that his mind became calmer, that his own consciousness became dominant.
For those other thoughts had not been his. He was certain they had not originated from some sub-level of his own mind, but had been implanted by another. He turned his head, searching the woods behind, the roadway leading to Neath. Kline. Those thoughts had been Kline's. He had the gift: Kline had shown him that very morning. But the psychic was still at the main house. Or should have been. Again Halloran scanned the area around him. Did distance bother someone like Kline, could ideas be directed no matter how far away the recipient? Or was Felix Kline inside the lodge?
The coldness was still with him and Halloran slipped his jacket back on. He took a step towards the building.
And the thoughts intruded once more, stabbing at him, bringing with them not only fear but a curious reluctance to discover what was inside the old house. He remained where he was.
Halloran could see no one at the windows, but he sensed a presence beyond those walls. He had lost the inclination to enter the house, though, no longer wanting to find out who the occupant was. Not at the moment. He'd return when he was . . . prepared.
Halloran backed away.
With a last lingering look, he turned from the lodge and began the long trek to the main house where earlier he had decided to leave the Mercedes, preferring to make the journey to the estate's entrance on foot. Too much could be missed when viewed from a moving car and Halloran had wanted to get the 'eel of the surrounds, with particular regard to the private roadway which was a natural place for an ambush, safe from public gate, out of sight from anyone in Neath itself. Now, with the evening gloom taking a firmer hold and the unease left by the uninvited thoughts, Halloran regretted his decision. At once he berated himself, a little astonished by his own trepidation. But then, as he'd already acknowledged, it had been an odd day.
In the stillness around him his footsteps seemed louder than normal. Ahead the road narrowed, trees on opposite sides linking leafy arms to form a tunnel. It was twilight inside that tunnel.
He was too warm suddenly, the air almost too heavy to breathe. The clouds were swollen and dark and he relished the idea of rain, or even a storm. But it was as though the dampness was scaled into the masses above. He walked on, at irregular intervals glancing from left to right, occasionally checking the road behind. All was quiet. The lodge-house was a distant image, rendered small and impotent. The road in front of him had begun to curve, no exit visible inside the tunnel.
A stirring of ferns by the roadside, no more than a transient breeze. ,A faint crash further within, merely a dead or broken branch shed from a tree.
Light faded as he passed beneath the canopy of leaves. It was cooler, although not much, and Halloran quickened his pace. The more he progressed, the dimmer became the light. Soon it was as though night had fallen prematurely. His senses sharpened and he allowed his vision to wander, never focusing on any particular section of forest for too long, constantly shifting his attention from one dark area to another.
At first he thought he had imagined the snuffling, for it had been barely audible over the sound of his own footsteps, but then it came again. He stopped to listen. Nothing now. And that in itself was unusual, for the woods were always full of noises of some kind, small scufflings, the flapping of wings, an owl settling in for the night's vigil. Over many years he had learned to discern nature's disturbances from those that might originate from stealthy humans, the difference being that animal or natural noises generally continued even if for no more than a second or two, whereas those caused by humans—be they hiding or stalking prey -had a tendency to cease immediately.
He resumed his journey, the tension in his stride indicating an extra alertness. Keeping his steps as quiet as possible, Halloran moved into the curve of the tunnel. A rustling to his right, a definite movement. He carried on walking, a hand reaching under his jacket to the butt of the Browning. More movement, something keeping pace with him. He began to suspect what that something might be.
He had assumed that the dogs were controlled during the daytime and allowed to run free at night.
Perhaps it was at dusk that their keeper set them loose on their own.
Snuffling noises again, and then a louder rustling through the undergrowth as though the animals were hurrying to get ahead of him. Initially the sounds had come from some distance inside the woodland, but now they were drawing close, as if the dogs were cutting in at an angle. Halloran deliberately maintained his own steady pace.
For one brief moment he caught sight of a shadow loping through the trees, low to the ground. It was followed by another, then another . . . he watched a stream of shadows slinking through the undergrowth.
Strange that they didn't come straight at him, but maybe that was part of their training, to cut off and intimidate rather than attack. He sincerely hoped so. Could be that they'd also been trained to keep silent while they tracked their quarry. Halloran resisted the urge to break into a run, knowing he would never outpace them: there was no point in turning back either—they'd only follow. He slid the gun from its holster and held it down by his side.
It could have been midnight, so dark had it become under the trees. The disturbance to his right had settled as though the procession of dim shapes had passed on its way, having had no real interest in the solitary walker. Halloran did not relax his guard.
Something moved out into the open ahead. He could hardly make out the dog's form so mantled was the roadway, but he could hear the soft panting. The animal loitered there, making no other sound. Waiting for him. Soon others joined it, slinking from the undergrowth to create an undefined obstacle across the roadway. Their combined breathing seemed to take on a rhythm.
Halloran aimed the weapon in their direction. He moved forward again, his step slow and steady, his body erect, offering the beasts no fear.
He heard their base, scratchy snarling. Drawing near he sensed rather than saw those closest tensing themselves to pounce. l He was within seven or eight feet of the nearest shadow. His steps did not falter.
Until there was a different sound, and this from behind, growing louder by the moment. He stopped, but dared not look away from those looming shapes lest they take advantage of a brief second's distraction.
The trees and the Toad were becoming brighter as lights approached, rounding the bend. Illuminating what lay ahead of Halloran.
He drew in a breath, his grip tightening an the automatic. Eyes, yellow-white in the glare from the car's headlights, were watching him. The rest of their lean bodies became brighter.
They were indeed dogs, but of a special loathsome breed.
They stole back into the woods, soon swallowed by its inkiness, and he listened to their quiet retreat until the sounds had faded completely.
The car drew up behind him and he slid the gun back into the holster. He turned around to face the vehicle, shielding his eyes with an arm and, save for the dazzling lights and the sofa purr of its engine, the car might never have been there, for its blackness blended perfectly with the darkness of the forest. As he walked around to the driver's side he heard a window descending. ,A broad face appeared, barely recognisable in the dimness.
'It is better that I drive you back to the house, moj kolega,' said Palusinski. 'The jackal can be a ferocious beast, particularly against the defenceless.' JANUSZ PALUSINSKI—A PEASANT'S
SURVIVAL His father, Henryk Palusinski, had been a hero of the people, a peasant farmer who had joined the march to Zamosc to do battle with the much-feared General Semyon Budenny of Russia's First Cavalry.
So fiercely did the tiny ragbag army of Polish cavalry, peasants and gentry fight there, sheer desperation their
