gns.thegraveyardvultures-第6章

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e；　probably　it　will　never　be　found。　Terrible　as　the　desecration　of　these　graves　is；　it　isn't　like　murder；　is　it？'
　　
　　'In　many　cases　it　is　far　worse　than　murder。'　'In　the　case　of　the　Adams　girl　I'll　agree　but。。。　'That　was　possibly　only　a　taste　of　things　to　e；　Bishop。　Necromancy　can　take　many　forms。　Possibly　the　Adams　girl's　body　was　merely　used　for　vile　participation　in　an　obscene　act。　At　least　that　was　the　original　intention。　Those　cloven　prints　on　her　body　could　have　been　implanted　there　by　the　members　of　this　particular　cult。　On　the　other　hand　。　。　。　'　he　paused；　possibly　debating　whether　or　not　to　expound　his　theory　further。　'On　the　other　hand；　Bishop；　they　could　just　have　succeeded　in　calling　up　the　ultimate　in　evil。　It　has　been　done；　you　know。　A　classic　case　was　when　the　infamous　Aleister　Crowley　raised　up　Pan　in　Paris。　He　did　just　that　and　as　a　result　Crowley　spent　several　months　in　a　mental　institution；　virtually　a　gibbering　idiot。　His　panion　in　the　experiment　was　struck　dead。　It　is　a　known　fact　that　such　powerful　evil　summoned　from　beyond　never　returns　empty　handed。　So　it　would　be　feasible　to　assume　that　although　Sylvia　Adams'　corpse　was　used　for　the　purpose　of　powerful　black　magic；　whatever　was　called　up　took　another　life。　Thus；　what　became　of　the　body？　Are　there　any　missing　persons　reported　in　the　locality？'
　　
　　'Not　that　I　know　of　but　you　can　check　with　the　police　on　that。'　Bishop　Wentnor's　ruddy　plexion　was　now　considerably　paler　and　he　drummed　his　fingers　on　the　desk　top　nervously；
　　
　　'My　first　task　will　be　to　try　and　locate　the　missing　skeleton。'　Sabat's　eyes　narrowed。　Then　we　need　to　know　just　who　these　devil…worshippers　are。　They　may　not　be　locals；　often　a　coven　will　travel　many　miles　if　they　find　a　place　suitable　for　their　activities；　and　from　what　you　tell　me　St　Adrian's　church　and　its　grounds　have　all　the　right　ingredients。　However；　I　must　look　further　afield　if　necessary；　but　to　begin　with　I'll　need　acmodation　in　this　village。　Incognito。　Full　expenses　and　I'll　let　you　have　a　scale　of　my　charges。'
　　
　　Bishop　Wentnor　blanched　even　further；　conjured　up　a　mental　picture　of　a　recent　balance　sheet　of　diocesan　accounts。　'I　。。。　well；　yes；　of　course。　But　I　was　under　the　impression　that　exorcists　did　not。。　。'
　　
　　'Charge　for　their　services？'
　　
　　'Yes。　A　sort　of　tradition；　like　bone…setters。　A　gift　from　God　not　to　be　exploited　in　monetary　terms。　Like　water…diviners　。　。　。　'
　　
　　'Perhaps　you　would　like　to　use　one　of　your　own　exorcists　then；　Bishop。'　Sabat　rose　to　his　feet；　buttoning　his　dark　serge　jacket。
　　
　　'No；　no；'　Wentnor　held　up　a　hand。　He　would　have　liked　nothing　better　than　to　have　dispensed　with　the　services　of　this　man　but　the　Archbishop　would　not　have　accepted　his　explanation　lightly。　'Of　course　you'll　be　paid　in　full。　Just　submit　your　bills。'
　　
　　'Thank　you。'　Sabat　smiled；　a　kind　of　leer　that　a　caged　lion　might　have　given　its　keeper　at　feeding　time。　'I　shall　prepare　to　depart　for　my　destination　tomorrow。'
　　
　　'The　police　are　still　conducting　their　investigations　in　the　locality。　You　may　care　to　make　yourself　known　to　Detective　Inspector　Plowden　who　is　leading　the　enquiry。'
　　
　　'I　may；'　Sabat　paused　in　the　doorway；　and　added；　'on　the　other　hand　I　may　not。'
　　
　　Sabat　returned　to　London　and　darkness　had　already　fallen　by　the　time　he　reached　his　exclusive　West　Hampstead　home。　Unlocking　the　front　door　he　stepped　inside；　paused　to　savour　that　aroma　which　never　ceased　to　afford　him　a　great　deal　of　personal　satisfaction；　the　smell　of　French　polish　and　that　almost　undefinable　odour　which　es　from　antiques　and　antiquarian　books；　the　flavour　of　accumulated　wealth。　He　smiled　faintly　to　himself；　life　had　been　good　to　him　in　many　ways。　That　terrorist　armaments　cache　he　had　discovered　during　his　SAS　days。　That；　he　decided；　had　been　the　turning　point　in　his　life；　the　bridge　that　divided　a　mediocre　ine　from　wealth。　He　could　have　reported　it；　possibly　received　a　mendation　and　within　a　month　everybody　would　have　forgotten　about　it　because　there　were　bomb　factories　all　over　the　country。　Sabat　had　made　a　bargain　with　the　anarchists　…　a　hard　one。　In　the　weeks　that　followed　his　conscience　had　troubled　him　and　he'd　tried　to　console　himself　with　the　thought　that　he'd　deprived　the　enemy　of　an　awful　lot　of　cash；　they　still　had　their　high…powered　rifles；　machine　guns　and　grenades　but　it　had　cost　them　dearly　and　would　set　them　back　a　lot　in　monetary　terms。　But　he　got　over　it；　told　himself　it　didn't　matter　either　way　because　the　world　was　a　jungle；　every　man　for　himself。　After　that　he'd　made　one　or　two　more　bargains；　blackmail　if　one　really　analysed　it。　He'd　hit　the　enemy　in　his　own　way；　reduced　their　capital　resources。　The　sort　of　thing　Quentin　would　have　done。　。　。　and　Mark　Sabat　would　still　be　doing　if　it　wasn't　for　that　stupid　bitch　of　a　colonel's　wife　who　had　made　her　own　bargain　with　her　legs　wide　apart　and　as　a　result　Sabat　had　found　himself　out　of　the　SAS　with　a　good　kick　up　the　arse　to　help　him　on　his　way。　Jesus；　he　hated　that　bitch　but　he　couldn't　stop　himself　getting　an　erection　every　time　he　thought　about　her。
　　
　　Suddenly　he　was　aware　of　how　cold　it　was　inside　the　house。　He　shivered；　had　to　forcibly　remind　himself　that　it　was　still　late　summer；　that　he'd　been　sweating　on　the　tube　across　London。　A　sudden　stab　of　fear　had　him　reaching　for　the　light　switch；　finding　it；　flicking　it。　Nothing！　Nothing　except　cold；　cloying　darkness。
　　
　　And　then　the　voice；　familiar　tones。　'Do　not　interfere　in　what　does　not　concern　you。'
　　
　　'Damn　you；　Quentin！'
　　
　　A　laugh。　Sabat　staggered　back　against　a　table；　his　head　suddenly　feeling　as　though　it　was　about　to　burst；　a　fast　escalating　headache　of　migraine　proportions　as　though　he'd　been　struck　a　physical　blow。　Oh　Christ；　he'd　been　caught　off　his　guard；　lulled　himself　into　thinking　that　Quentin　had　jusf　disappeared；　relaxed　his　constant　fight　against　his　inner　self　and　his　split　soul。　And　his　own　adversary　had　chosen　this　moment；　attacked　with　full　force；　a　boxer　being　pummelled　against　the　ropes。
　　
　　'There's　an　easy　way　out　for　you；　Mark。　Take　your　own　life；　like　Petraux　did。　So　easy。'
　　
　　Sabat　gasped；　found　himself　even　considering　the　proposition。　Let　Quentin　have　his　way　and　be　damned　to　it　all。　But　another　thought　jerked　him　back　into　the　fight。　To　mit　suicide　would　be　to　precipitate　himself　into　the　black　beyond；　a　willing　slave　to　the　rulers　of　darkness。　He　had　to　fight；　every　inch　of　the　way；　throw　off　Quentin　in　this　continual　struggle　to　remain　master　of　his　own　body　and　soul。
　　
　　'No！'　he　yelled　aloud；　almost　felt　the　echo　of　his　defiance　rebounding　back　at　him　off　the　walls。　'I'll　fight　against　you；　all　the　way！'
　　
　　It　seemed　as　though　strong　hands　had　encircled　his　throat　in　a　steely　stranglehold　grip　determined　to　crush　the　life　out　of　him。　He　couldn't　breathe；　felt　his　eyes　beginning　to　bulge　like　air…bubbles　about　to　burst；　a　pounding　of　heart　and　pulses；　voodoo　drums　beating　out　a　rapid　tattoo　of　death。　Senses　swimming；　clawing　the　air　wildly；　knocking　over　a　small　table　as　he　fell　to　the　ground；　writhing　like　a　serpent　in　its　death　throes。
　　
　　The　attack　had　e　hard　and　fast；　but　not　from　Quentin　alone　for　it　was　impossible　for　him　to　have　summoned　up　such　terrible　psychic　and　physical　force。　The　evil　within　Mark　Sabat's　own　body　had　called　for　help　from　beyond　in　this　attempt　to　take　over　one　who　sought　to　defy　the　forces　which　controlled　St　Adrian's　churchyard　and　the　coven　there。
　　
　　Suddenly　Sabat　allowed　his　body　to　relax。　A　physical　struggle　would　not　save　him。　He　had　to　use　something　much　more　potent　and　even　now　his　muzzy　brain　was　clouding　over　just　when　he　needed　it　most。　Oh；　God；　he'd　have　to　test　his　old　powers　in　a　last　desperate　throw；　if　only　he　could　remember。　Words　littered　his　desperate　attempts　at　recollection　like　a　scattered　jig…saw。　He　had　to　fit　them　together　…fast！
　　
　　'God　。。。　the　Son　of　God　。　。。　who　by　death　。　。。　destroyed　death　。　。　。　and　overcame　him　who　。　。　。　had　the　power　of　death　。　。　。　'　fading　fast；　nearly　unconscious；　one　last　supreme　effort。　'Beat　down　Satan　quickly。'
　　
　　Just　when　it　seem