Sepulchre

by James Herbert

  The Mercedes rounded a curve and from there the roadway became a straight line running up to the gates. Halloran let up on the accelerator, approaching the beginning of the drive at a cautious speed. The headlights picked out the iron gates, and he dipped the beams to reduce the glare. His foot touched the brake pedal, slowing the car even more, so that he came to the lodge house at a smooth glide.

  Halloran pulled over onto the rough shoulder in front of the old building, switched off the lights, and cut the engine.

  The lodge was in darkness, not even a glimmer showing from the grimed windows. Halloran sat there for several minutes, watching for any sign of life. There was none. But that didn't mean the house was empty.

  Without using the interior light, Halloran unzipped the black bag by his side. He lifted out the stubby weapon an inch or so, loosening it, making sure it wasn't snagged on the inner lining. He carefully lowered the submachine gun again, then reached for the door handle.

  A breeze ruffled his hair as he stood outside the vehicle studying the upper windows of the lodge. The moon was rising behind the building so that its frontage was an unlit void, the windows merely black shapes, barely distinct against the brickwork.

  Again he had the unshakable feeling of being observed. Carrying the gun bag in his left hand, Halloran walked into the shadow of the house.

  The ringing of the telephone came almost as a relief. Mather laid the newspaper on the pile of Sunday papers, foreign as well as English, by his feet, exhausted with reading of yet more terrorist outrages and despairing of various governments' weakness in dealing with them despite the vowed joint intention to do so over the past decade. Unfortunately it was the price paid for a world without major conflicts, the major evil giving ground to the lesser evil, a fact recognized by those same governments. Nevertheless, the atrocities committed in the name of so-called freedom or religious beliefs were hard to stomach, and the time was coming when "official" war would have to be declared on those countries and states who overtly supported and encouraged the multifarious terrorist groups. And even then the problem would never be eradicated.

  He stood up from the dining table on which more journals were spread and limped out into the hall.

  "I'm here," he called out to Agnes, who was in the sitting room, no doubt indulging herself in the current television trivia with her evening sherry.

  "Mather," he announced into the phone, first removing his pipe from his mouth.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you. It's Sir Victor Penlock here."

  "Sir Victor?" Mather's brain stepped up a gear, alerted by the gravity in the Magma chairman's voice.

  "I'd like you to meet me at my office once again. My apologies for calling on you twice in one day, particularly as it's a Sunday, but I'm afraid I had no other choice."

  "That's perfectly all right. Do I take it Mr. Kline and my operative will also be there?"

  A pause first. "No. No, this will be strictly between you and me. It's rather serious, so do you think you could come immediately?"

  "Shouldn't take much more than twenty minutes this time of evening."

  "It's very much appreciated. I'll let security know you're on your way. One other thing: no one else must know about this. Can I have your word on that?"

  "Naturally, although I don't understand why."

  "I'll explain when you get here."

  When Mather replaced the receiver he went into his study and, as a precaution, wrote a note of his destination and whom he was to see, then sealed it in an envelope on which he scribbled his wife's name. He left the envelope propped up on his desk.

  The stench at the back of the lodge house caused Halloran to catch his breath. No doubt this was where the jackals were kept when they were not prowling the grounds. He shone the thin beam of the penlight around the yard, expecting to find kennels or a stockade of some kind. There was none, and no animals either. But the light reflected on something shiny.

  With a twist of the head of the flashlight, the beam was broadened to take in more. Halloran recognized the three metal containers Khayed and Daoud had carried from the house the day before. All were lying on their sides, the lids close by, as though the contents had been spilled out. He moved closer, using the light to guide himself through the mounds of excrement scattered around the yard. Drawing near to one of the bins he bent low to shine the light inside. His foot crunched something beneath him. He shifted to see shattered bone where he had been standing and realized that there were many more pieces around him, clean and meatless. At the bottom of the container there were clogs of maggot-infested meat, the jackals obviously having been unable to reach them. Much of the yard's putrid stink came from these containers.

  Halloran straightened, relieved at least that the beasts themselves were nowhere in evidence. He flashed the beam up at the windows, heedless of giving anyone inside warning of his presence; he had, in fact, already pounded on the front door, knowing that his approach in the Mercedes would not have gone unnoticed by anyone supposedly guarding the entrance to the estate. The lodgekeeper might have been roaming the grounds with his pack, of course, but Halloran could not rid himself of the notion that there was someone inside. Even now he sensed he was being watched.

  He lowered the flashlight, finding the back door, then maneuvered his way through the feces and bones toward it. As expected, this door, like the front, was firmly locked. He moved along the wall to a window and, although also locked, this was less of a problem. Placing the bag on the windowsill, Halloran slid a knife blade up alongside the catch, then forced it aside, its movement stiff but yielding. He closed the blade into its handle, dropped it into his jacket pocket, then heaved at the lower frame. The window resisted at first before, with a groan followed by a squeal, it opened upward.

  Halloran lifted the bag, switched off the light, swung a leg over the sill. Once inside he quickly stepped away from the window, where moonlight had silhouetted his shape. He leaned back against the wall and waited, holding his breath, listening for sounds.

  The room smelled musty, damp, unlived in. Light from outside revealed sparse furniture: an armchair, its cushions lumpy, arms threadbare; a nondescript cabinet, neither antique nor modern, against one wall; a curled rug; and nothing else. Apart from the small rug, the floorboards were bare. Halloran flicked on the penlight once more, the beam still broad, and waved it around the room. Wallpaper hung away in strips, and black fungus grew in the corners and near the ceiling. There were ashes in the ancient iron fireplace, but they looked solid, as though they had set many years ago. There was an open door to the right.

  Halloran listened for a while longer before allowing himself to breathe normally. He swept the light across the floor to make sure there were no obstacles in his path, then crossed the room to the door, unconcerned with the creaking of floorboards. Narrowing the beam, he peered out into the hallway, shining the light along its length. Moonlight glowed through the grime of the tiny windows above the back door. The hallway had a turn in it, and he surmised that it straightened again and led toward the main door to the lodge. The stairway would be in that direction too.

  He eased himself from the room, holding the flashlight away from his body. Keeping close to the wall opposite the door he had just left, Halloran slowly walked toward the front of the building. He passed another door on his right but did not try the handle, guessing it would lead to a cellar.

  He reached the point where the hallway turned, and hesitated, listening intently for a few seconds. Only silence. But the smell of oldness was even stronger here.

  Halloran noticed a light switch close to where he stood and he reached out, pushing it down with one extended finger, the thin penlight gripped with the others. Nothing happened, and he was not surprised. Whoever lived in the lodge house enjoyed the darkness.

  He went on, rounding the bend, and pointed the beam at the front door. There were large bolts, top and bottom, rusted fixtures that looked as if they hadn't been shifted for decades. Another door was o
n his left, the staircase rising above him on his right. Halloran made his way toward the door.

  Slipping the straps of the bag over his left shoulder and changing the penlight to that hand, he used an elbow to push open the door. Its creaking was explosive in the silence of the house.

  Before entering, he shone the light through the crack by the hinges, satisfying himself that nobody lurked behind the door, and only then did he step into the room. It was empty, devoid of any furniture, its curtains colorless with age and filth. The mustiness prevailed, and here the mold festered in thick clusters. Ceiling struts could be clearly seen where plaster had fallen away. Halloran left the room, leaving the door open wide.

  The staircase loomed up before him.

  And it was from there that the worst of the smell wafted down.

  Halloran began to climb.

  Mather parked directly outside Magma's main entrance, disregarding the no parking signs. As he limped around the hood of his car, he could not help gazing up at the towering building, its glass and bronze facade brooding under a sky that was quickly filling with leaden clouds from the east. He felt a charge in the atmosphere, the coming of an electrical storm.

  The two security men inside had noticed his arrival, and one was crossing the concourse toward the closed entrance while his companion at the circular reception desk lifted a phone. Mather started forward again, an urgency in his stride.

  The security guard had come to a smaller door beside the main entrance and had already opened it a fraction by the time the Shield Planner was outside.

  "Mr. Mather?" the guard inquired, and Mather opened his wallet to display his Shield identity. "Sir Victor's waiting for you. I'll take you right up."

  The guard said nothing as the elevator swiftly ascended to the eighteenth floor, but he appeared tense, as much on edge as Mather himself. They trudged the thick-carpeted corridor to the chairman's outer office, passing through, waiting when the guard rapped on the inner door. The guard opened the door after a voice on the other side responded, then stood aside to allow the older man entry, still not uttering a single word. Mather heard the door close behind him.

  Sir Victor did not rise from his seat. In front of him was a tumbler half-filled with Scotch.

  "Good of you to get here so quickly," the Magma chairman said, waving Mather forward.

  Although on first glance Sir Victor appeared his usual immaculate self, there was an indefinable dishevelment about him. Perhaps it was the weariness in his eyes, the slight sagging of his jowls, the few loose strands of silver hair hanging over his forehead that gave the impression, the Shield Planner mused. As well as the unexpected laxity in manners, for Mather had not been offered a seat, nor had Sir Victor risen when he had entered the office. Hardly a return to Stone Age etiquette but surely an indication of the stress this usually most civilized of men was under.

  Now the chairman did rise, but not in deference to the other man. "I want to show you something," he said, "after which we must discuss our course of action."

  Curious, Mather followed the tall man back into the corridor, and then into another office which, like Sir Victor's, bore no title on its door. They walked through an outer room, where the chairman unlocked a further door into the main office itself.

  Mather drew in a sharp breath when he saw the figure slumped forward across the glass and chrome desk. He hurriedly crossed the room to examine the body.

  "Quinn-Reece?" he asked, already sure that it was.

  "Security discovered the body earlier this evening," the chairman replied grimly.

  Mather moved around the desk and leaned close to the prone man's face. He was prepared to feel for a pulse in Quinn-Reece's neck, but realized it was pointless. The blue-ness of the deputy chairman's lips, the yellowish tinge to his skin, his very stillness, told him all he needed to know.

  "Heart failure?" he ventured.

  "I believe so. But lift him into his seat, look at his face."

  Even more puzzled, Mather slid an arm beneath Quinn-Reece's chest and pulled him backward. He was stunned at what he saw.

  "My God, he looks as if he . . ."

  "Died of fright?" Sir Victor finished for him. "He was sitting upright like that when he was found. I ordered security to lay him on the desk. I couldn't bear the thought of him staring that way, his mouth locked open . . ."

  Mather frowned. "I think you'd better tell me what's going on. I assume your people haven't yet called for a doctor or an ambulance?"

  The chairman's guilt was barely apparent. "Our security guards are under strict instructions never to bring outsiders onto the premises unless someone in authority sanctions it. We regard anything that happens within the walls of Magma as company business, and only I or my executive officers may deem otherwise."

  "Good Lord, man, this has nothing to do with your business. It's possible that medical attention might have saved him."

  Sir Victor was adamant. "No, I can assure you he was quite dead. Nothing could have helped him, nothing at all."

  "Well, I suggest you call for an ambulance now."

  "Yes, of course. But first we must talk. Please allow me a few minutes."

  "Is there good reason?"

  The chairman looked away from the corpse. "I believe so," he said quietly.

  The stairs groaned under his weight. He thought one or two might break altogether and quickly shifted his footing. It seemed a long climb to the bend in the stairs, as if time itself were being stretched, and at any second he expected someone to appear above him, so strong was the feeling of another's presence inside the lodge house.

  He stopped for a few minutes when his head came level with the landing, and listened again, depending on hearing rather than seeing in such poor light. There were three doors along the upstairs hallway, one to the left of the staircase, one directly in front, the last farther down. The latter would have a view overlooking the entrance gates, but it was not for that reason alone Halloran chose to inspect it first: he knew, as surely as if someone were calling him, that he would find what he was searching for inside there.

  As with the rest of the house, bare boards were the only flooring along the landing, and he saw no reason to avoid making noise as he walked its length—it was too late for that. Nevertheless, his movement was stealthy and his right hand was kept free, ready to snatch the gun from its holster at the slightest provocation, even though he was there in his role as Kline's protector, not as an enemy.

  The smell of rotting was nauseating as he drew close to the door, and he swallowed the wetness rising in his throat.

  Halloran went on by the door, going to the window at the far end of the hallway. He pushed aside half-drawn curtains, the coarse material stiffened with dust, and rubbed a palm against the dirt on the glass, clearing a section to see out. Moonlight glimmered from the roof and hood of the Mercedes below; the iron bars of the entrance gates looked blackly solid; the undergrowth opposite seemed impenetrable. Light withered as a cloud rolled over the moon.

  Halloran returned to the door, his penlight haloing the handle. He pressed his ear close to the wood but heard no sounds from the other side. Hitching the bag so that it was secure on his shoulder, he reached for the door handle.

  He was sure the door would be locked. It wasn't.

  He expected to use force to push the door open. It opened smoothly.

  He thought he would confront the lodge keeper, the guardian of the gates.

  Instead he met his past.

  34

  INTO THE PIT

  Kline moaned as Khayed ministered the lotion to his ruptured skin. The burning would soon pass, the Arab assured him, and Kline knew the truth of what he said; his loyal servants had soothed him with their oils many times before. But that was when the sloughing of his skin had been expected, had become a ritual, a ceremony to be indulged in, to be celebrated, for it was the outward sign of spiritual rejuvenation. And a continuance of his own servitude.

  He uttered a cry, more in fea
r than in pain. Asil misunderstood and hurried forward with the syringe. "Mouallem?"

  Kline saw the needle and raised a hand to deny the morphine, for the drug would dim his thoughts, euphoria would blunt the danger that was so close. Yet his senses were already hindered, for dread gnawed at them like some avaricious parasite. The killing that day of the enemy within had not calmed his unease, as he thought it would; instead the mental effort had further drained his psyche and weakened him physically. The death of Quinn-Reece had not resolved his own anguish but had merely contributed to his present condition.

  He beckoned Asil forward again, speaking to the Arab in his native tongue. "A moderate amount, Youssef. Enough only to soften my"—he almost said fear—"my pain."

  The needle was like a blade heated by fire, but Kline's scream swiftly relaxed to a sigh as his senses began to float. Soon he dreamed, but in truth, it was a memory . . .

  . . . he lowered himself into the pit, terribly afraid. It was so deep, so black. But for that reason, it would yield even greater treasures. Why else should it be so skillfully concealed from the other sepulchres? The reward for his courage would indeed be great! The Jewish merchant in Jerusalem had promised him thai. "Journey to Ur, find employment with the English archaeologist. He needs men of education, people who can direct the lazy and treacherous laborers, and who will appreciate and understand the cultural value of his great discovery. The Arabs will obey because the Englishman will put his trust in you and they will have little choice. You are clever, you are cunning. Bring back to me what small treasures you can easily steal and I will make you a rich man, for I have collectors who will pay kings' ransoms for the most meager of items from the fabulous and glorious era! These Arabs are plunderers, destroyers, scum of the earth, and care nothing for their heritage. They will allow their own history to be taken from them by foreigners. But we will profit by their stupidity, my young friend. And we will bring great joy to those who honor such relics."