gns.thegraveyardvultures-第13部分

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ensure　that　Baron　Cimeterre　did　not　claim　the　body　through　some　powerful　witch　doctor；　somebody　like　the　mysterious　and　elusive　Royston　who　sought　human　carrion　for　his　graveyard　vultures！
　　
　　'I　thought　I　warned　you。'　Detective　Inspector　Plowden's　features　twisted　into　a　mask　of　anger；　an　escalating　rage　because　this　stranger　had　dared　to　defy　him　and　on　his　return　to　the　village　had　brought　death　with　him；　albeit　seemingly　from　natural　causes；　a　kind　of　harbinger　of　doom。　'You'd　no　business　ing　back　here　obstructing　police　investigations。'
　　
　　'One　moment。'　Sabat　held　up　a　hand；　permitted　himself　a　faint　mirthless　smile。　'First；　I　have　in　no　way　obstructed　your　enquiries。　I　have　merely　carried　out　an　exorcism　in　St。　Adrian's　Church　and　its　grounds　in　accordance　with　a　request　made　by　Bishop　Wentnor。　This　is　a　free　country；　I　can　travel　and　stay　anywhere　I　like。　I　would　have　returned　to　the　'Dun　Cow'　except　that　fire　destroyed　the　residential　quarters
　　
　　'While　you　were　staying　there！'　An　innuendo　that　was　only　too　obvious。
　　
　　'You'll　be　accusing　me　of　arson　next；　Inspector。'　Sabat　laughed。　'As　I　was　saying；　the　Reverend　Storton；　with　whom　I　had　struck　up　a　friendship　before　my　untimely　accident；　offered　to　put　me　up　for　a　few　days　while　I　pleted　the　task　which　I　came　here　for。'
　　
　　'And　you　have　pleted　it？'　An　uneasiness　in　the　policeman's　tone；　neck　craning　forward　in　his　eagerness　to　hear　the　answer　to　his　question。　A　prayer　to　whatever　deity　he　worshipped　that　Sabat　would　be　leaving　promptly。
　　
　　'I　think　so。　I　have　pleted　the　exorcisms　but；　of　course；　I　shall　have　to　speak　with　Bishop　Wentnor　before　I　finally　take　my　leave。'
　　
　　Plowden　caught　his　breath；　his　fists　clenched　so　that　his　fingernails　bit　deep　into　the　palms　of　both　hands。　'You're　like　a　bloody　vulture；'　he　rasped。　'Death　wherever　you　go。　Well；　with　any　luck　we'll　be　making　an　arrest　for　the　Dowson　killing　before　long　and　I　guess　that　will　lead　us　to　this　vile　cult！
　　
　　You're　bluffing；　Sabat　thought。　You're　no　nearer　a　solution　now　than　you　were　three　weeks　ago。　'I　wish　you　luck。'　He　stood　up。　'Now；　if　you've　nothing　more　to　question　me　about　1　'11　go　and　see　the　Bishop。'
　　
　　'We'll　know　where　to　find　you　if　we　want　you。'　Plowden's　eyes　narrowed。　'And　we　may　just　do　that。'
　　
　　Sabat　glanced　at　his　watch　as　he　stepped　outside　the　local　police　headquarters　into　the　dazzling　sunshine　of　a　late　August　day。　Midday。　There　was　much　to　do　before　nightfall　and　time　was　running　against　him。
　　
　　'There's　your　cheque。'　There　was　an　air　of　offhand　reluctance　in　the　way　Bishop　Wentnor　slid　the　oblong　piece　of　pink　paper　across　the　desk。　'The　Church　missioners；　like　myself；　thought　it　was　extortionate　but　thankfully　the　whole　business　has　progressed　beyond　and　away　from　St　Adrian's。'
　　
　　An　attitude　of　selfishness　that　was　not　lost　on　Sabat　as　he　checked　the　amount；　folded　the　cheque　carefully　and　placed　it　in　an　inside　pocket；　aware　of　the　slim　forting　bulk　of　his　。38　as　he　did　so。
　　
　　'Yes；　I'm　afraid　it's　a　more　far…reaching　business　than　even　I　imagined　when　I　took　the　case。　It　has　its　evil　roots　farther　a　field。'
　　
　　'But　as　far　as　you　are　concerned　the　case　is　closed；'　Wentnor's　chin　jutted　stubbornly。　'With　hindsight　I　think　even　the　Archbishop　regrets　your　own　involvement。　And　the　police　have　protested　most　strongly　about　your　interference。　However；　I　must　make　it　quite　plain；　Sabat；　that　the　Church　has　now　terminated　its　agreement　with　you。　We　will　not　condone　any　further　meddling　in　this　affair　on　your　part。'
　　
　　Words　that　echoed　those　spoken　by　Detective　Inspector　Plowden。　Possibly　even　the　missioner　of　Scotland　Yard　had　been　persuaded　to　contact　the　Archbishop。　Sabat　smiled　to　himself　as　he　left　the　Bishop's　Palace。　From　now　on；　he　had　to　play　a　lone　hand；　every　man　against　him；　and　no　cheque　to　reward　his　efforts。　His　sole　motive　now　was　one　of　revenge；　a　score　to　be　settled　against　those　who　had　tried　to　cremate　him　alive　and　were　even　now　still　bent　on　his　annihilation。　It　was　the　kind　of　fight　he　enjoyed　best。
　　
　　Sabat　hoped　that　he　had　picked　the　right　mortuary；　a　semi…rural　place　with　its　chapel　of　rest　set　amid　a　grove　of　towering　pine　trees；　the　kind　of　place　where　a　deceased　curate　would　be　taken　while　funeral　arrangements　were　pending。　He　had　to　take　a　chance　on　it。　To　have　made　enquiries　might　have　led　the　shrewd　and　vindictive　Plowden　to　charging　Sabat　for　what　he　was　about　to　do；　neither　did　he　dare　to　go　on　to　the　astral　in　search　of　the　corpse。
　　
　　He　crouched　beyond　the　outer　fringe　of　trees　waiting　for　dusk　to　turn　to　full　darkness。　A　dangerous　time　but　this　was　something　that　could　not　have　been　carried　out　in　full　daylight。　At　least；　he　consoled　himself；　there　was　no　police　guard　mounted；　with　their　practical　stubborn　theories　on　this　case　they　would　see　no　reason　to　guard　an　old　man's　body。
　　
　　It　was　shortly　after　nine　when　Sabat　made　his　move。　No　sound；　hardly　a　slither　of　black　plimsolled　feet　as　he　crept　towards　the　chapel　entrance。　Of　course　the　doors　would　be　locked　but　with　nothing　more　than　a　conventional　Yale；　a　slight　click　as　he　used　his　bankers　credit　card　to　depress　the　lock；　then　he　was　just　another　shadow　in　the　faint　starlight。
　　
　　It　was　all　so　ridiculously　easy　that　he　found　himself　glancing　around　half　suspecting　a　trap。　Six　coffins；　and　Storton　was　in　the　second　one　he　tried。　Sabat's　mouth　was　dry；　his　stomach　muscles　contracting　as　he　gazed　down　on　the　familiar　features。　He　had　half　hoped　that　the　ultimate　deed　necessary　to　free　the　soul　would　not　be　required；　that　the　aged　face　would　still　bear　signs　of　the　seizure；　the　slackness　of　dead　muscles；　mouth　twisted　at　an　angle。
　　
　　But　it　was　not　so。　The　features　were　even　again；　much　younger　in　appearance　as　they　seemed　to　defy　the　effects　of　rigor　mortis；　eyes　that　had　been　closed　by　the　undertakers　were　now　wide　open　and　staring　up　at　him。　The　lips　had　contracted；　showing　a　set　of　cheap　dentures　in　an　animal…like　snarl。　And　Sabat　knew　there　was　no　time　to　be　lost。　A　metallic　clink　as　he　withdrew　from　his　pocket　a　hammer　and　chisel；　the　head　of　the　latter　cushioned　with　a　rubber　cap。　Noise　had　to　be　kept　to　a　minimum　at　all　costs。　The　third　item；　a　hacksaw；　he　laid　down　on　the　nearest　coffin　lid。　He　took　a　deep　breath；　made　a　concerted　effort　to　steady　himself。
　　
　　Even　as　he　positioned　the　sharp　point　of　the　chisel　on　Storton's　chest；　Sabat　felt　the　temperature　dropping。　Mortuaries　were　always　cold　but　not　to　this　extent。　The　darkness　around　him　was　vibrant　and　in　his　head　a　noise　was　growing　like　that　of　a　distant　multitude　chanting　angrily；　ing　closer　all　the　time；　a　lynch　mob　on　the　rampage。
　　
　　One　blow　was　enough；　a　dull　thud　with　a　muffled　ring　of　steel　that　jarred　his　arm　right　up　to　the　elbow；　a　cracking　and　splintering　of　bone　and　a　tearing　noise　as　he　forced　the　tool。　free。　Angry　cries；　so　close　that　he　almost　turned　but　he　could　not　afford　to　delay　if　all　was　not　to　be　lost。
　　
　　In　one　swift；　perfectly　co…ordinated　movement；　hammer　and　chisel　were　back　inside　his　pocket　and　he　had　the　hacksaw　grasped　firmly　in　his　gloved　hand。　He　felt　Storton's　neck　with　his　free　hand；　positioned　the　blade；　and　began　to　saw　feverishly。　It　was　not　easy　working　inside　the　coffin；　he　would　have　preferred　to　have　removed　the　corpse　on　to　a　nearby　marble　slab　for　this　grisly　decapitation　but　there　was　no　time。　Even　now　cold　clammy　hands　seemed　to　clutch　at　him　in　an　attempt　to　drag　him　away。　Tonight　Baron　Cimeterre　would　not　be　on　his　side　as　Sabat　sought　to　deprive　him　of　a　slave　of　the　dead；　last　night's　sacrifice　which　was　about　to　be　snatched　from　the　grasp　of　the　evil　Petro　god！
　　
　　The　hacksaw　blade　was　sharp；　cutting　efficiently　through　the　neckbone　but　it　would　not　be　rushed。　Continual　rhythmic　sawing　was　the　only　way　and　all　the　time　Sabat　felt　his　attackers　closing　in　on　him　just　as　they　had　done　in　St　Adrian's　Church　the　previous　night。　He　sweated　cold　salty　droplets　and　by　sheer　willpower　refrained　from　cursing　aloud。　Profanity　at　such　times　was　a　sure　way　to　fall　into　the　clutches　of　the　enemy。　He　began　to　pray　beneath　his　breath。
　　
　　Maurice　Storton　seemed　to　be　putting　up　a　desperate　resistance；　the　half…severed　neck　swivelling　so　that　the　saw　was　bumping　against　the　side　of　the　coffin；　the　bier　threatening　to　run　away　under　its　own　propulsion。
　　
　　Sabat　felt　a　tightening　of　his　own　chest　as　though　steel　bands　encircled　it　and　he　was　gulping　for　every　breath。　The　pain　began　to　spread　into　a　crippling　coronary　agony　threatening　to　throw　him　to　the　floor。　The　black　powers　were　both　very　strong　and　very　angry　tonight；　Sabat　knew　then　just　how　dangerous　the　man　known　as　Royston　was；　a　deadly　houngan　who　had　e　to　Britain　in　modern　guise　to　spread　his　vile　voodoo　magic。　Tonight　it　was　Royston's　turn　to　ask　Baron　Cimeterre　for　help。
　　
　　Just　when　Sabat　thought　that　he　could　hang　on　no　longer；　that　he　must　surely　collapse　to　the　floor　and　writhe　in　pain；　he　felt　the　blade　bite　into　the　wooden　base　of　the　coffin　and　with　a　dull　thud　the　head　rolled　to　one　side。
　　
　　Those　clamouring　voices　turned　to　cries　of　frustration　and　in　that　same　instant　his　own　pain　receded　to　a　gnawing　ache。　He　clutched　the　coffin；　sprawled　over　it；　somehow　managed　to　check　the　rush　of　vomit　before　it　reached　his　throat。　And　in　that　instant　he　knew　he　was　safe；　that　he'd　won　against　overwhelming　odds；　defeated　the　Lord　of　the　Cemetery　at　the　last　hurdle　and　thwarted　Royston　yet　again。
　　
　　Yet　Sabat　could　not　remain　here　to　bask　in　the　glory　of　another　round　won　against　the　powers　of　darkness。　Even　now　Royston　would　be　planning　revenge；　perhaps　police　already　speeding　to　the　scene　of　this　ghastly　mutilation；　tipped　off　by　an　anonymous　phone　call。　The　hacksaw　was　put　away　and　with　tired；　trembling　hands　Sabat　placed　the　severed　head　against　the　neck　stump。　And　as　he　closed　the　coffin　lid　he　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　corpse's　expression。　The　facial　muscles　were　perfectly　relaxed；　the　lips　sliding　slowly　back　to　cover　those　ill…fitting　dentures；　eyelids　beginning　to　droop。　For　one　second　Maurice　Storton　seemed　to　see　and　recognise　him；　it　could　have　been　a　trick　of　the　ethereal　starlight　filtering　in　through　the　elevated　windows　or　it　could　have　been　a　half　smile　of　gratitude；　the　heartfelt　thanks　of　a　tortured　soul　that　suddenly　found　itself　at　peace。
　　
　　Sabat　left　as　silently　as　he　had　e；　a　flitting　shadow　on　a　starlit　night　until　he　came　to　his　parked　Daimler。　The　prospect　of　the　long　drive　back　to　London　was　far　from　enthralling　but　he　knew　he　had　to　leave　the　heart　of　England　for　a　few　days；　he　could　not　risk　another　clash　with　Plowden　at　the　moment。
　　
　　He　needed　time　to　think；　to　plan　how　he　was　going　to　seek　out　Royston。　For　it　was　vital　that　this　crusading　houngan　be　destroyed　totally。
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　SIX
　　　
　　SABAT　HAD　scanned　the　newspapers　daily　for　the　past　week　but　nowhere　did　he　find　so　much　as　a　mention　of　'devil　worshippers'。　Surely　Maurice　Storton's　funeral　must　have　taken　place　by　now；　in　which　case　it　would　appear　that　the　undertakers　were　totally　unaware　that　the　corpse　had　b