gns.thegraveyardvultures-第18章
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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 been beheaded and had had a chisel gouged in its chest。 Or else they did not want to incur publicity and have it known that their premises had been broken into。 Sabat preferred the latter theory； for once the body was in its grave nobody was going to be any the wiser。
Locating Royston presented problems。 Not knowing the man's surname he could not trace him by the usual methods。 He contemplated going to the astral but without knowing where to search his chances of success were exceedingly slim。 Which left him with his only and original link …Miranda！ If he visited her in his astral body there was no guarantee that Royston would be with her at any given time and Sabat could spend weeks pursuing this fruitless line of enquiry night after night； wasting valuable time as well as putting himself at grave risk； for there was no doubt that this evil voodoo cult were still determined to destroy him。 There was only one course open to Sabat； he must visit Miranda in his earthly body and take whatever steps wer
