gns.thedruidconnection-第7部分

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chance？
　　
　　Suddenly　a　shrill　noise　had　his　brain　reverberating；　had　him　jerking　his　eyes　open　and　gasping　aloud　his　despair。　His　worst　fears　were　realised。　Somebody　was　ringing　the　front　doorbell！
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　FOUR
　　　
　　FOR　ONCE　in　his　life　Mark　Sabat　was　overe　with　indecisiveness。　And　fear！　This　was　the　way　they　would　e；　not　demons　in　the　night　but　in　the　guise　of　a　mortal　caller；　a　ploy　to　deceive　him　yet　again。
　　
　　He　lay　there　in　the　bath；　suddenly　realising　how　the　water　had　cooled；　how　the　atmospheric　temperature　itself　had　dropped。　He　could　hear　the　beating　of　his　own　heart；　the　pounding　of　his　pulses　in　the　silence。　He　closed　his　eyes　briefly；　suddenly　realised　that　his　headache　had　subsided。　The　breathing　exercise　again；　ten　in；　ten　out；　an　athlete　bringing　mind　and　body　under　control；　an　SAS　mando　preparing　for　action。
　　
　　Still　silence。　Perhaps　it　was　a　casual　caller　thinking　that　the　Reverend　Owen　still　lived　here；　and　would　go　away。　Then　the　bell　rang　again；　louder；　more　shrill；　more　persistent！
　　
　　Sabat　got　up　out　of　the　bath　with　the　speed　and　ease　of　a　surfacing　sealion；　suddenly　lithe　and　strong　again；　scarcely　slopping　a　drop　of　water　as　he　stepped　out　on　to　the　mat　and　in　the　same　supple　movement　reached　for　a　towel　off　the　rail　and　began　to　dry　himself。　Ten　seconds　later　he　was　padding　back　to　the　bedroom；　dressing　with　speed；　checking　that　the　…38　still　rested　in　the　pocket　holster　in　his　corduroy　jacket。　Only　when　he　was　fully　clad　did　he　pause；　reflecting　for　a　moment　as　he　allowed　his　gaze　to　rest　on　the　black　crocodile…skin　briefcase　at　the　foot　of　the　bed。　Inside　it　lay　the　weapons　to　repel　an　attack　such　as　might　be　expected　from　the　forces　of　darkness。　But　there　was　no　time　to　set　them　up；　to　use　them　now。
　　
　　The　bell　rang　again；　the　caller　was　being　impatient。　Well；　Sabat　wouldn't　keep　him　waiting　much　longer！
　　
　　He　slid　the　？38　out　of　its　holster；　held　it　easily　in　his　hand；　well　aware　of　his　own　speed　and　accuracy　when　it　came　to　marksmanship。　He　would　be　in　his　element　in　a　gunfight　but　it　would　not　be　anything　as　simple　as　that。　He　did　not　know　what　he　was　up　against；　what　enemy　they　had　sent　in　Quentin's　wake。
　　
　　Moving　as　silently　as　a　wraith；　Sabat　descended　the　stairs　with　scarcely　a　creaking　board。　The　hallway　was　in　darkness　but　by　the　glow　of　that　same　single　streetlamp　which　had　lit　his　bedroom　he　saw　a　figure　silhouetted　against　the　opaque　glass　panel　of　the　front　door。　A　man；　his　features　indistinguishable；　short　and　stocky；　a　hand　going　up　to　the　bellpush　yet　again。
　　
　　Ringing　frantically　now；　determined　that　his　call　should　be　answered。　Sabat　flattened　himself　against　the　wall；　began　to　move　towards　the　door；　the　barrel　of　his　revolver　trained　unwaveringly　on　that　silhouette　outside。　Now　he　was　only　a　yard　from　the　other；　a　mere　pane　of　glass　separating　them；　the　caller　outside　totally　unaware　of　his　presence。　Yet　he　knew　that　Sabat　was　in　the　house　otherwise　he　would　have　gone　away　before　now。
　　
　　Sabat　made　up　his　mind　and　moved　with　the　speed　of　a　swooping　sparrowhawk；　his　free　hand　darting　out；　turning　the　yale　catch　and　pulling　the　door　inwards　in　one　perfectly　co…ordinated　movement。　Face　to　face；　two　men　with　their　features　bathed　in　shadow；　the　stranger　recoiling　with　surprise；　then　letting　out　a　faint　grunt　of　alarm　when　the　dim　light　glinted　on　the　unmistakable　barrel　of　a　revolver。
　　
　　'Just　don't　make　a　move；'　Sabat's　voice　was　low　and　menacing；　'otherwise　you'll　never　live　to　make　another！'
　　
　　'Sabat！'　a　voice　that　was　vaguely　familiar　to　the　ex…SAS　man　but　which　counted　for　nothing　because　the　dark　powers　could　imitate　any　sound　or　form　they　chose　with　ease。　'Take　it　easy；　Sabat。'
　　
　　'Don't　risk　it；'　Sabat　breathed；　'I'm　not　in　the　mood　for　mercy　tonight。　Anyway；　who　the　hell　are　you？'
　　
　　'It's　me　。。。　Kent；'　the　other　was　taken　aback　yet　he　showed　no　fear。　'Jesus　Christ　Almighty；　do　you　always　greet　your　visitors　by　shoving　a　？38　in　their　faces？'
　　
　　'Usually；'　Sabat　drawled　and　laughed　faintly；　but　still　he　was　not　going　to　be　lulled　into　apathy。　His　left　hand　found　the　lightswitch　and　flooded　the　hall　and　steps　with　brilliant　white　light。　And　as　he　saw　his　caller　for　the　first　time　Sabat　knew　that　it　was　indeed　the　man　who　called　himself　Kent；　or　at　least　it　was　his　form　and　features。
　　
　　'e　inside；'　Sabat　stepped　back；　held　the　door　wide　and　Kent　entered。　Then　Sabat　moved；　his　hand　dipping　into　his　pocket　and　ing　out　again；　holding　something　out　towards　the　other。　'Just　hold　this　a　minute；　Kent。'
　　
　　Kent　took　the　object；　held　it　in　the　palm　of　his　hand　and　regarded　it　with　bewilderment。　'Hey；　what's　going　on；　Sabat？　You　gone　religious　or　are　you　some　kind　of　a　screwball？'
　　
　　'Neither；'　Sabat　laughed；　retrieved　the　object　which　he　had　passed　over；　a　small　silver　crucifix　no　more　than　an　inch　and　a　half　long。　'Just　checking　that　you　really　are　Kent　and　not　something　using　his　form　to　get　me。　Because　if　you　were　you'd've　been　burned　to　hell　by　this。'
　　
　　'I　don't　follow。'
　　
　　'No；　I　don't　expect　you　do　but　let　me　tell　you　this；　Kent。　There　are　some　very　dastardly　goings…on　in　this　village　at　present；　beyond　mortal　ken；　and　I've　just　had　my　first　encounter　with　one　of　the　evil　entities　involved。　Anyway；　I'm　satisfied　it　is　you　and　I'm　more　than　grateful　to　see　you。　You'd　better　e　through　to　the　lounge　and　we'll　see　if　the　Reverend　Owen　by　any　chance　kept　a　drop　of　something　in　his　sideboard　and　then　we'll　both　find　out　what　the　other　is　up　to。'
　　
　　Sabat　found　a　half…bottle　of　Claymore；　poured　a　generous　measure　into　two　tumblers；　searched　in　vain　for　a　bottle　of　peppermint　cordial；　and　finding　none；　decided　to　take　his　whisky　neat。　He　passed　the　other　glass　to　Kent；　let　his　gaze　run　over　the　man　whom　he　had　not　seen　for　the　past　five　years；　indeed；　not　since　that　time　they　had　been　colleagues　in　an　SAS　nocturnal　exercise。　He'd　noted　Kent's　by…line　on　columns　of　one　of　the　most　sensational　daily　papers　though。　The　journalist　was　doing　all　right　for　himself　and　was　at　the　top　of　his　profession。
　　
　　There　was　a　kind　of　agelessness　about　Kent　stemming　from　the　short…cropped　fair　hair　that　rendered　any　flecks　of　grey　invisible　and　a　reddish…bronze　plexion　that　buried　any　lines　that　might　otherwise　have　shown。　If　you　got　to　know　him　well　enough　he　would　tell　you　that　he　was　born　on　the　twenty…eighth　of　July；　nineteen…thirty…eight。　That　could　have　been　a　lie；　told　just　for　the　hell　of　it。　A　square　jaw　that　bespoke　determination；　a　stockiness　that　was　unlikely　to　turn　to　fat。　At　five　feet　eight　inches　he　seemed　short　but　he　was　not　a　man　to　be　underestimated。　Sabat　recalled　that　night　they　had　gone　in　on　a　couple　of　terrorists　who　had　been　holding　a　family　hostage　for　five　days。　Sabat　had　got　one　of　the　gunmen；　Kent　the　other。　Both　criminals　had　appeared　in　the　dock　on　crutches！
　　
　　Kent　had　a　hidden　sex　appeal　which　wasn't　apparent　until　a　woman　came　to　know　him　well。　But　that　didn't　often　happen　because　the　journalist　was　a　loner；　a　good　friend　if　he　took　a　liking　to　you；　a　bastard　if　he　didn't。　Nobody；　not　even　his　closest　associates　in　Fleet　Street；　used　his　first　name　even　if　they　knew　it。　He　was　just　'Kent'。
　　
　　'No　doubt　you're　looking　for　the　scoop　of　the　decade；'　Sabat　regarded　his　visitor　whimsically；　'and　your　paper　doesn't　give　a　shit　if　you　get　sued　for　libel。'
　　
　　'That's　rather　overstating　it；'　the　other　replied。　'I　don't　deny　I'm　on　the　trail　of　a　story　but　when　I　knew　the　church　had　pulled　you　in　on　it　I　knew　it　had　to　be　something　a　bit　out　of　the　ordinary；　not　just　a　charred　body　because　a　curate　got　hit　by　a　stray　thunderbolt　and　a　vicar　went　bananas　and　started　setting　fire　to　the　churchyard。　Look；　Sabat；　suppose　we　put　our　cards　on　the　table；　we　know　each　other　well　enough。　What　the　fuck's　going　on　here？'
　　
　　'I'm　not　altogether　sure；　but　whatever　it　is　it　goes　back　to　seventeen　forty…two　when　a　certain　Bishop　Avenson　was　also　roasted　in　the　churchyard；'　Sabat　smiled。　'I've　got　one　or　two　ideas；　though。　I've　discovered　that　a　similar　churchyard　incineration　took　place　in　eighteen　eighty…four。　One　Doctor　William　Price　cremated　his　five…year…old　son　who　was　called　lesu　Grist　and　nine　years　later　this　man　himself　was　also　cremated　in　a　similar　fashion　by　colleagues　unknown。'
　　
　　'Jesus　Christ！'
　　
　　'Or　Iesu　Grist；'　Sabat　grinned。　'Cremation　isn't　such　a　recent　phenomenon　as　the　average　person　is　inclined　to　think。　As　a　means　of　disposing　of　the　dead　it　goes　back　a　long　way。　The　Romanies　always　burned　their　dead。　As　did　the　druidsV
　　
　　'The　druids！　That's　going　a　bit　far　back。'
　　
　　'I'm　just　making　a　point。　This　man　Price　was　involved　in　druidism。　A　slender　link　but　you　can't　afford　to　overlook　anything　remotely　connected　with　death　by　fire。　Now　tell　me；　Kent；　have　you　got　any　ideas？'
　　
　　'Nothing　concrete；'　the　journalist　shrugged。　'I　only　got　here　this　afternoon　but　in　the　pub　where　I'm　staying　word　has　obviously　got　round　that　the　Church　has　called　in　Sabat　and　you'd　better　be　warned；　there　isn't　exactly　a　weling　mittee　out　to　greet　you！　You　remember　that　case　you　were　on　a　short　time　back　when　that　cult　was　exhuming　bodies　and　a　guy　called　the　Reverend　Spode　disappeared　and　has　never　been　heard　of　since？'*
　　
　　'I　did　hear　the　gentleman　in　question　had　vanished　into　thin　air；'　Sabat　smiled　faintly；　'but　I　can't　for　the　life　of　me　think　where　he　could　have　gone。'
　　
　　'That's　as　it　may　be；'　Kent　didn't　pursue　the　question；　knowing　only　too　well　that　if　Sabat　had　made　up　his　mind　to　keep　it　to　himself　then　that　was　where　it　would　stay。　These　villagers　are　a　superstitious　lot；　as　they　mostly　are　in　remote　country　places；　and　they're　saying　that　as　you　spirited　away　this　fellow　Spode　then　like　as　not　you're　responsible　for　what　happened　to　the　curate　and　the　vicar；　in　which　case；　who's　going　up　in　smoke　next？'
　　
　　'So　I　don't　have　the　co…operation　of　the　locals；　to　say　the　least；'　Sabat　murmured。　'And　if　these　people　have　had　advance　warning　of　my　ing　then　the　glad　tidings　can　only　have　e　from　one　source　…　Bishop　Boyce！'