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, anorak 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, disbelieving what he saw. But they were there, growing like grey 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 channelled 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 the content was not water but moving, liquid beings.
A waterspout erupted then swooped down, like a tentacle, curling round 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 upwards 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 water's edge as possible. At last they settled among the trees, trembling and panting, the rain's force tempered by the leafy canopy above them.
'For God's sake, let's away from here!' Danny recognised 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 pressure 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 foot 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 amidst 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 odour 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 garotte,' 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 was trickling through the brickwork. A solid stairway led upwards 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. As well as the candles, 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 which rose up from the floor, its surface a matt-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 paralysed 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.
Where 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 was 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 sub- cellar, 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.'
