Equinox

by Michael White

  Bridges's eyes now widened in alarm. He put his hands up slowly and deliberately, looking from the old man's face to the gun and back again. Laura could see beads of sweat on his forehead.

  'What?' he said, shaking his head slightly. 'What exactly. .?'

  'Well, naturally, you would not like to admit. .'

  Philip was about to interrupt when Lightman glared at him. 'This has nothing to do with you, Mr Bainbridge.' He gestured at Bridges with the gun. 'Well?'

  'I don't. .'

  'Malcolm, Malcolm,' Lightman sighed and shook his head. 'Please don't waste my time. Let's start at the beginning, shall we? I'll help you. You see, I know very much more about you than you might imagine. I have many, many useful contacts in all sorts of interesting places. I know, for example, that you were present at the scene when my colleague. . shall we call him Julius? Yes, when Julius was harvesting the brain. The police found a tiny sample of your blood in the girl's house. Then two weeks ago you were caught on film, searching through my study at home. I have records of the most incriminating communications between you and your employers.'

  Bridges seemed suddenly transformed. Gone was the pallid academic, the vampiric accessory to a series of horrendous crimes. He suddenly looked more ordinary. 'You know who I work for,' he said, fixing Lightman with his stare. 'Your taxes pay my salary. And if you really have tapped my communications, which I actually rather doubt, you'll know they end up at Millbank. I was at the dead girl's house hoping to get in Spenser's way. Unfortunately, I was too late to save her life — I saw him slice her open. I'm here now to prevent you from finishing your task.'

  Lightman gave him a brief, icy smile. But Laura could sense that some of the sheen had gone from his seemingly impervious confidence.

  'Ah, the self-assurance of youth,' he said. 'How I admire it so. But I think you have left things a little too late, dear boy. Of course you could not have done much to stop us earlier — there was nothing to go on, was there? Julius is very thorough. What would your superiors have thought if you had gone to them with some cock-and-bull story where the Chief Librarian, who has mysteriously disappeared, is in fact the head of an occult group seeking to employ the services of the Dark Lord in some nefarious ritual? As we speak, Julius is preparing to harvest the final item.'

  Bridges said nothing and slowly lowered his hands.

  'Don't do that. I think you should keep them there,' Lightman snapped, gesturing with the gun again. Bridges did as he was told. 'Now,' Lightman added and glanced quickly at Laura and Philip, 'you may think I'm a frail old man, but please do not entertain any thoughts of trying to overpower me. I am a superb marksman and a great deal more agile than I might appear.' He took a deep breath. 'I would very much like all three of you to sit down over here, please.' He waved the gun in the direction of the pentagram.

  'James, don't you think this has gone far enough?' Laura said.

  'You don't really understand, do you, Laura?' Lightman replied. 'This is not a game. This is deadly serious. I have spent the last ten years of my life planning this most delicate process, and tonight will be the climax and the fulfilment of that work. You cannot be allowed to interfere. Now, please, do as I ask.' He put a hand to Laura's shoulder to guide her across the room. But she shrugged him off angrily.

  'I can't believe this of you,' she hissed.

  Philip took her arm and Lightman herded the three of them to the platform where the pentagram stood. On the floor lay a toolbox. Lightman opened the lid. Inside lay a wrench, some screwdrivers, an assortment of spanners, nuts and bolts, and a roll of duct * tape. He picked up the tape and handed it to Laura.

  'Tie their wrists to the pentagram. You, sit down, over there,' he said to the two men. He held the gun to Bridges's back, pushing it just hard enough for him to feel it between his shoulder blades.

  Philip slipped off his rucksack and laid it close by before lowering himself to the stone floor. Lightman walked around the back of the pentagram, keeping his revolver trained on them. He kicked Philip's bag across the floor and watched as Laura crouched down and wound the tape around Philip's wrists. He checked it as she moved on to do the same to Bridges.

  'Sit down, please, Laura,' he said when she was done. He then taped her wrists to the pentagram.

  'Now, I have much to do.' Lightman looked from face to face. Laura turned away in disgust.

  'You really are wasting your time, you know' Bridges's voice was quiet but authoritative.

  'Don't make me angry, Malcolm,' Lightman snapped. 'Although you are going to die anyway, there are ways to die that you would not like to contemplate, I assure you.'

  'The inscription is a fake.'

  'Is it, now?'

  'Charlie Tucker learned what you were trying to achieve and altered the decoded inscription. He was obviously a believer. You killed him too soon, Professor.'

  Lightman stared at Bridges for a moment. When he eventually spoke his voice was strangely subdued. 'I didn't have Tucker killed.'

  'Well, whoever did take out Charlie Tucker has left you with a useless inscription that wouldn't conjure up a pixie, let alone Mephistopheles.'

  Lightman's eyes were dark with fury. 'You think what you like, Malcolm,' he sneered. 'I imagine you are merely following your training. I can see the training manual now — Technique No.72: Try to intimidate your adversary with potentially threatening but quite spurious information.'

  Bridges simply shrugged. 'OK … we can wait.'

  'Can you?' Lightman barked and took a step forward. 'Perhaps I can rectify that.' He raised his gun to Bridges's head.

  'No!' Laura screamed. Lightman turned on her and Philip, the gun waving around in front of their faces.

  Lightman laughed and stepped back to survey the three of them tied to the pentagram. 'What a pathetic sight you make.'

  'Oh, do shut up, James,' Laura snapped back. 'If anyone's pathetic it's you — you must have lost your mind.'

  Lightman walked over to where Laura was sitting between Bridges and Philip. He lowered himself so that his face was level with hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek.

  'You don't have the faintest suspicion, do you?' he said.

  'Suspicion of what?' Laura hissed. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

  'Why, the identity of the final victim, of course.' He smiled.

  It took a moment for his words to take shape in Laura's mind.

  'Ah, now you understand,' Lightman said coldly. 'Your daughter will be killed in. .' He looked at his watch. 'About forty-five minutes. Julius will then remove her liver and bring it here.'

  Laura went cold. It swept over her like an Arctic wave. She felt Philip beside her trying to yank himself free from the tape that bound him to the pentagram.

  'Don't tell me, Mr Bainbridge,' Lightman said softly. 'I won't get away with this? But who is going to stop me? Monroe? He hasn't got the foggiest.'

  Laura was speechless with horror. Through her mind raced images of Jo alone at the house in Woodstock and the cold-hearted Julius Spenser creeping in through the back door. Philip had his eyes closed and his lips pressed firmly together. He looked very pale.

  'Now, I expect you are wondering how Monroe could not have known Jo was my final subject, are you not?' No one answered Lightman and he seemed quite content to talk on. 'Well, although our DCI is a bit of a clod, this was not entirely his fault. You see, Jo — may I call her Jo? — Jo used her stepfather's name, Newcombe. That, as you know, Laura, is the name she uses for all official purposes and it is the name on her university admission forms. It's the name she used for the psychology tests. How could Monroe have worked that one out?'

  Bridges let out an exaggerated sigh, and Lightman snapped his attention back to him.

  'I'll say it again, Professor. You're wasting your time.'

  Lightman levelled the gun once more at Bridges. They could all see the old man's hand shaking, and Laura suddenly remembered her visit to Lightman's office at the Bodleian a week earlier. She remembere
d the odd gripping device he had used to alleviate his arthritic pain. But she could do nothing. Her hands were bound so tightly that she could hardly feel her fingers.

  Lightman switched hands, and as his right hand fell to his side he shook it as if to relieve some pain.

  'You know, Malcolm,' and his voice trembled slightly, 'I'm getting rather tired of you repeating yourself They all watched him bring the gun up to Bridges's forehead. Slowly, almost sensuously, Lightman caressed Bridges's face with the cold muzzle. He moved it across his skin, leaving white marks. 'We are such frail things, are we not?' Lightman whispered. He lowered the gun slowly to a point a few inches above his victim's chest, then slid it along each arm, the left, then the right. Bringing it back to Bridges's torso and down to his groin, Lightman let the gun hover there for a few seconds. Still slowly, he ran it up the young man's right leg, then his left. Reaching the knee, he paused for a second. He seemed to be studying Bridges's leg, tilting his head slightly to one side, considering it. 'So very frail.'

  He looked into Malcolm Bridges's eyes and fired.

  The sound slammed around the room, ricocheting from the stone walls. The bullet shattered Bridges's knee. He screamed and spasmed violently, crashing back against the metal framework of the pentagram.

  Lightman's face was expressionless. He ignored the young man's writhing body and turned his attention to Laura and Philip. They were both paralysed with shock.

  'As I say, I have much to do,' Lightman muttered. There was a polite cough from the main doorway.

  DCI Monroe stood there, flanked by two police officers. They were dressed in helmets and bulletproof vests. The two uniformed officers had their guns pointing at Lightman's head. 'Freeze! Lower your weapon,' Monroe said.

  Lightman took a step to his right and grabbed Laura by the hair, making her scream with pain. Bringing his gun up to her right temple, he said. 'I rather think you should lower your weapons. I do so hate a mess.'

  Laura's mind was racing. She refused to let panic overwhelm her. That would not help the situation and it certainly would not help Jo. Monroe and the two policemen stepped forward into the room. In response, Lightman pushed the gun harder against her temple, sending waves of pain through her head.

  Without thinking exactly what she was doing, Laura twisted her head and pushed back hard against a crossbar of the metal pentagram immediately behind her. Another wave of pain shot through her, but it must have hurt Lightman even more because his fingers were crushed between the metal and the back of Laura's head.

  He yelped, tried to free his hand and lost his balance. It was all the police marksmen needed. Two shots rang out and Lightman fell to the ground, clutching his chest.

  Monroe was across the room in an instant. As he reached the pentagram two more officers arrived.

  'Jones, get me the paramedic kit,' Monroe shouted.

  The other policeman ran over to Lightman's body.

  'See to this man immediately.' Monroe pointed to Bridges. 'Get him to the surface and call the paramedics on the way — as soon as you have a signal.' Then he turned to Laura and Philip. 'You two OK?'

  Laura's face was drained of blood and her whole body was shaking. 'Jo. . You've got to save Jo,' she gasped.

  Monroe looked confused. 'What. .?'

  'Jo's the last target,' Philip said, his voice shaky. 'Our daughter — she'll be at my house in Woodstock. The killer's on his way.'

  Monroe didn't hesitate. 'Harcourt, Smith,' he yelled to the two officers who had entered the room with him. 'You need to get back to the surface immediately' He turned to Philip. 'What's the address?'

  'Somersby Cottage, Ridley Street. It's directly off the High Street, two down from the post office.'

  'Tell all units: extreme caution,' Monroe snapped. 'The suspect is armed and highly dangerous.' Then he walked round the back of the pentagram and cut the tape. Laura and Philip jumped to their feet, rubbing their wrists.

  'We've got to get out of here,' Laura croaked, her heart thudding in her chest.

  'We can deal with this, Laura,' Monroe insisted. 'I hope so. But there's no way I am hanging around here.'

  One of the policeman crouching beside Lightman straightened up. 'He's dead,' he announced.

  Laura didn't even stop to look at Lightman's corpse as she ran for the door, followed by Philip and Monroe. On his way Philip caught a glimpse of Bridges struggling to sit up. Jones had a tourniquet above the man's knee and an oxygen mask over his face.

  'Thank you,' Philip said as he rushed past.

  Monroe led the way, turning left through an archway with a curved ceiling illuminated by crystals.

  'How did you manage to find us?' Philip asked as they ran.

  'You have to thank our friend Malcolm Bridges for that,' Monroe replied.

  It took them several minutes to reach the surface. Monroe had to stop a few times to check the map that Bridges had sent him earlier. The tunnels twisted and turned but followed a gentle upward slope. It was exhausting, but they couldn't waste a second. They kept going even as Monroe took out his intercom. One green light showed on the signal indicator. He stabbed at the call button.

  'Harcourt? You on the road? Good. All units

  heading for Woodstock. Right, listen, the suspect is one Julius Spenser. Get Smith to run a profile en route. We know he's a highly trained assassin. He'll be well armed.' Monroe took several deep breaths as he ran and felt a pain in his chest. Must get back to the gym, he thought. 'We'll be there as quickly as we can. Jenkins will supervise until I get there; he's on his way'

  As they turned the final corner they were confronted by a heavy oak door. But there was no need to follow any unlocking code: it was open. Monroe led the way into Lightman's office. They traversed the room with barely a glance around them, passed two police officers standing in the corridor beyond, and a few seconds later emerged into the chill night air. Monroe's car was close to the main doors. Philip and Laura jumped into the back as the DCI took the wheel and raced onto Parks Road, heading north towards Woodstock. Behind them they could see the lights of an ambulance pulling up outside the main entrance to the library.

  Chapter 45

  Woodstock: 30 March, midnight

  The house was in almost total darkness as the Acolyte parked his black Toyota in the driveway that curved round the back of the house. A light was on in the kitchen and this cast a faint glow across the path that ran under the window. He knew that the only people in the house were Tom and Jo. Almost three hours earlier he had seen Laura and Philip enter the Trill Mill Stream, then he had met with the Master before leaving for St Giles and Jo's college. He had watched Jo emerge from the main gate with her boyfriend at 10.45. Then he had followed their car north out of the city and along the road to Woodstock. There he had observed them entering the house before he'd driven a short distance to wait in a nearby lane.

  This would be the final harvesting: a liver from Jo Newcombe. With this task accomplished he would make all haste to Oxford where he would stand beside his Master as they performed the ritual. By the morning, their work would be complete.

  The Acolyte turned the handle of the kitchen door. It was locked. Lowering the organ-transporter to the floor he opened a pouch in his plastic oversuit, removed a long needle-like implement and slipped it into the lock. A moment later the door was open and he stepped inside.

  He could hear sounds coming from a nearby room. He had been here earlier in the day and knew the layout of the house. He crept across the darkened dining room to a door that led onto the narrow hallway. He opened the door very carefully. Everything seemed to creak and groan in this old house. In the hall he could hear more clearly the sound from the TV in the large sitting room directly ahead. To his left there was a winding narrow staircase. He traversed the hall. The door to the living room was open, but only a crack. He eased it back on its hinges.

  A lamp glowed in the corner near the door, but the flickering light from the TV was the only illumination at the far end of the r
oom. Jo and Tom were sitting close together on the sofa, lost in an old movie. The Acolyte caught a glimpse of the actors, black-and-white images, a couple kissing through the window of a train carriage, steam billowing around them. Brief Encounter , he thought. How apt.

  He checked his watch. It was time. He lowered the transporter to the floor with exaggerated care and silently withdrew a scalpel from a pocket in his sleeve. The long, horribly sharp blade caught the light and glistened for a fraction of a second. He took a step forward, but as his foot came to rest on the floor an old wooden board creaked. Jo and Tom spun round.

  The Acolyte was fast, but Jo and Tom were faster. They were off the sofa before the killer had taken two steps. Jo screamed and fell back behind Tom who was gripping a cricket bat. The Acolyte did not pause. He came straight for them, the scalpel held out in front of him. Tom and Jo backed against the wall. Jo was ashen-faced, her eyes wide. Tom was trying desperately to keep his nerve and took a wild swing at the Acolyte. He missed. Jo screamed again and grabbed at Tom's shirt, ripping it. They started to back towards the door. The Acolyte grunted with impatience and made another rush towards them. Tom swung the bat again and it came down hard on the Acolyte's arm. The killer howled and the scalpel dropped to the floor.

  Jo and Tom had gained a second and dashed for the hall. Jo grasped the handle to the front door and tugged. It was locked. She cursed.

  'Upstairs,' Tom yelled and he pushed her ahead of him. He started to back towards the narrow stairs just as the Acolyte emerged from the living room. The killer now had the scalpel in his left hand. His right arm hung limp at his side. Tom caught a glimpse of the face behind the perspex visor. The eyes were featureless black circles, the face a waxwork doppelganger of a living human.

  Jo sped to the stairs and Tom was close behind. They took the stairs two at a time and Tom swung again at the Acolyte who expertly dodged the bat, letting it slam against the banisters and the wall, where it took a chunk out of the plaster.