Sepulchre

by James Herbert

  Halloran ran a hand over his eyes and across his rough chin. He was tired, the dream last night obviously having disturbed what little rest he'd had in the armchair. A shower, a shave, and something to eat wouldn't be amiss. An inspection of the house and grounds and then, with luck, a couple of hours' sleep. There was an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger, but which told him he would need all the rest he could get if he were to cope with the next day or two. An instinct he had come to depend on through the years made him aware that something was imminent. It was a feeling he couldn't explain even to himself, but there was a familiar tension building inside him, honing his senses, sharpening his reactions, preparing him for what was to come. Fear had always mingled with that sensing, and that was natural; but this time a deep foreboding was involved, a disquieting dread, and that was new to him.

  A muffled sound from Kline. The psychic's shoulders rose and slumped. His breathing became regular. Now he was sleeping.

  Cora, next to Palusinski in the front of the car, turned to look at her employer. Her eyes caught Halloran's, and her smile was tentative. A moment went by before he returned the smile.

  She faced the front again, and Halloran, on the opposite corner of the Mercedes, was able to study her profile. He wondered if she really had it in her to give away company secrets. Unlikely. She was too closely linked to Kline and, Halloran was sure, too much afraid of her employer to betray him. Yet Kline had had no doubts. He'd denounced her before Magma's chairman and deputy-chairman. Surely there had to be good reason for that?

  Halloran checked the windows again. All clear, with only the Granada behind them. He realized they would soon be at Neath.

  So what plans did Kline have for Cora? Would she be accused once they arrived at Neath, or would he set a trap for her, catch her in the act of betrayal? Kline's paranoia suggested the former, his sly vindictiveness the latter. Halloran made up his mind that he would get to her first, warn her of what was to happen. To hell with Kline and the Magma Corporation. To hell with the assignment. He'd continue to guard the target, but he would also keep the girl from any harm. Halloran had already suspected that Kline's four bodyguards were more than just that; he was sure they were well used to meting out punishment—particularly Monk, in this respect— whenever their employer pointed a finger. It was an unnecessary complication to the situation, but guilty or not, Cora wasn't going to suffer in their hands. He intended to keep a good watch on her.

  As the car rounded a bend, Kline's hand flopped down by his side, its fingers curled into a claw. Halloran noticed that small sections of skin were whitish, as if about to peel off.

  "It is good to be away from the city," came Palusinski's voice from the front. "The air is cleaner here. My father was a farmer, Mr. Halloran, rolnik, so countryside is my love. Cities are a bad place for me."

  "Where in Poland d'you come from?" Halloran asked with no real interest.

  "Ah, it is of no importance." Palusinski tapped the steering wheel. "I am here now is all that matters. He"—the Pole inclined his head toward the sleeping man, and Halloran was surprised to catch the hint of a sneer in his tone—"brought me here many years ago, took me from my beloved country."

  "You could always go back," Halloran suggested, watching the road, which was becoming familiar, as they neared the estate.

  "Back?" Palusinski uttered a bitter chuckle. "To what go back? To Russians who bleed Poland dry? I will stay here, I think. Yes, I will stay here where everyone is friendly, and the food is good!" He laughed aloud and thumped the steering wheel.

  The gates to the estate were not far away, and Halloran checked the front and rear windows yet again. Only the Shield vehicle was bringing up their rear. The Mercedes swung in toward the iron gates and stopped no more than a foot away from them. Kline stirred but did not awaken.

  Halloran opened his door and stepped out, walking to the edge of the road, and waited for the Granada to pull up beside him. He leaned forward, one hand on the roof, as the passenger lowered the window.

  "Contact the patrol and make sure everything's okay. I'll meet you back here"—he lifted his wristwatch—"in three hours."

  "Anything extra we should do?" the driver called across his passenger.

  Halloran shook his head. "Just patrol, the full tour. Don't come into the grounds."

  "What if we spot someone?" the man nearest said, plainly irritated.

  "Use the RT to let me know. Don't come in."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "You wouldn't like it."

  Halloran straightened, examined the roadway in both directions, then walked to the gates. He heard the Granada speed away as he reached out and grasped one of the thick iron struts. There came a dull, heavy click, and he pushed against the metal. The gate swung open, a grating of rusted hinges accompanying the sluggish movement. Halloran took it all the way back, then did the same with the other half, feeling observed from the lodge house as he did so.

  Another resolution for Halloran: he was going to confront whoever it was inside that place, the person who guarded the gate, who was master of the dogs. He would visit the lodge later, and this time he would find a way inside. Before leaving Magma, he had discussed the vulnerability of the Neath estate with Charles Mather, and the Planner had promised to raise the matter with Gerald Snaith, after which an ultimatum would be delivered to Sir Victor Penlock: either adequate defenses were installed around the house and grounds, or Shield would be forced to relinquish the contract. The enormous sums of insurance money involved would ensure the alliance of the Lloyd's underwriters. Mather had been horrified to learn there were jackals roaming the estate and perplexed when Halloran had told him that he had not yet met the lodge keeper to discuss any emergency measures. A queer business altogether, Mather had voiced in his dry manner. Time to lay down stricter ground rules.

  Halloran waved the Mercedes through, then closed the gates. There was a solid permanence about the thudded clunk as they locked together.

  He climbed back into the car, and as it pulled away Palusinski said cheerfully: "No dogs to bite you today."

  Halloran frowned. "Where are they kept?"

  "Kept?" came the reply. "You mean caged? Hah! These beasts wander freely, they go where they please."

  "They're not much in evidence."

  "We are not hostile."

  "Yesterday . . . ?"

  "You were alone. And perhaps they sensed . . ."

  Halloran wondered why the Pole did not complete the sentence.

  "They tend to keep under cover in the daytime," said Cora, twisting in her seat. "They dislike people, they keep away from them. But at night they prowl."

  "And search out intruders," Palusinski finished.

  "Have there been any?" asked Halloran. "Intruders?"

  Palusinski giggled. Cora said, "There have been one or two trespassers, but they've always been frightened off."

  "They were lucky they weren't savaged," Halloran commented.

  "No, the jackals didn't touch them. They were frightened off by . . . other things."

  "I don't understand. What things?"

  Palusinski giggled again. "Wood devils, Pan Halloran. You have not heard of the wood devils?"

  The house, its walls a deeper and duller red under the overcast day, came into view. Cora turned away from Halloran, as if unwilling to continue the conversation, but he leaned forward and grasped her shoulder.

  "What does he mean, wood devils? What's he talking about?"

  "It's nothing, Liam. Really it's nothing."

  "But explain to him," said Palusinski, his tone bantering. He snatched a quick look at Halloran, eyes small and squinted behind his wire-framed spectacles.

  "They're only images, no more than that," Cora said quickly. "Felix can project mental images, make a person see what isn't really there."

  Oh yes, Halloran knew that. He had seen such visions for himself in the lake.

  "Felix senses when the dogs are ale
rted. I don't know how —it's as if there's some kind of telepathic link between himself and the animals. He doesn't even have to hear the jackals to know there are trespassers in the grounds."

  Halloran started to understand why Kline felt so secure within his own territory. The man had his own inbuilt alarm system, according to Cora, and his own defense weapon. With such power, no wonder his subordinates feared him.

  The car drew up outside the house, and Cora leaned over the back of her seat to rouse Kline. "Felix," she said, quietly at first, then again, louder, when there was no response.

  "Felix, we're here." Cora reached down and tapped his knee. The dark-haired man, curled up into the corner of the

  Mercedes, twitched but did not awaken. She shook his leg this time and repeated his name more sharply.

  Kline stirred, his legs stretched. He mumbled something and began to push himself up in the seat.

  "We're home?" he asked, voice slurred with tiredness.

  "Yes, Felix, we're at Neath," Cora told him.

  "Good," he said, "good." He turned, sitting upright, one hand touching the door lever.

  Cora's gasp stopped him. Her eyes were wide as she stared.

  Halloran had become still.

  Puzzled, Kline looked from one to the other, and, as he did so, flakes of skin shed from his face. A face that was bubbled and broken, thin tissue hanging loose in layered scales.

  As he frowned, more pieces fell away, falling lightly onto his chest and lap. He began to tremble.

  32

  A SHEDDING OF SKIN

  The gun was in Halloran's hand before the bedroom door was fully open.

  Cora stood in the doorway, frightened by the weapon. "I'm sorry," she said. "I should have knocked."

  He waved her in, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sitting up. He put the Browning back on the bedside cabinet.

  "How's Kline?" he asked.

  Cora closed the door and leaned against it, her hands behind her. "He hasn't left his room since we got back."

  "Have you sent for a doctor?"

  She shook her head. "Felix won't allow that. He told me he suffers from psoriasis, a rare type of skin complaint that recurs every few years, but it's nothing to become alarmed about."

  "Some complaint. And he wasn't too relaxed about it when Palusinski helped him into the house. Have you seen him like this before?"

  "No."

  "We really ought to get a doctor to take a look at him."

  "He insists that we shouldn't. His orders are that we let him rest and send Khayed and Daoud to him as soon as they return from London. They have special lotions that can help." She seemed uncertain. "I didn't want to disturb you. You must be very tired."

  "A cleanup and a change of clothes helped. I even managed to grab a sandwich." He extended a hand. "Cora, I need to talk to you. Please come over."

  For a moment he thought she might leave. But then she walked to the bed. "Sit by me," he said.

  She obeyed, and immediately leaned into him, her head against his chest. He held on to her, surprised, but glad her reserve had broken.

  "Liam," she whispered, "I have such strange feelings, such a sense of dread . . ."

  "I can understand why. I get the same feeling about this place."

  She looked up at him. "You too?"

  "Maybe it's a neurosis we're catching from Kline. You know he's mad, don't you?"

  "In a way I wish that were true—insanity would be easier to deal with. Felix is unstable and, as you say, neurotic; but not mad, Liam, not totally mad."

  "He thinks you've been giving away company secrets." Halloran had been deliberately blunt, the unexpectedness of the remark meant to throw her off balance so that he could judge her reaction.

  "You're not serious," she said incredulously.

  He took her hand, now having no doubts about her loyalty to Kline. "I'm afraid so. That's why all the fuss at Magma this morning. New locations of untapped resources have been leaked to one of your rival companies."

  "It's happened again?"

  He nodded. "Kline put the finger on you."

  "But why? I wouldn't—"

  Halloran shrugged. "You're closest to him."

  She seemed to shrink within herself. "How could he even think that? Liam, I—"

  He pulled her to him again. "I know it isn't true, and maybe Kline will see reason. Who can tell with someone so unpredictable?"

  "I still don't understand why he should accuse me."

  "/ don't understand what makes you so loyal to such a bastard."

  She didn't answer right away. Then she said, almost sorrowfully: "I depend on him. He . . . he's like a drug to me. I need him, Liam."

  "Then you're as crazy as he is."

  "No, don't say that, you don't know . . ."

  "What is there to know, Cora?" he said angrily. "Just what the hell goes on between you and Kline?"

  She began to weep. "Help me, Liam," she said quietly. "Please help me."

  "How can I when you won't tell me what's wrong?"

  Cora began to fumble with the buttons of her blouse. "Make love to me. Hold me and make love to me, but gently, like last night, after you . . . Let me feel how good it can be again."

  Baffled, Halloran stood up and crossed to the door. He locked it.

  The thick curtains of the room were drawn against outside light, so that scattered artifacts of another age stood as dark shapes in the gloom. The smell of burning incense came from one corner, filling the air with a heavy and faintly acrid musk. Zodiac signs and symbols, drawings of horned beasts, of winged creatures, of single eyes, were roughly etched into walls and woodwork, obscure and patternless in the poor light. Books lay scattered around the floor. A canopied bed dominated the room, its four stout carved posts supporting layers of sheer drapes, the material hanging in loose folds.

  A dry, rasping breathing came from within.

  Kline lay on the bed, the skin of his naked body broken and ravaged, creating new fissures, causing paper-thin tissue to dislodge and fall away.

  He feebly lifted an arm, but the darkness was even greater inside the shroud, and all he could see was a myriad of inter-joining cracks. His arm fell back to his side and a sob escaped him.

  It couldn't be, it wasn't time. The ritual had been enacted, the psyche strengthened. The sacrifice made. This shedding of the outer layer had come too soon, and with it there was pain. But why, what did it mean?

  His unsightly body spasmed as another sob burst from him, and he felt the breaking of delicate tissue with the violence of the movement.

  Must lie still. Must not move until Asil and Youssef arrive with their salves. It was too soon, too soon! He was not prepared! And the pain had never been like this before. Hurry, my friends, bring me your soothing oils! Spare me from this wretchedness!

  Kline tried to steady his breathing, for even the rising and lowering of his chest was loosening the dead skin. He moaned, a self-pitying sound, and salt from his tears stung the sensitive grooves around his eyes.

  And as he lay there, his mind absorbed in his own suffering, something inside the sepulchre that was hidden away in the blackest depths of Neath throbbed once.

  33

  INSIDE THE LODGE

  From his position by the main entrance, Monk watched the Shield operative descend the broad staircase and wondered what was inside the black case he was carrying. The bodyguard's thick lips set in a sneer, his heavyset body tensing as Halloran approached.

  "I'm taking a look around the grounds," Halloran told him.

  "You'll get your ass bit off."

  The hope in Monk's high-pitched voice did not go unnoticed by the other man. "I intend to stay in the car," Halloran replied. "Did the Arabs let you know how Kline is?" Khayed and Daoud had returned some hours earlier, rushing up to their master's room as soon as they learned of his condition.

  "They ain't been down," said Monk, shaking his large head.

  "All right, let's assume it's nothing
drastic. Lock the door behind me when I go out and don't open it for anybody until I return. I'm taking a spare key, but I'll let you know it's me before I come in just so you don't get overexcited. If I knock a regular three times it means there's trouble and I'm not alone. I'll repeat that knock after a pause so you'll know it's for real. You got that?"

  Monk smirked rather than replying.

  "Check around the house every fifteen minutes, test windows and doors each time. And I mean test them—try them, make sure they're properly locked."

  "What the fuck for?" Outrage accompanied the bodyguard's hostility now.

  "Just do it. I'll be back in about an hour. Any calls for me and you write down the message. Don't try to remember."

  "You think I'm stupid, Halloran?"

  "We both know it."

  Monk's shoulders visibly straightened and he almost took a step forward. Only Halloran's hard-eyed smile stopped him.

  The Shield operative went by the American and unlocked one side of the double-doors. A breeze of cold air from the lake made him shiver as he stepped outside. It was like the first chill of winter out there instead of the coming of summer. He called back to Monk: "Lock it and take out the key." Then he walked through the porch to the outside.

  Although cold, the night had temporarily cleared, the moon, an edge sliced off, still low in the sky. There were thunderous clouds on the horizon. The slopes around the house and lake were of deep-toned grays, trees and shrubbery the darkest patches. The lake itself appeared smooth and unbroken, even though a wind ruffled the grass before it.

  Halloran climbed into the Mercedes, placing the black bag on the passenger seat beside him. He switched on the engine and lights and pulled away, gravel crunching beneath the tires, bringing the car around in an arc. As he did so, he glimpsed the neglected topiary garden at the side of the house, the tortured shapes resembling surrealistic figures, misshapen limbs twisted toward Neath like a frozen tableau of anguished souls.

  He left the house behind, heading uphill toward the main gates, the woods soon closing around him, the beams of the car seeming to cut a swath through the trees. Halloran kept a vigilant eye on either side of the road, searching for low shapes slinking through undergrowth, but saw nothing that moved. A sharp crack on his left startled him. A thin branch had snapped against the side window. Halloran eased over the center of the road, realizing he had drifted too close to the edge.