water clotted with black slime.
The piercing light stuttered away and thunder rattled the window-panes. Halloran moved on, finding his way back to the main hall.
He took the stairs two at a time, his step agile despite the draining ordeal he had already been through.
He hurried from room to room, pushing open doors and peering in, gun always at chest level, safety off.
He even looked into his own bedroom.
He thought he heard a cry from somewhere in the house, but thunder cracked deafeningly a moment after so that he couldn't be sure. Halloran headed for Kline's quarters, his stride fast and light. This time he was certain he heard a cry. A woman's. Cora's. He broke into a run.
The door leading to Kline's rooms was open. Halloran went through, slowing to a walk; a glow spread from a doorway near the end of the corridor. He heard a whimper, its source from inside that doorway.
A smell of incense tainted the air.
He crept forward, knowing it was Cora who had uttered the small moan of pain. Halloran forced himself to remain emotionless. He neared the door, stopped, waited a moment.
A sharp, slapping sound. Against flesh. Cora's gasp, then her whimper.
Halloran gently pushed back the half-open door.
It was a large room, the walls covered in symbols and rough drawings. He did not take time to study them. Scattered around the floor were untidy piles of books, maps and folios of some kind. He did not pay them much attention. In front of him was a four-poster bed, the posts knotted with carvings, curtains of sheer lace draped between them. He hardly noticed the fine work. Halloran could only stare in disbelief at what was on the bed.
The drapes were gathered and tied to the posts, revealing a crouched, naked figure, head hanging low between the shoulders so that the back was arched. The flesh was red and wealed. Cora's face was half-turned towards Halloran, but she did not see him, for her eyes were closed, her hair falling over her forehead. Her mouth was open in a slight smile.
Monk had his broad, sloping back to the door, his gaze too intent on the girl to notice anyone in the doorway. The bodyguard was naked too, a mountain of obese, loose flab, covered in wiry hair that was thick around his lower arms and legs, and splaying over his shoulders so that the skin was merely a dullness beneath.
The short multi-thonged whip he held dropped to the floor as he pushed the girl over on the bed. He grabbed her ankles and yanked them towards him so that Cora was flat on her stomach. Halloran caught a glimpse of her manacled wrists.
Her groan was of pleasure, not of fear.
All calmness, all self-imposed remoteness, left Halloran in a gushing of rage. The anguish he felt was as deep and as painful as on the day he had witnessed the gunning down of his father so many years before.
Or when he had learned of his mother's terrible death. It seared him and blinded all other senses.
He roared as he rushed forward and reached for the bodyguard's hair, which had been loosened from the band Monk usually wore. He wrenched hard, hauling the gross man away from the girl, bringing the butt of the Browning down hard against the side of Monk's head, his anger, unleashed like rarely before, spoiling the accuracy of the blow.
Monk cried out and toppled over the tailboard onto the floor.
Cora turned, drawing her legs up. Her glazed eyes looked into Halloran's uncomprehendingly. He raised the gun towards her, his hand shaking, wanting to kill her, wanting to punish her for breaking through to him, for making him care again, then for mocking those feelings. He cursed himself for allowing it to happen.
Cora smiled at him, an idiot's welcome. Then fear finally melted through her drug-induced haze.
Halloran lowered the pistol and closed his eyes against the sight of her.
A meaty arm closed around his neck from behind, a hand reaching round and grabbing his wrist. He was lifted off his feet as Monk heaved.
His windpipe was being crushed by the pressure and Halloran knew it would only be a matter of seconds before he blacked out. The automatic was of no use to him in a situation like this, so he opened his fingers and let it fall, Monk's grip on his wrist still not slackening. The bodyguard was gurgling close to his ear, an animal sound. With his free hand, Halloran reached down behind him and found the fleshy part of Monk's inner thigh. He pinched with thumb and bent knuckle, squeezing with all his strength so that his assailant screamed, a high-pitched woman's cry. The hold on Halloran loosened and he wrenched the arm away.
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 face 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's grip weakened 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 towards 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 backwards, scattering books. His naked opponent landed heavily on empty space. They rose together, but Halloran was faster. His toecap 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, reaching out to pull him up.
A jagged lightning streak pierced the lake, a startling irradiation instantly spreading outwards. The crack of
