by Peter James
He closed his eyes, placed his hands in front of his face, and recited the Lord’s Prayer. It was the start of his ninety-minute prayer vigil for strength.
95
Light suddenly exploded across the rain-drenched windscreen. Brilliant white one moment, blue the next, and for an instant the Disciple, hands clasped in prayer in front of his face, froze in panic.
Police?
The car slid past in front of him, splashing through the deep puddles of the pot-holed lot. He heard the bass beat of music. Ker-boom-ker-ker, ker-boom-ker-ker, ker-boom-ker-ker, ker-boom-ker-ker. It wasn’t police, it was one of those fancy sports cars with those halogen lights that glinted blue when you caught them at certain angles.
Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? This is my car park, this is my space.
The fancy car moved away, down towards the far end of the lot, then stopped beside the oak tree that straddled the railings, beyond which was an expanse of parkland and the municipal tennis court.
All its lights went off.
The Disciple raised his night-vision glasses and stared through the rear windscreen of the car. In the bright green glow he could see a man and a woman. Their faces were turned towards each other. Each of them gave a quick glance back into the darkness, at him, then they began to eat each other’s faces.
Fornicators. Sewer people.
He could still hear that bass beat. But it was faint now.
This is my space. God found this for me. You should not be here, you really should not.
He slipped his right hand down to his anorak pocket, clasped his fingers around the cold, hard butt of his gun. Eliminating them would be easy; he had enough spare bullets. God would OK that – anything that stood between him and the Infidels and the Devil’s Spawn was a legitimate target.
Perspiration guttered down his back. These people here, this wasn’t meant to happen. He could abort, drive off, come back again tomorrow. Except, the weather was perfect tonight and Lara was waiting, and why should these sewer people delay him for another day? He had already emailed the Master. Plans were made. Too much to change.
He was shaking so badly he could not think straight.
Something made him twist the ignition key, put the car in gear, switch the lights on, accelerate out of the lot and turn left, through the village, past the busy pub with its lot full of cars, up the lane towards the entrance to the Infidels’ house.
He could just turn right, drive in, straight up to the house.
That was crazy.
He stopped outside the entrance, turned the car around and drove back down towards the village. Thinking. Thinking. Trying desperately to clear the red mist of anger out of his head. Thinking.
OK. OK. OK.
He drove through the village, heading back towards the main road, cut the apex of the right-hander at the end of the village and had to swerve violently to avoid oncoming headlights, so violently he hit the verge and the car slewed.
He slammed on the brakes. Closed his eyes for a second.
Please tell me what to do, God. Guidance. Give me guidance.
God guided him onto the main road. He drove up it for five miles until he reached a roundabout. He did two full loops of the roundabout. This was all going wrong, this wasn’t the plan. This was God testing him.
Haven’t you tested me enough?
A car cut out in front of him; he jammed on the brakes and his wheels locked, the little Ford yawing crazily, missing the back of the car by inches.
He took the first exit off the roundabout, not even sure where he was now, and swung into a lay-by. He pulled on the handbrake, then lowered his head, hyperventilating in panic.
The clock on the dash was blurred. His whole vision was blurred. Twelve minutes past eleven.
He switched on the dome light, took out the photograph of Lara and stared at her. Sweet, sweet Lara. Her face, smiling back at him, calmed him. Gave him strength. Helped him to collect his thoughts.
Headlights loomed in his mirror. He stiffened. Then moments later a car roared past.
Forty-five minutes. That was all. Just forty-five minutes to get through.
He drove on for a couple of miles until he reached the outskirts of a village he had never been to before. A signpost said ALFRISTON.
Braking sharply, he turned the car round, then drove slowly back, retracing his steps, and pulled into the unlit entrance to a farm, switched the engine and the lights off and sat, very still, trying to calm himself down and to think clearly.
The fancy car with the lovers, which had come into the lot behind the schoolhouse, was a test. God had tested Job and was now testing him. Or warning him. If it was still there when he drove back, it would be a sign to abort tonight; but if it was gone, it would be God giving him the all-clear.
At eleven forty-five he drove back into the village of Caibourne and turned into the schoolhouse parking lot.
The lovers had gone.
And the rain was easing off. Still falling, but lighter now, although the wind was getting stronger. Good. He pulled his thin leather gloves on, climbed out of the car, locked the doors, and took the air rifle from the boot. He made his way across the lot, past the school, checked very carefully that the coast was clear, then ran across the road and onto the muddy bridleway that would take him straight across a field of corn stubble, and up to the field of pasture grass that adjoined the Infidels’ garden.
He held the torch, but only switched it on for an instant every few paces. The track was uneven, chewed up by horses’ hooves. Several times he slipped, almost losing his footing, and twice he cursed as his anorak snagged on the brambles.
Although he was still extremely fit, the steep climb, nerves and the cold air were taking their toll. He was breathing heavily, perspiring inside his warm clothing and under his heavy load. But there was a deep glow in his heart.
And now, finally, he could see the Infidels’ house! A looming shadow two hundred yards in front of him. There was just one light on, the master bedroom. And then, joy! Even as he was watching, it was extinguished.
Darkness!
Now the adrenaline was pumping and he could scarcely contain his excitement.
Something darted above him, a bat, or maybe an owl. He listened for a moment to the howl of the wind through the grass and the trees and the bushes, listened to a hinge shrieking as an unlatched farm gate swung open, shut, open, shut, and the steady banging of an unsecured door. So many noises to mask his own!
Looking up at the bitumen-black sky, he thought to himself, yes, this night has been ordained! Leaning against the gridded metal stock fencing, he raised his night-vision binoculars. Fixed them on the master bedroom window. Adjusted the focus until it was pin-sharp. Remembered his briefing, the words of the Master.
Watch the condensation. When the outside temperature is colder than inside there will be condensation on the windows. When the heating goes off the condensation will slowly cease. When the condensation has gone it is safe to assume the occupants are asleep.
The master bedroom windows of the Infidels were misted with condensation. But even as he watched, he could see it beginning to fade.
*
It was dark in their bedroom. Their parents no longer left the Bob the Builder night light on. That wasn’t important. One sense always compensated for another. In darkness, smell kicked in stronger. So did touch. So did hearing.
They smelled him now. They heard him.
Soon they would touch him.
In their little side-by-side beds, in the darkness of the room in the house where they lived for now, but for not much longer, in a voice too high-pitched to be detected by the human ear, Luke called out to his sister. Just one word, spoken with the fourth letter, ‘d’, missing, backwards.
‘Yaer?’
A split second later, in a voice equally inaudible to the normal human ear, Phoebe responded.
‘Yaer.’
96
They observed him from a comfo
rtable distance, the figure in the dark baseball cap, anorak and boots. At the moment he was staring at the house through his binoculars, his rifle leaning against the fence. They were too far away to tell whether it was just an airgun or a hunting rifle.
The gap between them was two hundred yards, a distance they had maintained since they had watched him emerge from the parking lot behind the schoolhouse, cross over the road and head off up the footpath. He had never once turned round.
Like him, they also had night-vision aids, but they were better equipped. Both of them wore goggles, and carried binoculars as well. With these goggles it was like walking in green daylight. They watched, for a brief moment, an owl swoop into a field and then rise with a wriggling mouse dangling from its beak.
Shielded by a hedgerow, just in case he should turn round, they continued to observe him as he lowered his binoculars then, a couple of minutes later, raised them to his eyes again. They wondered what he was waiting for and communicated this via an exchange of puzzled glances. Neither of them spoke; he was downwind of them. Despite the covering noises of the raging gale, the faintest whisper was too dangerous to risk.
*
The condensation had almost gone! The Disciple felt calmer now; his heart was no longer crashing around out of control inside his chest, but was beating at a steady, strong level, circulating the adrenaline that was keeping him alert and sharp, pumping around those endorphins that were making him feel good now. He checked his watch.
12.22
Time!
For a glorious few moments, clambering over the fence into the field that bordered the Infidels’ property, he felt invincible. Then, crouching low to minimize the chance of being seen from the house, and treading carefully, wary of damaging an ankle in a rabbit hole, he made his way as swiftly as he dared across the boggy, rain-sodden field.
Now his heart was really pounding again as he reached the boundary fencing, which was as close as he dared go for the moment. The house, just fifty feet away, loomed high and shadowy above him. All the lights were off and the windows closed. Good. He stared at the Infidels’ cars on the gravel drive. Just the Saab and the Subaru. No overnight visitors. Good. Then he fixed his gaze up at the wall where he had seen the sensor when he had paid his visit.
He knelt, took the air rifle and, cushioning it on his hand, rested it on a wooden fence post. He pulled off the night-sight covers, crammed them into his anorak, then squinted through it. It took him only a moment to pick up the sensor for the intruder lights, a tiny, convex strip of glass or Perspex set in white plastic, about ten feet above the ground, and directly beneath one of the battery of floodlights it would trigger.
But his damned hands were shaking; they had never shaken before like this. Taking a deep breath, trying to calm down, he lined the cross hairs up, but the instant he did, they had moved off the target. He shifted his position a fraction, making an even better wedge against the post, and aimed again. Better. Steadier, but nowhere near as steady as when he had been practising, nor anything like as steady as at the previous house in Iowa, where he had done exactly this same thing.
Curling his finger over the trigger, he took up the slack, allowed the cross hairs to move off the target, then slowly, concentrating desperately to try to stop the gun jigging from his damned nerves, jigging from the ferociously gusting wind, he brought the cross hairs dead centre over the target and increased his pressure on the trigger.
There was a sharp phuttt! as the gas cylinder expelled the first of the ten pellets in the magazine and almost simultaneously a hideously loud thwakkk! as the pellet embedded itself in the stained wooden cladding of the barn wall, several inches to the left of the sensor.
The Disciple held his breath, stared up at anxiously at the master bedroom window, shaking even more now. To his relief, there was no sign of any movement. How could he have missed so badly? Yesterday, he’d driven to a lonely spot in the countryside and set the sight up for this distance. He had ripped out the bullseyes in the targets with ninety-seven out of one hundred slugs.
He took a second shot now, and again hit the cladding, this time directly below his target. And now the perspiration was starting to run down his body again, and his head felt too hot inside his hat and his fingers sticky inside his gloves. He watched the master bedroom window for a light to come on, or a twitch of the curtains. But again, to his relief, nothing. So many noises from the wind right now, one tiny .22 pellet was probably insignificant; except it didn’t sound that way from down here.
He fired his third shot.
Even wider. ‘No!’ the cry came out before he could stop it.
Now his eyes were beginning to blur with tears, from the savage, icy wind, and even more from frustration. Seven pellets left. Seven. Just needed one.
He opened his eyes, blinked away the tears, wiped them with the back of his leather glove, took careful aim, felt confident now, had the target absolutely square on as he pulled the trigger. The pellet went well to the left and must have struck metal because it made a hard ping, so damned loud. He ducked right down and waited, staring up at the master bedroom window, and at the other windows, really afraid he must have woken someone this time.
Only fifty feet! How can I miss from fifty feet? How? It isn’t possible?
Please, God, don’t desert me now.
He let a couple of minutes pass, until he was satisfied all was quiet inside the house. Then he took aim again. Squeezed the trigger. And almost shouted out for joy as the glass exploded and the shards tumbled down onto the gravel with a few barely audible tinkles. The white plastic sensor, split in two, dangled limply from its wires. He raised his binoculars and focused on the sensor, just to double check that it wasn’t merely the outer casing that had gone. But the damage looked thorough. It was destroyed.
His mouth felt dry with anxiety. He laid down the rifle, then patted the handgun in his pocket. From his left pocket he pulled the leather pouch containing the tungsten lock-pick tools. His insides were jangling, the red mist of panic he’d experienced earlier was returning and he was having to make an effort to stay calm, to remember his plan.
He should make it look like an accident, like a fire, that was his brief. But that carried too many risks, the thought of being caught, of being incarcerated. No. Not an option. These scum sewer Infidels weren’t worthy of such a risk. He would gun them down like the vermin they were, them and their Spawn. Then he would burn the place. His Master might not be happy with him, but he would never be able to send him out into the field again. There were times in life where you had to make your own decisions.
He climbed over the fence and onto the narrow grass verge on the other side. Stared anxiously up at the house. Put one cautious foot forward on to the gravel as if he were testing water. Then another.
Scccrrunncccccchhhhh.
He froze. Took another step, then another, praying for silent footfalls and each time scrunching just as loudly as the last. They won’t hear it, not in this storm. Stop worrying.
He reached the porch. He already knew what kind of lock it was, from his previous visit, a sturdy, mortise deadlock, and he had the right pick selected for the task, a full diamond. He had practised a thousand times on an identical lock he had bought earlier in the week.
From his breast pocket he pulled out his tiny torch, twisted it on, and held it in his left hand, pointing the beam on the lock. With his right hand, he inserted the tip of the tungsten diamond pick into the keyway. Navigating the wards, he pushed it firmly through the plug, feeling for the first pin. Then it came to a halt. He tried again. And then he realized, to his dismay, what the problem was.
Someone had left the key in on the other side of the door.
Even as he was registering this, he heard a metallic sound right in front of him. The ratchety clank of brass pins lifting clear of a sheer line. The dull, leaden, unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.
Dropping the pick, his hand lunged for his Beretta. It was jammed in his poc
ket! As he tugged at the weapon in wild panic the door opened. It was so dark inside the house he could barely see the two small figures, in boots and in their winter coats.
The Devil’s Spawn.
Standing in front of him.
Their eyes glinting with such curiosity he felt for a moment they were staring right through him. He stepped back several paces. Much too late, he realized they were in fact looking at the people behind him.
He never heard the gun fire. He sensed just one brief rush of scorching, arid wind, accompanied by an eerie whoosh that made his ears pop. He never felt the bullet, either, which entered through the base of his skull, partially severing his spinal cord. It traversed through his left cerebral hemisphere into his right cerebral hemisphere, on through his frontal lobe, exited above his right eye, and ricocheted off the brick facing of the porch, gouging a small hole in the cement pointing.
For an instant, he saw Lara, standing in brilliant, milky light at the end of a long tunnel; then the faces of the Devil’s Spawn stood in front of her, blocking his view with their smirking faces, smirking Victory! at him, savage, graceless smiles stretched across their faces, while their eyes burned with hatred. They were moving towards him, or perhaps he was moving toward them. He called out, in desperation, ‘Lara!’
Her name echoed in the hollow darkness, and dissolved into the Spawns’ giggles, ringing, wracking, deafening, childish giggles. The only light now came from the four eyes, four pools of luminescent, colourless dry ice. They were receding. Soft gravel was cradling him.
There were faces above him now, two different faces, silhouettes in the darkness, something familiar about them. Slowly his ravaged neural pathways lightened their features for him, turning them a vivid night-vision green. And then through his addled thoughts and fading consciousness, as his blood drained out onto the gravel, memory began flooding in. Into his confusion entered a fleeting moment of understanding. He knew now why they seemed familiar.