Jenkins sat still for a second and peered out into the gloom, trying to catch a glimpse of his younger companion. Briggs' shotgun was missing from its position beside his seat and Jenkins assumed that the youngster must have got out of the car to help when they had arrived. He pushed open the door and stepped out, walking around to the other side of the car.
'Gary,' he called.
There was no answer. Jenkins stood in the reflected light of the car's headlamps, his face darkened into grotesque shadow. He looked down.
Lying just beside the driver's side door was Briggs' peaked cap. The other constable knelt and picked it up, noting with concern that it was splattered with blood. In fact, there was blood all over the ground near the door, great blotches of it staining the white paintwork of the car.
Jenkins picked up the discarded shotgun, suddenly afraid, and backed off towards the house, the barrel levelled. He stumbled over the body of the woman and nearly fell but he retained his balance and retreated into the welcoming light of the hall.
Footsteps behind him. He turned.
Lambert and Debbie were descending the stairs, the Inspector with his arm wrapped tightly around his wife's shoulders. Her head was bowed and Jenkins could see that she was sobbing quietly-tiny, almost imperceptible movements of her shoulders signalling the tortured spasms. The constable suddenly thought of his own wife, of his child. Had she given birth yet? He drove the thought away.
'You all right?' asked Lambert, the shotgun propped up over his shoulder as if he were off on a hunting trip.
Jenkins, his face the colour of cream cheese, nodded.
'I can't find Briggs,' he said.
Lambert looked puzzled but his expression changed to one of worry when the constable held up the bloodstained cap. The three of them stood in the burning light from the car headlamps, the two policemen looking at one another, Debbie weeping softly. There was a harsh crackling, then a voice from outside.
'The radio,' said Lambert, helping Debbie out, guiding her past the gun-blasted bodies of the living dead.
Jenkins nodded and crossed to the car. He-picked up the handset and heard Grogan's agitated voice at the other end:
'Puma Three, come in.'
'Puma Three,' said Jenkins wearily.
'Thank Christ for that,' said Grogan, 'you hadn't called in, I thought something had happened.'
Lambert helped Debbie into the back seat of the car where she lay down, curling up in a fetal position, then he took the handset from Jenkins.
'Puma Three here, this is Lambert. Contact the other two cars, tell them we have encountered a number of the bloody things. Tell them the guns do work.'
Grogan muttered an affirmation.
Lambert continued, 'Anything to report, Grogan?'
'No sir, we've had a number of calls from people, sightings and what have you, but nothing from the other two cars. They both reported in a while back to say that they'd seen nothing.'
Lambert nodded as he listened, glancing over to where Debbie lay. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks tear-stained.
'Puma Three, out,' he said and switched off the set.
'What now, sir?' said Jenkins, sliding behind the wheel and locking the door.
'I want to get my wife to Doctor Kirby. Let's go-'
Jenkins nodded and started the car. The wheels spun on the grass but, as they reached the concrete of the road, they caught and the Panda sped off.
Lambert sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. Christ, the vile things had nearly killed Debbie.
He prayed that she would be all right. Mackenzie had got the medallion, it seemed to have been the object of the attack. He gritted his teeth. It had to be the answer. No wonder Trefoile was frightened of the bloody thing. The Inspector realized that he would have to find out if Debbie had managed to discover the truth about it. He looked around at her. She was still curled up. Asleep.
At least the encounter had proved that the guns were of use. That much he was thankful for. He didn't dare think what would have happened if they had not been…
One thing did trouble him though.
Where had Briggs got to?
Run off in fright perhaps? Lambert wouldn't have blamed him if he had. He'd probably stagger in the next morning, ashamed of his own cowardice. Lambert half-smiled; he could quite easily have run off with him.
Even if anyone had noticed, no one would have wondered why there were blood spots on the trunk of the Panda. The whole car was splashed with the crimson fluid after all. What might have interested them was the contents of the trunk.
Gary Briggs had died painfully, his eyes torn from living sockets but now he lay in the boot of the car, fresh blood from the sockets still spilling down his cheeks.
He had had no chance against the woman who had attacked him. She had been too strong.
He had crawled into the trunk to escape the blinding lights of the Panda's headlamps. It was dark in there. It stank of petrol and rubber. But didn't care.
He lay silently.
Waiting.
Lambert breathed a sigh of relief as dawn clawed its way across the sky.
Now, as he stood by the window of John Kirby's spare bedroom, he had never been so pleased to see the light of day. He looked down at the cup of coffee in his hand and drained it, replacing the empty vessel on a small sideboard. He watched the sun appear, preceded by golden shafts of light and finally, a tiny portion of it peering over the horizon and filling the heavens with the first glow of morning.
He turned and looked at Debbie who was lying on a bed in one corner of the room. She was sleeping and the slow rhythmic heaving of her chest reassured him. He crossed to the bedside and knelt beside her, reaching beneath the sheets to grasp one of her hands. He stayed there for several moments, gripping her soft hand and gazing at her face. Eventually he got to his feet, kissed her lightly on the forehead and whispered, 'I love you.' Then he carefully replaced her hand under the sheets and left the room. He closed the door behind him and leant against it for a moment, exhaling deeply. The memory of the previous night was still vivid in his mind, burned deep into his consciousness like a red hot brand.
They had arrived at Kirby's at around three that morning. Bleary-eyed, the doctor had let them in and led Lambert, with Debbie's inert form in his arms, upstairs to this bedroom. He had sedated her with Thorazine. Then he and Kirby had gone downstairs to where Jenkins waited. Lambert had told the doctor what had happened and Kirby had listened, his apprehension growing by the second. Finally the doctor had treated their minor cuts and bruises and the three of them had then sat down over a cup of coffee to wait for morning. Jenkins had managed to catch a few hours sleep on the couch in Kirby's surgery. When Lambert walked into the kitchen he found the doctor sitting alone at the table.
'Is she all right?' asked Kirby.
Lambert nodded. 'Still sleeping.'
'She will be for quite a while; it's the best thing for her after what she's been through.' The Inspector poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down opposite Kirby.
'Where's Jenkins?' he asked.
Kirby hooked a thumb in the direction of the surgery, 'He's still asleep too.' The doctor studied the young policeman's face, the beginnings of stubble on his chin, the dark rings beneath his eyes. 'You look like you could do with some rest yourself.'
Lambert smiled humourlessly and ran his index finger around the lip of his cup. Finally he looked up.
'They could have killed her, John,' he said, his voice softening.
