put the mug down and returned to the two books spread out in front of her. She swallowed hard and scanned the notes she had made. The name Mathias was beginning to crop up with surprising regularity. Debbie felt a twinge of something which she likened to excitement run through her and she almost forgot the steadily growing ache at the back of her neck. She massaged the stiff muscles with one hand, scribbling away frantically with the other. She reached the bottom of another page and turned it, the musty smell of the old book making her cough. She closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger.
'Enough for a minute,' she said aloud and got to her feet, padding into the kitchen where she switched on the kettle. More coffee. She ached all over her body but, somehow, she sensed that she was near her goal. A quick glance up at the wall clock told her it was approaching three thirty in the afternoon.
Lambert stood alone in the field, ignoring the spots of rain which bounced off him. He looked up at the sky, already dark with storm clouds. It would soon be dusk and he felt a shudder run through him. He looked into the box of shells at his feet. Nine left. He'd use them up then go back in. The men were waiting. He raised the shotgun and fired, watching with satisfaction as a bottle exploded under the impact. Again he fired, blasting a huge hole in the wall. His hands and shoulders ached but he kept up the steady fire until the shotgun was empty, the final spent cartridge spinning away as he worked the slide. He laid the weapon gently on the grass and reached inside his jacket for the Browning. He studied the pistol for a second before raising it with both hands and fixing one of the remaining bottles in his sights. Closing one eye he fired. He smiled weakly as he saw it shatter. The grass round about was littered with empty shell cases. It looked like a bloody battlefield. Lambert holstered the pistol and picked up the shotgun before trudging wearily down the hill to the station. He glanced at his watch. Four-fifty. It would be dark in an hour.
Debbie looked down at the medallion. The inscription stood out defiantly, as if challenging her to decipher it. She studied it against the woodcut on the page of the book before her. Beneath it, as Trefoile had shown them, the single word;
Owner of the medallion.
She looked at her notes, at the words which she already understood.
MORTIS DIEI - DEATHDAY
REX NOCTU - KING OF THE NIGHT
The inscription around the outside of the medallion still eluded her then, suddenly, she remembered what Trefoile had said, that the words were transposed. The inscription could only be understood when read from back to front. She took the words one at a time:
A
She looked it up in the dictionary. It meant 'to.' Simple as that. She smiled to herself. Now she took the next word. On the medallion, engraved in reverse, it appeared as SIUTROM. She quickly transposed the letters to form the word as recognizable Latin. It came out as:
MORTUIS.
She hunted through the dictionary for that one. Something jumbled here. Not quite right. There were several meanings. Death. Dead. Die. She put a question mark next to the word and looked at the last of the three reversed inscriptions. In its present form it appeared as ERATICXE. She transposed and found that it came out as something more accessible:
EXCITARE.
Another run through the ever present dictionary. Her finger sped over the entries, searching, probing like a doctor in search of some malignant growth. She found it. 'Awake.' She wrote it down then went back to check the second word once more. Perhaps if she could put it into context she could understand. She read her notes, the transcriptions.
A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO (something) AWAKE.
She frowned. No. That wasn't it. The structure was wrong. The words were in the wrong order. Heart pounding she wrote it out again.
A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO AWAKE (something).
She re-checked her definitions.
MORTUIS - DEATH. DIE. THE DEAD.
It struck her like a physical blow and she exhaled deeply, quivering slightly as she finally understood. With shaking hand she wrote down the finished translation then transcribed the entire thing onto a fresh piece of paper. When she had done that she read it back, not daring to speak the words aloud. But they were there before her and she was gripped by a strange contradiction of feelings. A feeling of triumph for having deciphered the inscription but overwhelmed by an icy fear which gripped her heart in a vice-like hand and would not let go. She studied the words on the paper. The answer:
A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO AWAKE THE DEAD.
And beneath that:
REX NOCTU - KING OF THE NIGHT.
Finally:
MORTIS DIEI - DEATHDAY.
And the single word that summed up all that evil.
MATHIAS.
She turned to the second book, searching its age-crusted pages for the information she sought. She looked at the medallion, suddenly distracted from her task. It seemed to glow dully in the dimly lit room and it was a moment or two before Debbie realized that it was nearly dark outside. She crossed to the big bay window at the front of the house and peered out. The street lamps were, as yet, unlit. They didn't come on until six. Another ten minutes. She hurriedly switched on the lamp which perched atop the TV, repeated the procedure with die one on the coffee table and also the taller standard lamp which was propped behind Lambert's chair. The light gave her a measure of reassurance but she found herself still shivering. She hurried upstairs and checked that all the windows were securely closed, particularly the one which looked out over the flat garage roof. She doublechecked that one. Satisfied, she sped downstairs and slid the bolts on both front and back doors before retreating into the living room. She sat in silence, curtains drawn against the darkness outside, surrounded by the paraphernalia of ages gone by. Her nostrils were assaulted by an odour of dampness, mustiness.
The medallion glinted wickedly and Debbie found herself staring at it with the same horrified fascination with which a mouse watches a snake. She finally managed, as if it were an effort of will, to tear her gaze from it. She scanned the large yellowed page before her, dictionary at the ready. The page had the name of Mathias at its head and she began to read, intrigued and alarmed in equal proportions. Maybe by the time she finished she would know who this man really was.
She set to work.
The three Pandas were parked outside the station, all facing in the direction of Medworth town centre. From his position in the duty room Lambert could see them, just about. The darkness which had descended was total, almost palpable. He tore his eyes away and looked at the rows of sanguine faces arrayed before him.
Each of the men sat with shotguns across their laps. If not for the circumstances, Lambert could have laughed. It looked like a scene from some bloody western. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. All eyes focused on him.
'Right,' he began, 'I'll keep it simple. Two men to a car, three where possible. Grogan will stay here to take any calls. Bell, Ferman and Davies in Puma One. Vic,' he nodded towards Sergeant Hayes, 'you take Greene and Walford with you in number two. I'll take Puma Three. Briggs and Jenkins, you're with me.' The men didn't speak. Lambert waited, almost hoping for a question but none was forthcoming. He continued, 'Cruise around, that's all you've got to do. If you see anything moving about, anyone…' he searched for the word, 'suspicious, don't waste time finding out details, just shoot.'
A hand went up. It was Greene. He was in his early thirties, a capable lad who just happened to be as pale as death at the moment.
'How do we know the guns will work, sir?' he asked.
