Guy N. Smith - Sabat 3 - Cannibal Cult

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CHAPTER ONE
THE GUILLOTINE; brutal instantaneous bloody death, a hellish instrument of
execution. It dominated the white-tiled room, a. metallic structure that
gleamed evilly in the stark fluorescent light.
Louis Nevillon was calm as his guards allowed him a few seconds to savour his
fate. They were gloating, he could read it in their smug, supposedly
impassive, expressions. Even the priest. Tete-de-chien! The executioner was
masked, a custom that went back centuries, but there was a gleam in the pale
blue eyes that stared out of the cloth slits that was unmistakable. It was
Gallon, of course. Who else? Nobody had ever seen his face, at least none of
his victims. Just those cold orbs, enjoying every second; not hurrying because
it was all over in a second and what were an extra few minutes to a doomed
man?
Nevillon returned his stare. His heart missed a beat; for one second he
thought the other flinched but it could have been a trick of the light. But
why should it be? These cochons were all frightened of Nevillon, even though
they had him shackled, his head as good as on the block. Even now they feared
that he might strike them dead with his inexplicable, terrible magic. The
fifteenth century or the twentieth, it made no difference. Each and every
person has a lurking fear of the unknown. Except Nevillon, of course.
They had been scared of him throughout the ten-day trial, armed warders and
police surrounding the dock, a company of special Surete ringing the building.
The press claimed it was to keep the angry crowds back, to stop them from
breaking in with their own brand of justice.
Nevillon had sensed clammy hands tightening over revolver butts each time he
had shifted position, eyes averted every time he had looked around the crowded
court room. Even the judge flinched, licking his dry lips continually, snapped
irritably at the witness for the prosecution for not speaking up. The little
plump man had blanched, swallowed, continued his evidence in a loud hoarse
whisper, his gaze averted so that his eyes did not meet Nevillon's.
Nevillon had never doubted that they would find him guilty. He had considered
a plea, spurned the advice of his counsel. Fourteen charges of murder, nine of
mutilation. They could only guillotine you once.
By the fifth day of the trial he was refusing to answer questions, silent
contempt that was making the jury uneasy. Even now they had reached their
decision, but when the time came it would need courage to voice it. Because
Louis Nevillon was no ordinary murderer. Had he not already told them that he
was a descendant of Silvain Nevillon who was burned for witchcraft at Orleans
in 1614. Descendant? He was more than that. A reincarnation! Silvain himself
reborn, a line of evil that even the guillotine could not destroy. But these
fools would not understand that.
Each charge brought a racing of Nevillon's pulses, a quickening of his
heartbeat. The mention of Yvette de Coulon gave him an erection as though even
now she lay naked before him, wide-eyed with terror, yielding.
'Louis Nevillon, did you not on the night of 30 April kidnap one Yvette de
Coulon from her home and take her to a place of devil worship at Nemours where
you committed vile and unspeakable acts upon her body both in life and in
death?' 30 April - Walpurgisnacht!
By not so much as the flicker of an eyelid did Nevillon betray his emotions.
Perhaps they noticed his arousement pushing atthe zip of his dark serge
trousers. Half-hearted staccato barks from the judge demanding an answer, but
Louis Nevillon remained silent and impassive. He wanted to hear it all from
their lips, relive it in his own mind in the telling. His senses were sharp;
he had a good memory. He smelled again the freshness of that young body,
tasted it again on his palate.
'... and in company with others unknown to this court you, Louis Nevillon,
attempted to commune with Satan. After you had raped the said girl you then
proceeded to drain the blood from her body, drinking it with your followers.
And then ... and then ..."
A sharp intake of breaths in unison, a sea of faces that paled; shying away,
not wanting to hear the truth.
'And then ... what?' the judge's tongue was flicking like a hungry lizard in
search of insects. 'This court must know exactly what happened!'
'And then ... Louis Nevillon, you proceeded to mutilate the corpse still
further, hacking it limb from limb ... distributing joints of human flesh to
your followers, joining with them in cannibalism. In the space of a few hours
the entire body of Yvette de Coulon was devoured, after which you perpetrated
acts that defy the belief of sane people with the remaining bones!'
A piercing scream from somewhere up in the public gallery, the thud of a
falling body. People rushing; somebody being stretchered out. Madame de
Coulon, the dead girl's mother. Nevillon permitted himself the faintest of
smiles. He had many ways of taking his revenge on people; every one of them in
here and those chanting out in the street would pay for their arrogance in a
variety of ways.
The lesser killings; some not proven. He heard the drone of words but his mind
was elsewhere. He could, had he chosen, have transported his astral body on to
the astral plane, left behind a useless body impervious to pain - but that
would not have served his purpose. The Nevillon evil must live on and he had
to see it through to the end. The guillotine; degradation but painless. The
sooner it was over the better.
He was suddenly aware that the death sentence had been passed amidst an eager
murmur throughout the crowded courtroom. Time had slipped by, the jury had
been out for three hours and he had not noticed their absence. Now he was back
in the dock, a condemned man being led down a flight of stone steps, his
guards losing no opportunity to hustle him. A kick from behind almost sent him
sprawling. They would all pay for this!
The journey from the court to the prison would have been a nightmare for any
man other than Nevillon. It was all the police could do to restrain the
crowds, a blur of hate-filled faces screaming abuse, a fusillade of rotten
fruit and eggs continually splatting against the vehicle, rivulets of thick
red tomato juice trickling down the two small barred windows, reminding Louis
Nevillon of Yvette de Coulon again and giving him another erection. It had all
been worth it.
The guards inside the prison van had their pistols drawn even though he was
handcuffed. Like everybody else, they were frightened of the tall grey-haired
man with the aristocratic features. History was repeating itself, another
nobleman on his way to M. Guillotine, the mob roaring for his head and the
sight of blood. He laughed aloud and his two companions started, blanching,
their pistol barrels jerking up and training on his chest.
'You will not laugh when your head is on the block, Monsieur Nevillon' one of
them spat. 'I have witnessed an execution. Once. Shall I tell you all about
it?'
'I, too, have been present at an execution,' Nevillon replied softly, 'so
perhaps you would like to hear about mine first. The condemned girl's name was
Yvette ...'
'Cochonr a clenched fist caught the prisoner across the mouth, jerked his head
back. 'Filthy swine!'
The second man drove forward with a booted foot, took Louis Nevillon full in
the groin, knocked him from his seat More blows. He threw up his manacled
hands but it was impossible to ward them off.
'If I had my way,' the guard who had delivered the first blow restrained his
colleague, 'I would not put his head on the block. A little at a time, eh,
Marcel? One leg, two... one arm, two .. . maybe something else after that!' He
winked and they both roared with malicious mirth.
Now the end was in sight. The priest wanted to see him dead because it was all
part of the fight against evil. The guards, the executioner, this was their
revenge for Yvette de Coulon. Fools, Satan's own could not be destroyed by the
guillotine; he was not as other men.
The priest was mumbling something, reciting from a prayer book. None of them
tried to look pious; they were deliberately prolonging the finale, thinking
that he would suffer untold mental agonies these last few minutes. They should
have drugged him but they had deliberately overlooked this act of legal mercy.
Who was to know? This chamber was soundproofed; nobody would hear his final
screams for mercy.
Yet Louis Nevillon heard the huge gathering beyond the high prison walls, a
slow countdown to the accompaniment of slow handclapping and the stamping of
feet. They were shouting Yvette de Coulon's name.
Two of the warders led Nevillon forward, viciously kicked his legs from under
him so that he fell hard, was dragged into a kneeling position, the steel
neckbands almost choking him as his head was strapped on to the block. His
eyes should have been covered but this, like the sedatives, was ignored.
He could see everything that was happening. A detailed reflection on the
polished stainless steel base on which the guillotine stood, spared him
nothing. It wasn't meant to; a conspiracy between these four had determined
his final agony.
They were taking their time, the masked man checking and double-checking. So
rarely was the death penalty used in France that he needed to savour each
occasion. Particularly in the case of Louis Nevillon. It was Gallon's finest
hour, the peak of a distinguished career in death.
'Have you anything to say?' The priest was standing back as though suddenly he
felt guilty about this mental torture, sought to make amends for the sake of
his own conscience.
'Ottif Nevillon laughed softly. 'You are a man of God.' A faint sneer. 'So
doubtless you are well acquainted with the happenings of the third day
following the crucifixion of the man purporting to be the Son of God.'
'I am' a haughtiness. 'Why?'
'Because, my friend,' Nevillon had stopped laughing, his voice a hoarse
whisper that all four of them heard clearly, their flesh prickling even before
he had got the words out, 'on the third day I shall live and you will fear my
coming!'
'This is blasphemy!' the padre paled, almost dropped his prayer book.
'Monsieur Gallon, delay no longer in the name of Our Lord!'
'I shall rise again!' Nevillon repeated and saw the reflection of the
executioner's hand on the switch; he heard a faint click but had no time to
anticipate the falling heavy blade.
The priest turned his head away, heard the first thud as the knife struck,
followed by a lighter one as the severed head rolled into the basket. A
spurting gurgling sound, the main artery jetting, the drain below the basket
taking the flow of blood. Somewhere below, water was flowing to wash the
scarlet fluid into the city's sewers.
Gallon paused to survey his handiwork. Perfect. So quick, and that was always
a pity where a man like Louis Nevillon was concerned. The two warders just
stared; if they came upon a gory road accident tomorrow they would stop and
look. Blood fascinated them, so long as it was not their own.
'Thank you, gentlemen,' Gallon was the formal national executioner once more.
'Your presence has been a great help to me. The condemned man died quickly and
painlessly.' Unfortunately!
Outside, the crowd had fallen silent. Obscene chanting had died to low
muttered conversation and then petered out altogether. Yvette de Coulon had
been avenged. There was nothing more to stay here for.
Slowly the gathering broke up, began to file away in an orderly fashion. The
watching police bolstered their pistols and breathed an audible sigh of
relief.
The Beast of France was no more. In time the bitter and gruesome memories
would fade. It was all over.
'I say it is impossible!' The prison governor trembled and banged his desk
with a clenched fist, causing an open ink-well to overturn and spill its
blue-black contents. 'It is absolutely impossible. This is some kind of joke
and the perpetrator will be punished!'
'It is no joke, monsieur,' the deputy governor licked his lips nervously. 'I
have been and seen for myself, for, like yourself, I did not believe it at
first. But there is no possible doubt - the corpse of Louis Nevillon has
disappeared from the execution chamber, both head and trunk. All that remains
are a few bloodstains that failed to wash away!'
'But how? And why?
'I wish I knew, monsieur, but I think this is a matter for the Surete.'
An uneasy frightened silence.
*I will come and look.' The governor stood up, a man in his mid-forties who
had suddenly aged considerably. 'Perhaps ... perhaps there is some mistake.'
There wasn't; there could not be because there was nowhere in the execution
chamber where the decapitated .body of Louis Nevillon could be lying hidden.
Ashen-faced and trembling visibly, the governor checked the 'basket', a
stainless steel container below the block with a wide drain fitted at the
bottom. Just some blood which was rapidly congealing, nothing else. The blade
rested where it had fallen, a crimson-splattered chunk of honed steel that
glinted in the harsh electric light, seemed to gloat as though it guarded some
sinister secret. The rest of the room was bare.
'But how?' the governor wrung his hands helplessly. 'Somebody has stolen it.
The guards ...'
'Nobody can escape from here, dead or alive,' the small deputy stated, as
though he had rehearsed the sentence word for word schoolboy-fashion.
'Then there is a conspiracy afoot,' the other was desperately trying to force
himself to believe some logical explanation. Nevillon had been evil, had
communed with the devil and eaten human flesh. Yet dead, he was as other
corpses; he could not be otherwise. His magic had died with him.
'We shall have to inform the Surete and conduct an inquiry.' The governor
walked quickly back towards the door. He shivered, it was icy cold in here and
the strip-lighting seemed to have dimmed. Perhaps it was his imagination.
'Until then nobody must enter this chamber.' He locked the door behind them.
The inquiry into the disappearance of Louis Nevillon's corpse was conducted
jointly by the prison authorities and the Surete. Everybody was interrogated
from the governor down to the most junior warder, but in the end no conclusion
was reached - except by four men who kept their opinions to themselves.
Monsieur Gallon, the infamous French executioner, the padre, and the two
warders who had been in attendance at Nevillon's death. They remembered the
murderer's final words as his head lay on the block.
'On the third day I shall rise again. I shall live and you will fear my
comingr
The body of the Beast of France had vanished into thin air, Louis Nevillon had
spoken the truth.
He would live again.
CHAPTER TWO
SABAT'S BROW furrowed into a worried frown. He shook his head slowly, stroked
a finger down the long scar on his left cheek, a memento from his SAS days
that still seemed to smart on odd occasions. His dark eyes narrowed, his lips
compressed into a thin bloodless line. Tall yet muscular beneath his dark
suit, he gave the impression of a coiled spring, latent power that was not to
be trifled with.
He read through the short, almost insignificant, passage at the foot of an
inside page of the Telegraph a second time. EXECUTED MAN'S BODY DISAPPEARS
The corpse of Louis Nevillon, guillotined in Paris last week for mass murder,
is reported to have disappeared from the execution chamber. A Surete spokesman
declined to comment on it.
Which meant that the French authorities were baffled; they rarely commented on
failures. The newspaper fell from Sabat's fingers and he stared vacantly out
of the window, did not see the dense shrubberies which gave his WestHampstead
house its seclusion; saw only in his mind a grey-haired man with aristocratic
features, a hint of nobility that failed to hide the evil in those close-set
eyes and narrow mouth. Sabat recalled every detail, indelibly imprinted on his
brain from the one occasion when he had met Nevillon. Maybe the intervening
years had changed the Frenchman physically, a few lines here and there, the
grey slowly turning to white, but the man himself would not alter. A Grand
Master of the Left Hand Path. The Beast of France.
Sabat sighed. Such powerful evil could not be wiped out by the guillotine. In
the same way that bullets had been unable to destroy Sabat's own brother,
Quentin, that day when Mark Sabat had attempted to blast him into oblivion
during their final encounter down in that mountain grave.* The dead man's soul
had found another body- his own! And Sabat had harboured Quentin's evil ever
since, struggled to overcome it but it had only been subdued, his own strength
and faith keeping it under control. One momentary flash of weakness on his own
part and it rose up again like a deadly snake, spread its poison through him,
dominated his every thought and action. Quentin still lived. Even now, he
could hear that nasal, mocking laughter in the recesses of his own brain,
whispered taunting words: 'They didn't kill Louis Nevillon, He lives again'
He cleared his throat, tried to get rid of the rasping soreness that began in
his tonsils and seemed to travel right down to his lungs. He shivered, felt
suddenly cold, his flesh goosepimpling. Damn it, he'd got a chill. Even the
fittest of men, and Sabat had looked after his body since his ignominious
discharge from the SAS, picked up the odd infection. Maybe he would be better
off in bed. It was like giving in, surrendering. Quentin's laughter again,
sensing any weakness, mental or physical, a lurking inner deadly enemy.
Sabat's head was aching. It had been feeling muzzy ever since he had got up
and now his temples were throbbing as though an invisible goblin was pounding
away at them with a tiny hammer. His eyes smarted and there was a dry, sour
taste in his mouth. Bed wis definitely the best place.
It was an effort to climb the stairs, dragging himself up a step at a time,
his sweaty hands slipping on the polished oak rail. A stiff whisky and a
couple of aspirins; he would be OK in the morning.
He shivered uncontrollably as his naked flesh came into contact with the
sheets, cooling his body temperature fast and making him curl himself up into
a ball in an attempt to generate heat. The whisky had burned his throat, he'd
had difficulty getting those aspirin tablets down. He felt as though he might
vomit and wondered if he was capable of making it across to the bathroom.
He closed his eyes, saw Louis Nevillon's face again, smirking. A voice
somewhere; he couldn't make out the words but he knew it was Quentin's. Nobody
was bothering much about the murderer's missing decapitated body except a few
red-faced prison officials whose security system was being criticised. They
didn't realise; they couldn't be expected to. Somebody had to ...
What the hell's it got to do with you, Sabat? Nothing. It's none of my
business. Trying to find a reason not to do anything about it. I'm not well
enough to go to Paris. I don't have the time anyway. Jumbled thoughts which
emanated from that open clearing in the wooded mountains and travelled
incoherently. A beautiful SAS colonel's wife who liked to whip men until they
cringed and pleaded for mercy. Lilith, Goddess of Darkness, reborn, using that
same colonel to do her bidding; indoctrinating him into believing that he was
a reincarnation of Adolf Hitler and that, between them, the world was theirs
for the taking with their pseudo vampire army. And a clergyman who also
thought he could bring the world to its knees, a takeover by the dark forces.
And so it would have been were it not for your meddling, Sabat!
Vicious female tones, a cry of hate and anguish from beyond the grave.
Laughter. Sabat wasn't sure whether it was his brother's soul or the insane
cacklings of Royston Spode, from the depths of that crumbling crypt where the
evil churchman's dreams had finally been buried. They were all trying to get
at him from beyond the final barrier.
Sabat's body burned. With every ounce of strength he could muster he threw the
bedclothes back, kicked them clear of his overheated flesh, basked in the
cooling sensations brought on by a chill night atmosphere, one that was
falling rapidly.
It was dark. He tried to work out how long he had been in bed. It had been
fully daylight when he had come upstairs and that seemed only a matter of
minutes ago. He attempted to identify the computerised illuminated digits on
the radio alarm clock, but the fingers swam and merged into meaningless
hieroglyphics. He raised himself up on to an elbow but fell back on to the
pillow, heard the wheezings of his own breaths. Christ, he'd never been so
weak before!
You're weak now, Sabat. Helpless. You can't fight anymore!
He tensed, recognised the husky dominant tones of Catriona Lealan. But that
was impossible; he had destroyed her utterly, body and soul! Somebody was
mimicking her, but it had the same effect. Just thinking about her as she used
to be in those far-off days was doing things to him ...
Sabat tried to check the feeling, tried to think of other things, but it was
futile. His pulses raced and his fevered body demanded satisfaction, ordered
him to pay homage to the memory of one who had once loved him with a sadistic
viciousness.
Somehow his sweaty fingers found the strength to do what his erection was
screaming out for. He tensed, shuddered, cast off the feeling of guilt and
felt it replaced by one of unbelievable euphoria. To hell with everybody!
Watch me if you want to, you bastards, because I like you watching me.
His nakedness was bathed in sweat, every nerve afive and responding. He wasn't
ill after all; just experiencing pent-up frustration because he hadn't had a
woman for a long time now. And in the darkened room they were willing him to
do the next best thing, urging him to confess his past secret pleasures.
Sabat's voice seemed to echo in the darkness to the accompaniment of hollow
whispered laughter which might have been Catriona's. Or Vince Lealan's. Or
Royston Spode's.
Or Quentin's!
Sabat told them everything they wanted to hear. They knew it already, so it
didn't matter. They just wanted to listen to it coming from his own lips. He
told them of that occasion in his adolescence when he had let another of his
own sex do what he'd wanted to do. How he had enjoyed it. He'd felt guilty
afterwards because convention had dominated, driven him in a fit of cowardice
to seek refuge in priesthood. Sabat cringed at the memory, blasphemed. The SAS
had been his salvation, taught him the real pleasures of life ... taught him
how to kill amongst other things.
Have you ever taken human life, Sabat?
You know fucking well I have. That terrorist... Sabat winced, heard the
deafening reports of his own pistol in the confined space, the screams of his
victim as he writhed like a helpless landed fish, arms and legs shattered,
pleading for death and being denied it. Laughter again ... Sabat's.
Women. Jealous naked bodies materialising out of the past, fighting amongst
themselves, clamouring for him, displaying themselves lewdly. Fuck me, Sabat,
the way you used to. Fingers that were not his own taking over, speeding up, a
million sensations blending into one mind-blowing explosion of mind and body.
Sabat was convulsing, floating in a void, but they wouldn't let up on him, a
forest of frenzied arms and legs that grabbed and pulled and squeezed him
until he was crying out for them to stop. The laughter was louder now, hurting
his throbbing head. He tore his hands free, pressed them to his ears but he
could not shut out the noise. You're too weak to resist, Sabat.
He was back on the bed in a splayed heap, shivering uncontrollably, groping
blindly for the bedclothes but they were gone. So cold, so frightening
Cringing. There's nothing to be afraid of. You're not Mark Sabat - you 're
Quentin. One of us!
The dreaded reversal, one soul overcoming another after weeks and months of
awaiting its opportunity. Sabat was still trying to fight, an autumnal leaf
attempting to resist a gale, being swept away. Sobbing, something he had not
done since ... since when1* He couldn't remember crying, not even in
childhood; his frustrations had always built up into something more vicious,
revenge at any cost. Oh God, he'd have his revenge on them, make them pay
dearly for this. He had to fight!
Crawling, slumping down, fingers that trembled with cold and terror searching
the darkness, touching something that toppled and fell; the handset of the
bedside trimphone. He groped for it again. It was like a wriggling serpent
trying to escape him, but in the end he caught it, dragged it back. Invisible
fingers tried to tear it from his grasp but he managed to hold on.
Trying to dial, the spring so strong that he could hardly move the digits. Any
number, it didn't matter. Got to tell them... warn them.., about Louis
Nevillonl
Sabat almost fainted, felt his chilled slippery fingers losing their hold on
the handset. It fell, swung to and fro below the bed like some taunting
pendulum, evil to good and back to evil. He couldn't muster the strength to
try and catch it again. He moaned aloud.
A pause, then a sound apart from the rasping of his laboured lungs. Metallic,
so divorced from this atmosphere of enshrouding evil. It took Sabat some
seconds to work out what it was; and then he knew. The phone was ringing out
at the other end, some anonymous number.
A voice. It wasn't Quentin's nor any of the others; a jumble of meaningless
words that did not register in his numbed brain, becoming angry, impatient.
Shouting.
Sabat tried to speak, tried to warn them about Louis Nevillon but all he
managed were animal-like gasps and grunts. They were trying to shout him down,
a whispering noise like the hissing of angry demons. Weakening still further,
feeling his senses slipping from him, knowing that they had beaten him in the
end.
The phone went silent at approximately the same time as Sabat lost
consciousness and rolled off the bed on to the floor.
CHAPTER THREE
LIGHTS so bright that they seared Sabat's eyeballs even though his eyes were
still closed; a sickly sour-sweat smell that almost had him vomiting.
He lay motionless, tried to work out where he was, what had happened. The
darkness that had hidden so many evil entities was gone and in its place was
harsh blinding light. He knew that he was in a bed but it did not seem as
comfortable as his own, like wooden boards beneath him.
After a lengthy mental struggle he came to the conclusion that he was in a
hospital. Somehow he had been saved, his SOS call had got through in spite of
their efforts.
He opened his eyes a fraction, squinted. It was a hospital ward all right and
there were screens around his bed, people beyond them talking in low muttered
tones. He tried to make out what they were saying but it was impossible; a
harsh nasal voice that reminded him of Quentin. He closed his eyes, tried to
work out what had happened.
He'd been ill. Or had he? It was as though his body had been taken over by ...
something; an inner force dominating, making him subservient to the dark
powers. He'd lost all track of time. It could have been hours or weeks ago.
A movement, somebody coming inside the screens. Sabat squinted again, saw a
tall angular man wearing a long white coat and spectacles that seemed to
enlarge his frog-like eyes; approaching the bed, bending over to scrutinise
the patient. Sabat had no reason to keep his eyes shut any longer. The
brightness hurt but he decided it was time he found out what was going on.
'Ah, Mr Sabat!' a note of relief in the doctor's voice. 'You have decided to
join us at last.'
'How long have I been here?' Sabat grunted, suddenly realised how weak he
felt, even his own voice was barely recognisable.
'Ten days.' The other consulted a chart, pursed his lips pensively.
'Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what's been the matter.'
'You've had pneumonia^ the eyes flicked back on to Sabat, an expression that
almost reprimanded. 'Touch and go for a week, I'm afraid. We moved you out of
intensive care the day before yesterday. It was lucky you managed to telephone
for help, otherwise I'm afraid you would not have made it through the night.
Fortunately the person who got your call had enough commonsense to realise
that there was something wrong and the police were able to trace the number.'
Sabat tried to struggle up but his muscles were not strong enough. With a
curse he fell back, grimaced. 'How much longer before ...'
'Now don't you get any ideas about going anywhere,' the doctor wagged a
finger. 'You're lucky to be alive and you've got to regain your strength. It
will take weeks, and even after you leave here you've got to go away somewhere
for a nice long convalescence.'
Sabat groaned inwardly, let his eyes remain closed. Laughter, leering,
taunting. Quentin had won his battle of the dark hours, had a weakened Mark
Sabat at his mercy. By the time Sabat was strong again it would be too late -
he would be Quentin reborn!
He felt sleep closing in on him again and vaguely wondered what had happened
to Louis Nevillon's corpse.
Sabat had made his way across the Bernese Oberland in easy stages, resting for
days sometimes because he barely had the strength to carry on. Once he had
tried to smoke his meerschaum pipe, but his lungs had rebelled and he had
collapsed in a fit of coughing. Drifting, the night hours haunted by strange
dreams that were either forgotten on waking or else had no meaning, a string
puppet controlled by the unknown.
Eventually he came to Interlaken, that small township between Lake Thun and
Lake Brienz, a tourist attraction since the early nineteenth century, standing
on a lush strip of flat land amidst the towering snow-capped mountains. The
air was keen, seemed to scour his lungs, the sunshine warm even for late
April. A land of beauty. He stared up at the dark green forests that clothed
the mountains and shuddered. So familiar, right across the Oberland, into
Austria and Germany, the kind of terrain across which he had hunted down
Quentin. And now Quentin lived again.
He booked in at the Jungfrau Hotel, experienced an acute embarrassment at
having to seek out a porter to carry his suitcases up to his room, an old man
who wheezed harder than himself and muttered his complaints in a form of
bastard German.
Sabat sank into an armchair after the old man had left, stared out of the wide
French windows across the balcony, and watched the evening shadows beginning
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CHAPTERONETHEGUILLOTINE;brutalinstantaneousbloodydeath,ahellishinstrumentofexecution.Itdominatedthewhite-tiledroom,a.metallicstructurethatgleamedevillyinthestarkfluorescentlight.LouisNevillonwascalmashisguardsallowedhimafewsecondstosavourhisfate.Theyweregloating,hecouldreaditintheirsmug,supposedlyim...

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