Mather pushed the door back further and flicked the Armalite away from the motionless gunman with his cane. Soft light from an open door across the spacious hall and from the landing above lit the area and Mather breathed a sigh of relief when he ascertained that no one else guarded the main doors. Rushing forward like that so soon after the enemy was hit had been a calculated risk, but it had saved some time.
Mather pointed at the slumped figure with his cane. 'Check him, then send one of the others after me while you search upstairs.' He was already limping across the hall making for the lit doorway as he gave the orders.
He entered a corridor at the end of which was a door swaying with the draught that blew in from outside, rain puddling the floor beneath it. He hurried forward glancing into other open doorways as he passed.
From ahead, Mather thought he heard a scuffling.
Palusinski came out into the courtyard, the pounding rain welcome on his face and head, even though huge droplets spattered his glasses and distorted his vision. Lightning pearled everything before him, dazzling him through the water-spots on his lenses so that he blinked rapidly. Whipping off the spectacles, the movement accompanied by a peal of thunder, he hurried across the flagstones. The Pole had no desire to find his way through Kline's private rooms in order to reach the main doors of the house: this way was more direct and the sooner he was away from the madness inside Neatly the better he would like it. His own acute sense of survival told him some kind of reckoning was at hand for Kline moj Pan, oh Lord and Master!—and he, Janusz Palusinski, did not want to be around for the consequences.
But as he passed the centre fountain, a burning liquid sprayed his face.
When he stopped to brush at the stinging with his hand, he felt a stickiness on his cheek. He could feel it eating into his skin. He peered short-sightedly at the fountain and there seemed to be shapes contorting from the stonework, rising from the brimming basin, writhing among the ornamentation.
Palusinski uttered a startled cry and began to back away. Gowno! This couldn't be! The fountain was a dead thing, defunct, slimed and blocked, an extinct spring! Yet he could discern a bubbling outflow catching reflections from window lights around the yard. And liquid dribbled sluggishly from the carved spouts which, in their decay, resembled gargoyles. And these monsters themselves were moving, twisting as if to tear themselves free from the stonework, hatching from wombs of masonry, spitting their bile of burning substance, the whole structure gushing unnatural life.
Palusinski slipped as he turned to run, his knees smacking sickeningly against the flagstones. His spectacles flew from his grasp, one lens cobwebbing fine cracks as it struck.
The Pole scrabbled away on hands and knees, too much in haste to search for his broken glasses, and too afraid to look back at the quivering fountain. He sobbed when something touched his leg, a curling caress that somehow scorched even though there was no firmness, no strength in its grip. He pushed himself up, moving forward all the time, blundering towards the open doorway on the other side of the courtyard where light was shining outwards.
He blinked away wetness. There was someone else in the corridor, limping towards him. Palusinski reacted instinctively and with his natural sense of self-preservation. He drew out the metal bar he always carried inside his coat and launched himself at the advancing figure.
Mather noted the crazed wildness in the other man's eyes, and saw light catching the shiny weapon being raised, ready to strike. He came to a halt and pointed his cane at the bald man's chest.
Palusinski sneered at the other's ineffectual weapon, realising there was nothing to fear in this old man confronting him, the only real terror being out there in the courtyard and the underground chamber he had just left. He grabbed the end of the cane and pulled it towards himself, sure that it would be easy to wrench it from the frail grasp. The metal bar had reached its zenith, was trembling in his hand, ready to plunge downwards against the man's skull. He barely heard the faint click.
Mather had pressed the tiny button in the cane's handle and the wooden casing slid from the long, slender blade, his would-be assailant unsheathing the sword himself. The Shield Planner took no chances, for he could see the murder in this wildman's eyes.
He lunged forward, the sword piercing the bald man's chest, melting through, entering his heart and still not stopping.
Palusinski looked in surprise at the other man. The pain only came when the sword was swiftly withdrawn.
He sank to the floor, a casual gesture as if he merely wanted to rest for a moment. Janusz Palusinski lay down and, as his mind wandered towards death, he felt he was among other recumbent bodies. He was no longer inside the corridor of the house, but in the dimly lit but a long, long way from there, and a long time ago.
Those skeletal forms around him were sitting up and grinning their welcome, for they had been waiting many years. One even crawled over to touch the young Janusz's face with bony fingers. Janusz lay there, unable to move, and he wondered why unseen hands were pulling at his clothing. And he wondered why there was no pain when teeth gnawed into his plump belly.
No, there was no pain at all.
Just the nightmare that he knew would go on forever . . .
50 SHADOWS AND IMAGININGS
Halloran remained perfectly still, staring up into the eyes of the dying gunman.
The weapon wavered in the air, trying to home in on its target. But the exertion was too much, and too late. Danny Shay rolled onto his side to make one last determined effort, but the gun was far too heavy for someone with only seconds to live. For a moment his arm hung over the stairway, the weapon loose in his grip. Then Shay's eyes closed and he knew he would never open them again.
'Dear God . . .' he began, the plea cut short when even his voice lost its strength.
He toppled from the stairs onto the damp floor, his landing relaxed, for he was already dead.
Wind tearing in from the passageway above ruffled Halloran's hair. The light stirred, juddered, many of the candle flames snuffed by the breeze so that shadows stole forward from the alcoves. The ancient worshippers watched on, stone eyes dispassionate. And there seemed to be other onlookers within those darkened arches, but these were forms of no substance, observers that could never be defined by light for they were of the imagination even though they existed outside the mind. Halloran was intensely aware of their watching.
He turned towards the altar where the bloated corpse continued to pump blood. Cora had moved away, her shoulders soaked a deep red; she looked imploringly at Halloran, as if silently begging him to take her away from this madness. When she saw the coldness in him, Cora became inert.
Halloran would not allow emotion to hold sway. Not for the moment. He was confused, uncertain of his feelings for Cora. She had touched him, made him vulnerable once more. And naturally, he had paid the price. He told himself she was an innocent used by someone who existed only for corruption. Yet . . . the thought persisted . . . yet there had to have been some part of her that was susceptible.
'Don't dare to judge me, Liam She spoke quietly, but with defiance. 'Not you, not someone like you.' He understood her meaning.
Thunder rumbled through the passageway, the sound spreading out into the chamber, seeming to tremble the walls. Dust sifted down from the ceiling to congeal in the puddles on the floor.
And in one small slick of black water lay the dried husk that was an embalmed heart.
And those unseen but fearfully imagined forms were emerging from the alcoves.
Halloran sensed their movement at first and only when he looked did they take on a nebulous kind of reality. These were as the things from the lake, and they shuffled forward, eager to embrace. Because they were of him, the creatures mere reflections of the dark side of his inner self, manifestations of his own frailty, his own corruption. Hadn't Kline, himself, explained that to him?
He felt weakened. He staggered as if struck. He spun round.
More of these creations of the subconscious were slipping from between the statues, winding their way through, advancing on him. Yet each time he focused on one, it became formless, a swirling, vaporous nullity. His mind seemed squeezed, as though invisible tentacles had insinuated themselves into the orifices of his body, clogging them, sliding inwards to capture his thoughts.
He clapped his hands against his temples, shaking his head to free himself of these tenuous intruders. He
