gns.thegraveyardvultures-第21部分

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res　on　the　winding　road；　promising　himself　that　this　man　called　Royston　would　pay　not　only　with　his　life　but　with　his　soul。　And　Sabat　would　not　make　the　same　mistake　which　he　had　made　when　he　had　confronted　Quentin　in　that　remote　forest　clearing。　God　or　Satan；　he　would　use　either　to　exact　the　terrible　revenge　he　sought；　Suddenly　he　saw　the　motor…cyclist；　a　hurtling　denim…clad　rider　ing　towards　him；　taking　the　left　hand　bend　too　wide　and　too　fast；　unhelmeted　so　that　an　expression　of　terror　was　visible　even　in　that　fraction　of　a　second。　Sabat's　reactions　were　as　sharp　as　ever；　pulling　the　wheel　over；　mounting　the　grass　verge；　miraculously　avoiding　a　head…on　collision。
　　
　　Now　everything　was　slow　motion；　every　detail　hideously　accentuated　as　though　deliberately　to　torture　the　two　men。　The　biker　was　alongside　the　Daimler；　a　stunt　rider　doing　crazy　aerobatics　as　his　machine　reared　like　a　plunging　rodeo　mount。　Sabat　had　two　fields　of　vision；　in　his　wing　mirror　he　watched　the　riderless　motorbike　hit　the　ground　and　career　on　a　diagonal　course　for　the　opposite　ditch；　while　through　the　windscreen　he　saw　the　thrown　rider　reach　his　apex；　arms　and　legs　kicking　like　a　sky…diver。　ing　down。　So　slowly；　head　first；　long　blonde　hair　flowing；　mouth　wide　to　emit　a　terrible　scream。　For　one　awful　split　second　the　two　men　exchanged　glances；　the　clear　blue　eyes　of　the　doomed　youth　blazing　terror　and　hate。　'You　killed　me；　you　bastard。　Murderer　'
　　
　　Sabat　seemed　to　feel　the　impact　of　bone　smashing　on　tarmac；　a　stomach…churning　thud　that　vibrated　through　the　car。　Still　it　was　slow　motion；　an　action　replay　of　a　gymnast's　head　stand　。　。　。　except　that　the　performer　now　had　no　head！　Smashed　bone　and　pulped　flesh；　a　morass　that　was　scarlet　with　stringy　grey　frogspawn；　still　tottering　in　a　vertical　position。　Then　slowly　collapsing
　　
　　It　had　seemed　an　eternity　yet　could　have　lasted　no　more　than　a　few　seconds。　Sabat's　pulses　had　started　to　race　but　he　checked　them；　psychologically　steadying　every　nerve　as　he　had　been　trained　to　do　during　his　SAS　service。　He　opened　the　door；　eased　himself　out；　stood　looking　down　on　the　bloody　remains　of　what　had　once　been　a　human　being。　Shredded　clothing；　a　gash　that　opened　up　the　stomach　so　that　the　entrails　spilled　out；　yards　of　coiled　human　piping。
　　
　　Sabat　glanced　up　and　down　the　road。　There　was　nobody　in　sight。　Probably　this　unfortunate　victim　of　their　brief　encounter　was　a　farm　labourer　speeding　on　his　way　to　keep　an　appointment　with　a　herd　of　cows　whose　udders　were　full　to　bursting。　No　sadness；　no　revulsion；　seeing　things　as　they　were；　as　fate　had　ordained。　Alive　one　second；　dead　the　next；　a　gamble　millions　of　people　won　or　loct　with　every　passing　day。
　　
　　Sabat　turned　away；　got　back　into　his　car。　There　was　nothing　he　could　have　done　anyway。　Had　the　other　still　been　alive　he　would　have　put　him　out　of　his　misery　with　the　same　impartiality　with　which　a　vet　dispatches　a　suffering　animal。　He'd　done　it　once　before；　a　swift　blow　with　a　starting　handle　to　the　head　of　a　young　girl　mutilated　beyond　recognition　in　the　wreckage　of　a　Mini。　Instant　death　was　preferable　to　prolonged　suffering。　God　gave　life　and　God　took　it　away；　and　as　Man　was　a　part　of　God；　Sabat　had　felt　justified　in　his　decision。
　　
　　He　drove　away；　the　Daimler　picking　up　speed。　To　have　wasted　time　reporting　the　accident　would　have　caused　delays　which　Sabat　could　not　afford。　Lengthy　statements　would　have　taken　hours；　the　next　motorist　to　pass　along　this　road　could　shoulder　that　responsibility。　And　with　a　long　expel…lation　of　breath；　Sabat　pushed　the　matter　from　his　mind；　cast　it　into　the　oblivion　of　human　forget　fulness。
　　
　　It　was　8。00am　when　he　spied　his　destination　below　him；　a　tiny　village　dominated　by　a　church　spire　protruding　above　a　line　of　tall　poplars　set　in　a　small　river　valley。　The　incline　was　steep　and　winding；　giving　him　a　panoramic　view　of　the　countryside；　sheep　and　cattle　grazing　the　meadowland。　Perfect　peace；　so　far　removed　from　Royston　and　his　vile　followers。
　　
　　Sabat　should　have　been　able　to　relax　but　for　some　reason　he　could　not。　Every　nerve　in　his　body　was　tense；　a　tautness　that　gave　him　that　feeling　of　foreboding　again。　But　that　was　probably　a　reaction　to　his　failure　to　find　Miranda　in　time　for　there　was　no　doubt　in　his　mind　that　she　was　dead　by　now；　having　suffered　horribly　at　the　end。
　　
　　One　or　two　people　were　astir　in　the　sleepy　village　street；　an　elderly　woman　pausing　on　the　steps　of　a　grocery　shop　to　stare　at　the　Daimler；　squinting　as　she　tried　to　identify　the　driver。　Strangers　here；　Sabat　decided；　were　not　an　everyday　occurrence。
　　
　　He　slowed　by　the　church；　could　just　make　out　the　gabled　outline　of　the　black　and　white　timbered　vicarage　which　stood　in　the　adjoining　grounds；　an　austere　building　partly　screened　from　the　road　by　tall　shrubberies。　He　saw　the　entrance　gates　were　open；　eased　the　aristocratic　nose　of　the　Daimler　into　the　drive。
　　
　　Sabat　swung　the　car　round　on　the　semi…circular　forecourt　in　front　of　the　house；　switched　off　the　engine　and　surveyed　his　surroundings。　A　typical　churchman's　abode；　he　smiled　wryly；　a　gardener　paid　a　pittance　out　of　the　offertory　money；　a　facade　to　mask　a　hypocritical　religion。　Nevertheless；　Sabat　had　to　pander　to　the　whims　of　the　Reverend　Spode。　He　left　the　car；　mounted　a　flight　of　wide　steps　and　rung　the　bell。　Somewhere　in　the　recesses　of　the　vicarage　he　heard　it　clanging　faintly；　echoing。
　　
　　It　was　fully　five　minutes　before　Sabat　heard　approaching　footsteps；　a　light　tread　that　was　definitely　female。　He　conjured　up　in　his　imagination　an　apron…clad；　rosy　cheeked　middle…aged　spinster　or　widow；　a　typical　housekeeper　who　would　usher　him　into　a　drab　Victorian　drawing　room；　a　wait　maybe　of　quarter…of…an…hour　because　it　was　'the　thing'　where　visitors　were　concerned；　a　die…hard　tradition　amongst　this　latter　generation　of　clergy。
　　
　　'Good　morning。　Can　I　help　you？'
　　
　　Sabat　stared；　for　a　few　seconds　his　brain　refused　to　relate　the　girl　who　peered　out　of　the　partly　open　door　to　an　ageing　vicar's　housekeeper。　Small　and　slim　she　could　not　have　been　more　than　thirty；　her　smooth　skin　very　slightly　darker　than　that　of　an　average　sun…tanned　European。　Wide　brown　eyes　that　almost　matched　her　afro　hairstyle　and　perfect　features　that　radiated　sheer　beauty；　all　enhanced　by　the　ankle…length；　hand…woven　dress　of　a　dozen　different　colours。
　　
　　'Er　。　。　。　yes。'　Sabat　overcame　his　surprise；　a　white　West　Indian　without　a　doubt。　Td　like　to　see　the　Reverend　Spode。'
　　
　　'Perhaps　you'd　care　to　step　inside。'　Her　smile　showed　two　rows　of　flashing　white　teeth。　'I'm　afraid　the　vicar's　not　back　yet　from　taking　early　munion　but　he　shouldn't　be　long。'
　　
　　'Thank　you。'　Sabat　stepped　into　the　gloomy　hall；　smelled　strong　lavender　polish。　'I　hope　the　vicar　won't　be　too　long。'
　　
　　'I'm　sure　he　won't。'　The　perfect　hostess　in　the　vicar's　absence；　ushering　him　into　a　drawing　room；　a　feature　which　at　least　met　with　his　expectations　of　a　sombre　vicarage。　'Would　you　like　a　cup　of　coffee　while　you　wait？'
　　
　　'That　would　be　fine。'　Sabat　smiled；　would　have　accepted　an　invitation　to　partake　of　a　massive　English　breakfast　there　and　then　if　it　had　been　offered。　He　had　not　eaten　for　almost　twenty…four　hours　and　he　was　ravenous。　But　food　could　wait。
　　
　　A　few　minutes　later　the　girl　returned　carrying　a　small　tray　on　which　stood　a　cup　of　delicious…smelling　coffee；　a　small　jug　of　milk　and　a　bowl　of　sugar。　'I'm　sorry　to　have　to　keep　you　waiting；　Mr　。　。　。　？'
　　
　　'Sabat。'
　　
　　'Sa　。　。　。　bat；'　she　repeated　the　name　slowly　as　though　savouring　every　syllable。　Til　tell　the　Reverend　Spode　that　you're　here　the　moment　he　returns。'　With　a　sudden　turn　that　swirled　her　dress　like　that　of　a　ballerina；　the　girl　took　her　leave。　Sabat　had　one　glimpse　of　the　shapely　legs　beneath　the　home…woven　material　and　then　she　was　gone；　her　footsteps　receding　down　the　stone…flagged　passage　which　led　to　the　rear　of　this　large　house。
　　
　　Sabat　sipped　his　coffee；　savouring　its　unique　flavour　and　aroma。　It　was　certainly　no　cheap　mass…produced　blend　of　mongrel　beans；　rather　a　delicate；　subtle　continental　taste。　At　least　he　thought　so。　He　couldn't　quite　place　its　origin。
　　
　　He　glanced　at　his　watch。　8。30。　He　seemed　to　have　been　here　hours。　Suddenly；　he　felt　tired；　too；　found　himself　yawning；　a　loud　vulgar　sound　as　though　his　body　was　fighting　desperately　to　dispel　a　fatigue　that　was　building　up。　His　eyelids　drooped　and　he　had　to　keep　them　open　with　a　conscious　effort。　Hell；　Spode　was　taking　his　time；　must've　had　a　packed　church　for　munion。　Sabat　supposed　that　in　a　small　village　such　as　this　most　of　the　population　attended　every　service。　Because　their　fathers　and　their　fathers'　fathers　before　them　had　done　so；　a　foundation　upon　which　the　Church　today　relied。　The　present　generation　were　free　thinkers；　made　up　their　own　minds　whether　or　not　they　went　to　church。　And　most　of　them　didn't。
　　
　　He　consulted　his　watch　again；　having　to　concentrate　to　work　out　which　hand　was　which。　8。30。　It　must've　stopped。
　　
　　He　tapped　it；　shook　his　wrist；　held　it　up　to　his　〃ar。　It　was　ticking　all　right。　Probably　it　had　stopped　and　started　again。　Then　he　heard　the　nearby　church　clock　chime；　two　resonant　clangs；　the　half…hour。
　　
　　Only　then　did　he　begin　to　realise　that　something　was　wrong。　He　tried　to　get　up　but　his　limbs　refused　to　move。　Now　he　could　not　even　lift　his　arms。　His　mouth　was　dry；　a　sharp　bitter　tang　on　his　palate；　even　his　tongue　seemed　leaden。
　　
　　Oh；　Jesus　Christ　what　the　hell　was　wrong　with　him？　He'd　never　felt　fitter；　fresher　than　when　he'd　driven　into　the　village　a　short　time　ago。　It　wasn't　fatigue；　more　like　some　kind　of　tropical　sleeping　sickness　where　one　kept　on　dozing　off　until　finally　one　went　to　sleep　and　did　not　wake　up　anymore！　He'd　have　to　close　his　eyes　for　a　few　moments；　cat…nap　like　he'd　learned　to　do　in　the　SAS；　and　when　he　woke　up　maybe　he'd　feel　better。
　　
　　Suddenly　he　heard　footsteps　in　the　passage　outside。　This　time　it　was　not　the　dainty　tread　of　the　West　Indian　girl　but　a　much　heavier；　dragging　male　step。　The　doorknob　rattled；　turned；　and　Sabat　felt　a　draught　on　his　face。　He　fought　to　open　his　eyes　but　only　managed　a　blurred　squint；　enough　to　make　out　a　tall；　heavily…built　man　framed　in　the　doorway；　a　breeze　from　somewhere　fluttering　the　long　black　robes　which　he　wore。　This　had　to　be　the　Reverend　Spode；　Sabat　decided；　and　could　not　prevent　his　eyes　from　closing　again。　He　opened　his　mouth　to　speak　but　only　succeeded　in　emitting　another　loud　yawn。
　　
　　'Ah；　Mr　Sabat；'　a　cultured　forceful　voice。　'And　tired　after　your　long　journey　here；　I　perceive。'
　　
　　Something　jogged　Sabat's　muzzy　brain；　a　sharp　recollection；　recognising　something　but　not　knowing　quite　what；　another　of　his　inbuilt　instinctive　warning　systems　was　suddenly　operating　at　full　blast；　urging　him　to　open　his　eyes！　That　voice　；　。　。　so　familiar　。　。　。
　　
　　With　an　almost　superhuman　effort　Sabat　forced　his　eyes　open；　stared　hard　until　that　cataract…like　opaqueness　dissolved　and　he　could　see　clearly。　And　then　every　alarm；　every　nerve　in　his　body　was　screaming　at　him！
　　
　　In　that　terrible　moment　he　saw　and　understood；　saw