gns.thedruidconnection-第6部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　
　　Sabat　had　once　been　in　the　priesthood；　the　very　thought　had　Bishop　Boyce　biting　hard　on　his　cigar。　There　was　nothing　Christian　about　this　guy。　Rumour；　again；　had　it　that　Sabat　had　undergone　a　youthful　homosexual　experience　which　had　driven　him　to　the　Church　to　seek　repentance。　Instead　he'd　found　a　burning　hatred　and　had　cast　off　the　cloth　in　favour　of　an　SAS　uniform；　a　potential　killer　seeking　a　means　by　which　to　mit　legalised　murder。
　　
　　There'll　be　a　fee；'　Sabat's　eyes　hardened　like　chips　of　dark　granite。　An　oblique　jibe　that　he　savoured。
　　
　　'I　rather　thought　there　would　be；'　the　bishop　regarded　him　coldly。　'I've　never　had　to　pay　an　exorcist　before。'
　　
　　'It　might　not　be　a　straightforward　exorcism。'
　　
　　'What　d'you　mean？'
　　
　　'You　haven't　told　me　about　Bishop　Avenson；'　Sabat　inclined　his　head　towards　the　oil…painting　which　hung　to　his　left。　'Whatever's　going　on　it　goes　back　as　far　as　1742；　maybe　a　lot　further。　Avenson　was　found　all　burned　up；　just　like　Owen。　And　your　last　exorcist　was　discovered　with　an　obsession　for　bonfires。　We're　not　up　against　just　an　ordinary　spirit。　Whatever　it　is；　it's　dangerous　and　I　don't　risk　my　life；　maybe　worse；　for　nothing。'
　　
　　Boyce　started　visibly。　Damn　this　Sabat　fellow；　he'd　been　researching　the　history　of　St　Monica's。　The　prying　type。
　　
　　'I　didn't　think　Avenson's　fate　could　possibly　have　anything　to　do　with　what　happened　in　1982；　nearly　two　hundred　and　fifty　years　later。'
　　
　　'Nothing　can　be　overlooked。　I'd　say　there's　a　direct　link。　Tell　me；　Bishop；　this　guy　Cleehopes；　what　had　he　been　burning　on　the　bonfire？'
　　
　　'Just　grass　and　weeds。　We　had　a　mowing　contractor　in　to　tidy　up　the　churchyard　about　a　fortnight　ago　and　he'd　left　a　pile　of　cuttings。　Cleehopes　apparently　set　fire　to　them。'
　　
　　'Nothing　else？'
　　
　　'Not　as　far　as　I　know。　The　police　sifted　through　the　ashes　but　they　never　told　me　they'd　found　anything。'
　　
　　'Well；　I'll　check　with　Groome　anyway。　Now；　the　fee；　Bishop。　I　work　for　five　hundred　a　week　plus　expenses。'
　　
　　'Daylight　robbery；'　Boyce's　thick　lips　tightened；　the　end　of　his　cigar　glowing　red。
　　
　　'Not　when　you　take　the　risks　I　take。　However；　if　you　think　I'm　too　expensive　。　。　。
　　
　　The　bishop　pulled　a　drawer　open；　took　out　the　diocesan　expenses　cheque　book。　His　orders　had　e　from　a　higher　authority；　from　Westminster　itself　where　he　had　been　informed　that　Sabat　had　worked　for　the　Church　before。　It　was　neither　Bishop　Boyce's　own　money　nor　his　place　to　argue。　Hastily　he　scribbled　out　a　cheque；　tore　the　perforation　and　slid　the　oblong　of　yellow　paper　across　the　desk。　T　just　hope　you　get　it　all　settled　up　in　a　week；　Sabat。'
　　
　　'So　do　I；'　Sabat　smiled　humourlessly　beneath　his　heavy　moustache。　'I'll　need　acmodation；　too。'
　　
　　'You　can　have　the　use　of　the　curate's　house；'　the　bishop's　eyes　hooded。　'And　I'll　be　glad　if　you'll　be　as　unobtrusive　as　possible。　The　newspapers　have　gone　to　town　on　this　business　and　this　kind　of　publicity　doesn't　do　the　Church　any　good。'
　　
　　'You　won't　even　know　I'm　around；'　Sabat　smiled　again　and　turned　on　his　heel。
　　
　　After　the　door　had　closed　behind　his　visitor；　Bishop　Boyce　drew　heavily　on　his　cigar。　Sabat　made　him　uneasy；　the　tall　dark　man　wasn't　like　other　men；　more　like　a　hunting　beast　of　prey　and　you　just　hoped　it　wasn't　you　he　was　after。　Because　if　he　was　he'd　run　you　down　for　sure。
　　
　　There　was　a　frown　on　Sabat's　face　as　he　made　his　way　through　the　palace　to　where　his　silver　Daimler　stood　sedately。　He　didn't　like　Boyce　and　that　wasn't　just　because　the　man　was　a　。hypocritical　bishop。　He　had　the　kind　of　intuition　that　Sabat　had　learned　not　to　ignore　in　the　past；　inbuilt　alarm　systems　in　his　own　body　sounding　a　warning。　He　would　not　ignore　them。
　　
　　It　was　that　painting　hanging　in　Boyce's　study　that　he　could　not　get　off　his　mind。　Bishop　Avenson　…　a　portrait　of　evil。　God；　the　likeness　was　uncanny；　enough　to　have　every　nerve　in　Mark　Sabat's　body　tensing　like　steel　cables　at　full　stretch。　The　features；　the　expression；　so　reminiscent　of　his　own　brother　Quentin；　the　most　evil　man　this　century！
　　
　　Sabat　slid　behind　the　wheel　of　the　Daimler　and　sat　there　staring　across　the　palace　gardens；　unseeing　except　in　his　own　mind。　Even　now　he　thought　he　could　hear　Quentin's　voice　somewhere　in　the　recesses　of　his　own　brain。　'I'm　not　dead；　Mark　Sabat。　Still　I　live　on；　for　I　am　you！'
　　
　　Mark　Sabat　felt　the　clamminess　of　cold　sweat；　his　shirt　clinging　to　his　body；　and　in　his　mind　he　saw　a　wooded　mountainside；　a　wide　clearing　which　even　the　birds　and　beasts　of　the　wild　shunned。　For　it　was　here　that　his　own　brother　Quentin　had　chosen　his　final　refuge；　a　bastion　of　evil　in　the　mountains。　He　had　been　known　throughout　the　continents　of　the　world　as　'Satan's　henchman'；　pursued　by　the　bined　forces　of　the　law　who　secretly　hoped　that　they　would　not　catch　up　with　him；　relentlessly　hunted　by　Mark　Sabat。　And　it　was　in　this　very　clearing　that　the　final　confrontation　had　taken　place。
　　
　　Sabat　shuddered；　recalled　how　his　own　extraordinary　powers　of　exorcism　had　been　overshadowed　by　those　of　the　most　evil　man　known　to　mankind。　Exhumed　corpses　lay　beside　the　three　open　graves；　further　proof　of　what　Quentin　was　about　to　do；　a　master　of　voodoo；　a　houngan　in　exile　attempting　to　raise　his　own　followers　from　the　dead；　an　invincible　army　of　zombies　to　do　his　bidding。
　　
　　Sabat　smelled　again　the　cloying　putrefaction　of　open　graves；　experienced　once　more　his　own　utter　despair　when　he　had　fallen　into　one；　looked　up　and　seen　his　brother　preparing　to　pulverise　him　with　a　woodcutter's　axe；　the　stench　of　burned　cordite；　the　…38　which　Sabat　always　carried　bucking　in　his　hand；　Quentin　falling；　writhing　his　death　throes　on　top　of　him；　the　final　shot　blasting　that　awful　skull；　stringing　blood　and　brains　on　the　damp　walls　of　the　grave　like　an　old　man's　mucus。
　　
　　It　should　have　ended　there　and　then　with　Sabat　clambering　out　of　that　oblong　hole；　walking　dazedly　back　down　the　mountainside；　his　mission　acplished。　But　it　hadn't。　Somehow　Quentin's　own　soul　had　merged　with　his　own；　good　and　evil　in　continual　conflict　inside　a　living　entity；　a　man　possessed　fighting　within　himself　for　survival。　And　still　fighting。
　　
　　And　that　was　how　it　remained。　Sabat；　one…time　priest；　latterly　an　SAS　agent；　until　his　indiscretion　with　a　Colonel's　blonde　wife　who　wore　black　boots　and　liked　to　watch　her　lovers　cringe　before　her；　had　resulted　in　his　recent　return　to　civilian　life　and　now　found　himself　the　victim　of　a　dual　role。　At　certain　times　the　evil　in　him　was　too　strong　to　resist　and　Quentin　Sabat　lived　again。　On　other　occasions　the　forces　of　evil　were　thwarted　by　Mark　Sabat's　own　ruthlessness；　his　own　desire　for　revenge　for　what　they　had　done　to　him。

　　
　　The　pendulum　swung　and　Sabat　could　never　be　sure　of　himself；　an　exorcist　with　unbelievable　psychic　powers　which　might　one　day　prove　to　be　his　own　undoing。　Quentin　had　been　silent　for　too　long　and　now　it　seemed　that　he　had　been　stirred　by　the　sight　of　a　face　from　the　past；　the　cruel　features　of　Bishop　Avenson！
　　
　　Sabat　eased　the　car　into　the　flow　of　traffic；　could　still　hear　Quentin's　laughter　somewhere　far　away。　Then　he　straightened　up；　gripped　the　wheel；　and　his　jaw　tightened。　Hell；　if　it　was　a　fight　the　powers　of　evil　wanted　then　it　was　a　fight　they'd　get。　He　felt　the　forting　weight　of　the　…38　in　its　holster　beneath　his　right　armpit；　a　boost　to　his　confidence　although　its　effectiveness　was　often　limited　against　the　foes　he　came　up　against。　Any　weapon　was　better　than　none。
　　
　　He　drove　steadily　once　he　was　clear　of　the　city　traffic；　the　tinted　windscreen　shielding　his　eyes　from　the　rays　of　the　dying　sun　in　the　west。　He　checked　the　time：　six…twenty。　There　was　no　hurry。　Tonight　he　would　install　himself　in　his　new　headquarters　and　tomorrow　he　would　begin　his　investigations。　To　have　rushed　straightaway　to　the　church　without　having　first　ascertained　the　full　strength　of　the　enemy　would　have　been　foolhardy　indeed。　Time　was　on　his　side　and　the　Church　were　footing　the　bill。　Sabat　reckoned　they　owed　him　that。
　　
　　An　hour　later　he　eased　the　Daimler　into　the　drive　of　the　small　modern　detached　house　on　the　outskirts　of　the　village。　Once；　only　a　decade　ago；　this　village　had　had　a　resident　parson　but　the　Church　hierarchy　had　decreed　that　the　upkeep　of　a　parsonage　with　dwindling　congregations　was　superfluous。　So　the　impressive　black　and　white　building　had　been　sold　for　an　extortionate　sum　and　a　succession　of　curates　had　taken　up　residence　in　this　modest　new　abode。　They　had　moved　on　to　other　places　but　it　was　anybody's　guess　where　the　Reverend　Philip　Owen　had　gone；　Sabat　reflected。　Something　from　out　of　the　shadows　had　claimed　his　soul　and　Sabat　must　be　on　his　guard　to　make　sure　that　his　own　did　not　follow。　Quentin's　influence　was　a　dangerous　weakness；　the　chink　in　his　armour。
　　
　　He　let　himself　into　the　house　and　inspected　it　from　top　to　bottom。　Neat　and　economically　furnished；　a　typical　bachelor　abode。　Sabat　laughed　to　himself；　after　all；　he　was　a　bachelor　and　in　those　few　moments　he　was　aware　of　a　familiar　sensation　beginning　to　dominate　the　lower　regions