by Sepulchre
And then his eyes came to rest on the man he had been seeking.
'Halloran!' he yelled.
The operative looked up towards the top of the stairway, as did the others in the chamber. Khayed became still, while Kline leaned heavily against the stone, a wildness in his eyes. Cora barely reacted, for the moment too disorientated to care.
The man with the gun shoved Palusinski away from him, and the Pole staggered down a few steps before cowering against the wall, folding himself up so that he was small, a poor attempt to make himself invisible. The weapon came around to point at Halloran.
'You've given the Organisation a lot of grief, man,' Shay said.
Halloran straightened slightly, his body remaining tensed. The man above him had spoken with a thick, southern-Irish accent and a hint of the truth began to dawn in Halloran's mind.
'You killed three good men, Halloran. Valuable men to the Cause, they were. Shot 'em before they had a chance. You should have known we'd find you, you must have realised the IRA would never stand for that!' Halloran was stunned. So it was he who had been the target all along. This bastard had tortured Dieter Stuhr to find him...
The man on the stairway felt uneasy with the strange smile that had appeared on Halloran's face.
Shay spoke to cover his own inexplicable fear. 'There'll be three Provos, good an' true, smiling in Heaven this night,' he said, raising the .38 so that it was aimed directly at Halloran.
'There's no such place for killers,' the man below said, and his voice was mild, the lilt of Irish there as if he'd not been gone too long from the ould country.
'That you'd be knowing yourself,' Shay replied. 'God only knows what Divil's worship you're involved in here. Ask His forgiveness, if you've a mind to, an' do it now.' Thunder rumbled as his finger curled against the revolver's trigger.
'Liam!' Cora screamed, and just for an instant the gunman was distracted.
That was all the time that Halloran needed to make a grab for the collapsed Arab.
The gun roared deafeningly in the confines of the underground room, but Halloran had already hoisted up the Arab to use as a shield. Daoud shuddered as the bullet struck his forehead and lodged inside. The operative fought to control the twitching body, his hands beneath the dead man's shoulders, holding him upright. The second bullet entered Daoud's stomach, and the third went through his side. Halloran felt this last one nick his hip as it emerged and, although most of its force was spent, the shock was enough to make him drop his cover.
More screams filled the air, but these were from Khayed who had witnessed the slaying of his lover. He ran towards the stairs, the long blade raised high, a continuous screech now rising from deep inside his throat.
Shay was obliged to turn to meet the attack, and he was hardly aware of the person who had led him to this ungodly place brushing past. Palusinski was too afraid for his own life to tackle the gunman; he made for the safety of the corridor at the top of the stairs.
Khayed was almost on the bottom step when Shay fired the gun at him. A hole appeared in the Arab's chest, its edges immediately spreading blood. He staggered backwards, his arms waving as if for balance, then came forward once more, his face not contorted with pain but with outrage. He reached the second step and seemed to sense he would never get close to the one who had killed his beloved Youssef.
The huge knife was already leaving his hand as the next bullet tore away his throat.
Shay fell back against the stairs, the blade imbedded at an angle in his stomach, the heavy anorak he wore no protection at all. His vision was already beginning to dim as he turned his head towards the man below, his target, the Irishman turned traitor whom he and his group had been sent to assassinate as an example to others of how the Organisation always avenged themselves. His hand wavered as he raised the Webley .38, for the weapon was suddenly very heavy, almost too heavy to lift.
Once again he aimed the gun at Halloran.
49 RETURN TO THE DEATH HUT
'We can't waste any more time with this one,' Mather remarked. 'Find another point of entry?' his operative suggested, looking up from his kneeling position against the porch wall.
'No need,' Mather replied, raising a hand to the other two Shield men running towards them. He went to meet them, keeping out of sight of the main doors inside the porch from where the gunman held them at bay. He tightened his coat collar around his neck against the drenching rain.
'In the mood for target practice, Georgie?' he asked when the two men reached him.
'Always, sir,' came the answer, as all three moved in close to be heard over the storm. 'What's the problem?'
'We're being refused admittance. You see the Mercedes parked in line with the porch? You'll have a clear view of the house doorway from the rear passenger seat, or at least you can see some of it in the darkness—our friend appears to have switched off some lights. The vehicle's ours, so use your spare key if it's locked.'
'How much damage?'
'Just hit the bugger.' Mather limped away, followed by the second operative who crouched low and used the Mercedes as a screen to reach the opposite side of the porch. The man named Georgie doubled over also, going to the car and trying the doorhandle. Halloran must have left it in one hell of a rush, he thought, when he discovered the doors were unlocked. The keys were in the ignition. Georgie switched on the system, then crawled over to the backseat and pressed the button to lower the passenger window.
lie raised the Browning, keeping it clear of the rain that spattered in, and waited.
He watched as the operative with Mather crawled on his belly into the tunnel, keeping to the shadow of one wall. The Planner reached inside with his cane to tap the floor, hoping to attract the attention of their quarry.
It worked. Georgie squeezed the Browning's trigger as flame flashed from the doorway ahead. All he heard was the bark of his own weapon, but he assumed Phil, inside the porch, had fired at the same time, aiming slightly left of the gunflash. They waited a few seconds then, as lightning seared and thunder shook the sky, he saw Mather rush inside, Phil rising to accompany him to the doorway. He bundled out of the car, taking up position on the opposite side of the porch to his other colleague, their weapons pointing inwards at the entrance.
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 twisted, bent under their weight. Cora was trying to reach him, but something had hold of her, something not visible that tore at her robe, exposing her shoulders, her breasts that were smeared with blood. She was screaming as she struggled, but he could not hear her.
Halloran stumbled forward, desperate to help her, wanting that more than anything else, heedless of his own plight, the invasion of his own body. But it was useless. He was being dragged down by these seeping infiltrators who sought their own origins.
He could not hear her screams. But he could hear Kline's laughter.
Its cracked sound mocked him, tormented, as Kline overwhelmed him with imaginings, the thoughts swelling with alt the badness that had been drawn into that underground room, the malignancy that had dwelled inside the dead men, released now by someone who acted as instigator and catalyst, someone who knew the ancient secrets of the Cabala, who understood their potency. Felix Kline . . .
Where was he? Where was Kline?
Where else but inside your head? came the silent reply.
'That can't be,' denied Halloran aloud, his hands over his ears as though they could cut out the sly voice that was, indeed, inside his head.
Oh, but it can. A familiar snigger. I can be anywhere. Didn't I demonstrate that the first time we met?
'I can stop you!' You can?
Please try. A good-humoured invitation.
Halloran's legs buckled as white-hot irons pressed against the back of his eyeballs.
There. Painful? I can do more than that. You deserve to suffer more.
Halloran looked up from his kneeling position. Kline was standing a short distance away, facing him, eyes closed, scarlet hands tight against his own head. A head whose skin was all but gone, the flesh that had been beneath exposed and livid. He was unsteady as shadows that were something more than shadows writhed around him. Kline's mouth was open, an agonised grimace.
'It's too late!' Halloran managed to shout. 'You're weak. Your power isn't the same.' And as he said the words, Halloran felt the slightest easing of pressure, the merest cooling of the fire. Pain immediately came back to him.
You're so wrong, Halloran, whispered the insidious voice inside his head. My only problem is whether I finish you quickly or take my time, enjoy myself a little.
But there was a gasp, a sound only in Halloran's mind. Kline was reeling, his hands leaving blotches of scraped flesh as they ran down his face.
'Halloran!' A piercing scream, and from Kline's lips.
The psychic's eyes opened, blackness filling them. They rested on Halloran's. 'I can hurt you,' Kline rasped. 'I can make your heart seize up with the horrors I'll show you.' His eyes closed once more and the snigger was back inside Halloran's mind.
Nightmares began to form, and gargoyles drifted from them. But these were tangible, on the outside of his thoughts, for when they touched him their fingernails were like razor blades, and he could smell the stench of their breath, dank and foul, like old sea caves where mammoth creatures of the deep had been abandoned by the tide to die. They clung to him and their lips -not lips, they had no such things as lips—their openings pressed against his face to kiss.
He felt the aching in his arms. The tightening of his chest, as fear began to win through. No! They were in his mind—in Kline's mind! They couldn't hurt him!
But they could.
For where they touched him, so they drew out his life. He could feel living beings inside his veins, blocking the flow, expanding so that they burst the tubes and his life's liquid poured uselessly into the cavities of his body. He sagged, slumped on his haunches, and he acknowledged Kline's assertion that he could coax a victim's mind to murder its own host. Halloran was unable to resist, the images of Kline's creation were too strong, too real! His forehead bowed to the wet stone floor.