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when compared with that splendid torso, but it was a focal point, the beast
overruling beauty.
Sabat lowered the detective to the ground, rolled him over like a baby on a
changing-mat. Daunay kicked his legs in the air, giggled when he felt his
trousers being dragged from him; clutched at them, but there was no strength
in his fingers. His expression changed, those once-handsome features screwing
up into a pig-like expression, an angry babble that was the beginning of a
pitiful tantrum.
Daunay was fighting to keep the last of his clothing, cries that were harsh
and strange to the ear: a man possessed! Like Sabat! Naked, drawing his knees
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up as instinctive inhibitions clouded his brain. He struck out, caught Sabat
on the chest, but the blow was soft and spongy like a child's foam-rubber
ball.
Sabat stared down into those eyes, read an anger that only stemmed from
childish temper. He wanted to say something, to apologise maybe, but Daunay
would not have understood. A stroke of some kind inflicted by the powers of
evil.
PieterDaunay sat up again, hands clasped across his groin in a kind of screen,
smiling again. Not even aware of his nudity, burbling happily, making
incoherent speech that speared deep into Sabat's conscience. Even Quentin
would have had no part in this. He would, though!
'Roast him and eat of human flesh!'
Sabat's vision blurred momentarily, a haze of blackness spottled with crimson,
a cauldron of fury that came to the boil. Reacting automatically, but this
time not on the commands of the girl who called herself Madeleine Gaufridi.
Mark Sabat and Quentin were locked in a death-hold, an inner struggle. It was
as though a whirlwind seized him. A voice was screaming at him; a woman's,
Madeleine's possibly, but it was drowned by Quentin's roars of rage. 'Stop it.
This is madness!'
Sabat fought physically and mentally. His hand went inside his jacket, closed
over the butt of the " revolver in its holster. Cold steel to his fevered
38
touch, it seemed to give him the impetus he needed. He felt the weapon come
loose, nestle into the palm of his hand as he drew it free of his clothing.
Point-blank range; he did not even use his left hand to steady his aim. Pieter
Daunay's face, still laughing, but those eyes mirrored a brief sanity.
Pleading for death like a stricken beast.
Sabat closed his eyes as he took a trigger pressure. Death had never bothered
him before and it only did so now because it was Daunay, who might have been a
friend and a colleague under different circumstances. Then blinding pain!
He felt the blow on the back of his skull a split second before the gun bucked
and spat flame in his hand, a searing flash like lightning in the darkness of
a thunderstorm. He heard the bullet whine, an angry lead hornet that met with
some solid object and splintered it.
Then Sabat was slipping into that now familiar bottomless chasm. Floating, not
trying to fight, the pain in his head receding until he felt nothing. Sublime
oblivion. * * * 101
Sabat was vaguely aware of dragging himself out of that terrible void, clawing
at the brink, threatening to slip back. For some inexplicable reason he
fought, heard Quentin's leering tones, but the words were indecipherable
amidst a medley of strange noises. God, he'd been ill again. Pneumonia. He'd
wake up in that hospital ward, a helpless victim of white-coated men who did
inexplicable things to you without your consent. Torture.
Then a sharp pain in his ribs, a blow which squeezed the breath from his body
and had him gasping back to consciousness.
'You stupid bastard, Sabat!' Madeleine was standing over him, her foot drawn
back in another threatening kick. 'You can't be trusted and I'll see you don't
get the chance to try and cheat us again!'
He winced, saw that she held his own revolver in her right hand, its snub
barrel trained on his head, her forefinger lightly curled around the trigger.
He stared, knew that his lips moved in a mute apology; excuses that he could
not voice. Cringing. Quentin in command again!
'But you failed,' her full red lips curled in a sneer. 'Another split second
and you would have blown Daunay's head off except that I hit you with the
chair first. Now you'll do as you're told otherwise the next bullet will be in
your skull. Now hurry, the oven is hot. Get him into it!'
Pieter Daunay still lived; still a mindless chuckling imbecile who no longer
tried to cover his lower regions with his hands. Oh Merciful God, Sabat's
attempted euthanasia had failed!
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Sabat was helpless to do anything other than obey. He crawled, lifted himself
up on to his feet, his whole body crying out for rest and sleep. Grasping that
naked malformed body, cursing because it started to struggle again, but
somehow pulling it across to the oven.
You could feel the heat even with the big iron door closed, a blast furnace
that dried your flesh, made you hurry to get your task over and done with so
that you could retreat to a cooler place. Sabat grabbed Daunay's hair, heard
the screech of pain as he dragged him up to a sitting position.
The door was open, a black cubicle that was surely the entrance to hell
itself, scorching his eyes closed. He lifted the naked dead weight with some
reserve of superhuman strength spring boarded by desperation. One last effort,
throwing the Frenchman into that gaping cubicle, kicking at protruding limbs,
using the door to push the screaming form back. Sabat almost passed out, heard
the final clang, screams that came from the victim's very soul. Staggering
back, collapsing, crying out as another kick drove into his unprotected ribs.
He groped for unconsciousness, but it eluded him. He wanted to shut his eyes,
but they refused to close. Muffled cries of agony as the heat inside that
monstrous replica of hell began to cook the living flesh. He could smell it;
nauseating, making him retch.
Madeleine was standing in front of him. She still had the gun but she knew she
wouldn't have to use it; or even threaten with it. Sabat had rebelled but he
was well and truly beaten now. Grovelling. A smile that held contempt for the
man she had plucked off the Jungfrau mountain to be her slave, to help her
resurrect her age-old lover.
'You are sweating with the heat, Sabat,' her tones were soft and lilting. Take
off your clothes. You will be cooler then.'
Sabat stiffened, his shaking fingers already starting to obey, his shirt
following his jacket on to the floor in an untidy heap, unfastening his belt;
aware of a growing pleasant sensation in the lower regions of his body.
Madeleine noticed it also, and her smile broadened.
'Two whole days together,' she laughed, 'just you and me, Sabat. We have
everything we need; each other. And the dinner will be some time yet. Let us
make love and then when we are well satisfied we will eat our fill! Let us
forget Andre and the rabble from the commune. I think they have already served
their purpose, for they will be as nothing when my beloved awakens from his
long sleep!'
Sabat managed to close his eyes, felt her soft warm breath on his face and her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]