That had been only half an hour ago but already Keen was cursing himself for his big mouth. His old man had been a soldier. ‘Peter,’ he’d once told him, ‘never volunteer. If they need volunteers, that’s because nobody wants the job.’ And on a night like this it was easy to understand why.
There was something of a ground mist and the air was laden with moisture. The atmosphere felt greasy, and heavy as a tangible weight on Keen’s shoulders. He turned up his collar, lifted infra-red binoculars to his eyes. For the tenth time in thirty minutes he scanned the house. Nothing. The house was warm, which showed clearly enough, but nothing moved in there. Or the movement was too slight to detect.
He scanned what could be seen of the grounds. Again, nothing — or rather, something! Keen’s sweep had passed over a hazy blue blur of warmth, just a blob of body heat which his special nite-lites had picked up. It could be a fox, badger, dog — or a man? He tried to find it again, failed. So. . . had he seen something, or hadn’t he?
Something buzzed and tingled in Keen’s head, like a sudden burst of electrical current, making him start .
Slimy gibber-gobble spying babble-gabble bastard!
Keen froze stiff as a board. What was that? What the hell was that?
You’re going to die, die, die! Ha, ha, ha! Gibber-jabber, gobble-gabble. . . And then some more of the electrical tingling. And silence.
Jesus Christ! But Keen knew without further inquiry what it was: his unruly talent. For a moment then, just for a few seconds, he’d picked up another mind. A mind full of hate!
‘Who?’ Keen said out loud, staring all about, ankledeep in swirling mist. ‘What. . .?‘ Suddenly the night was full of menace.
He’d left the crossbow in his car, loaded and lying on the front seat. The red Capri was parked with-its nose in a field, about twenty-five yards away along the road. Keen was on the verge, his shoes, socks and feet already soaking from walking in the grass. He looked at Harkley House, standing sinister in its misty grounds, then started to back off towards the car. In the grounds of the old house, something loped towards the open gate. Keen saw it for a moment, then lost it in the shadows and the mist.
A dog? A large dog? Darcy Clarke had had trouble with a dog, hadn’t he?
Keen backed faster, stumbled and almost fell. An owl hooted somewhere in the night. Other than that there was only silence. And a soft, deliberate padding — and a panting? — from beyond the gate just across the road. Keen backed faster yet, all his senses alert, his nerves starting to jump. Something was coming, he could feel it. And not just a dog.
He slammed backwards into the side of his car, drew breath in an audible, grateful gasp. He half turned, reached in through the open window, groped with his hand on the front seat. He found something, drew it into view . The lignum vitae bolt — broken in two halves — hanging together by a mere splinter of wood! Keen shook his head in dumb disbelief, reached into the car again. This time he found the crossbow, unloaded, its tough metal wings bent back and twisted out of shape.
Something tall and black flowed out of the shadows right up to him. It wore a cape which, at the last moment, it threw back. Keen looked into ,a face which wasn’t nearly human. He tried to scream but his throat felt like sandpaper.
The thing in black glared at Keen and its lips drew back. Its teeth were hooked together, meshing like the teeth of a shark. Keen tried to run, leap, move, but couldn’t; his feet were rooted to the spot. The thing in black raised its arm in a swift movement and something gleamed a wet, silvery gleam in the night.
A cleaver!
Chapter Thirteen
When Kyle and his companions got back to lonesti and the inn, they found Irma Dobresti pacing the floor of their suite, nervously massaging her long hands. Her relief when she saw them was obvious. Likewise her delight when they told her the operation had been a complete success. They weren’t eager, however, to detail much of what had happened in the foothills; looking at their drawn faces, she was wise enough not to pry. They might tell her later, in their own time.