bl.necroscope2-第35部分

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　Out　there；　the　estate。　The　old　derelict　buildings；　gravel　path；　shrubbery　and　copse；　the　high　perimeter　wall　and　gate；　the　road　beyond　the　gate；　a　ribbon　of　light　under　the　moon；　and　beyond　that　a　tall　hedge。　Yulian　wrinkled　his　nose；　sniffed　suspiciously　like　a　dog　at　a　stranger。　Oh；　yes；　a　stranger…there！　In　the　hedgerow；　that　glint　of　moonlight　on　glass；　the　dull　red　glow　of　a　cigarette's　tip。　Someone　in　the　shadow　of　the　hedge；　watching　Harkley。　Watching　Yulian！
　Now；　knowing　where　to　aim；　he　redirected　his　thoughts　…and　met　the　mind　of　the　stranger！　But　only　for　a　moment；　the　merest　instant　of　time。　Then　mental　shutters　came　down　like　the　jaws　of　a　steel　trap。　The　glint　of　spectacles　or　binoculars　disappeared；　the　cigarette's　glow　was　extinguished；　and　the　man　himself；　the　merest　shadow；　was　gone。
　Vlad！　Yulian　manded　instinctively。　Go；　find　him。　Whoever　he　is；　bring　him　to　me！
　And　down　in　the　brambles　and　undergrowth　near　the　door　to　the　vaults；　where　he　lay　half　asleep；　VIad　at　once　came　alert；　turned　his　sensitive　ears　towards　the　drive　and　the　gate；　sprang　up　and　set　off　at　a　loping　run。　Deep　in　his　throat；　a　growl　not　quite　a　dog's　growl　rumbled　like　dull　thunder。
　
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　Darcy　Clarke　was　doing　late　shift　on　the　Harkley　place。　He　was　a　psychic　sensitive　with　a　high　degree　of　telepathic　potential。　Also；　he　was　big　on　self…preservation。　A　freakish　automatic　talent；　over　which　he　had　no　conscious　control；　was　always　on　guard　to　keep　him　〃safe'；　he　was　the　opposite　of　accident　prone　and　led　a　〃charmed〃　life。　Which　on　this　occasion　was　just　as　well。
　Clarke　was　young；　only　twenty…five；　but　what　he　lacked　in　years　he　more　than　made　up　for　in　zeal。　He　would　have　made　a　perfect　soldier；　for　his　duty　was　his　all。　It　was　that　duty　which　had　kept　him　here　in　the　vicinity　of　Harkley　House　from　5。00　till　11。00　P。M。　And　it　was　exactly　on　the　dot　of　11。00　P。M。　that　he　saw　the　crack　of　the　curtains　widen　a　little　in　one　of　Harkley's　dormer　windows。
　That　in　itself　was　nothing。　There　were　five　people　in　that　house　and　God…knows…what　else；　and　no　reason　at　all　why　it　shouldn't　show　signs　of　life。　With　a　grimace；　Clarke　quickly　corrected　himself：　signs　of　undeath？　Fully　briefed；　he　knew　that　Harkley's　inhabitants　were　something　other　than　they　seemed。　But　as　he　adjusted　his　nite…lite　binoculars　on　the　window；　suddenly　there　was　something　else；　a　realisation　that　struck　at　Clarke　like　a　bolt　of　lightning。
　He　had　known；　of　course；　that　someone　in　there；　probably　the　youth；　was　psychically　endowed。　That　had　been　obvious　for　the　last　four　days；　ever　since　Clarke　and　the　others　first　clapped　eyes　on　the　place。　To　any　half…talented　sensitive　the　old　house　would　reek　of　strangeness。　And　not　just　strangeness；　evil！　Tonight；　as　darkness　fell；　Clarke　had　sensed　it　growing　stronger；　the　wash　of　dark　emanations　flowing　from　the　house　like　mental　sewage。　Until　now　he'd　simply　let　it　flow　right　past　him；　without　touching；　but　as　that　dark　figure　had　e　into　view　behind　the　crack　in　the　curtains；　and　as　he'd　focussed　his　binoculars　upon　it　…
　…Something　had　been　there　in　his　head；　touching　on　his　mind。　A　talent　at　least　as　strong　as　his　own；　probing　his　thoughts！　But　it　wasn't　the　talent　that　surprised　him　…that　was　a　game　he'd　played　before　with　his　colleagues　at　INTESP；　where　they　practised　constantly　to　break　in　on　each　other's　thoughts…it　was　the　sheer　unbridled　animal　animosity　that　caused　him　to　gasp；　draw　back　a　little；　slam　shut　the　doors　on　his　ESP…endowed　consciousness。　The　gurgling　black　whirlpool　bog　of　the　invading　mind。
　And　because　he　had　set　up　defences；　so　he　failed　to　detect　any　hint　of　the　physical　threat；　the　orders　Yulian　had　issued　to　his　black　Alsatian。　He　had　failed；　but　his　primary　talent…the　one　no　one　as　yet　understood…was　not　failing　him。　It　was　11。00　P。M。　and　his　instructions　were　quite　clear：　he'd　go　back　now　to　his　temporary　surveillance　HO　at　a　hotel　in　Paignton　and　make　his　report。　The　watch　on　the　house　would　begin　again　at　6。00　A。M。　tomorrow；　when　a　colleague　of　Clarke's　would　take　it　up。　He　tossed　his　cigarette　down；　ground　it　out　under　his　heel；　pocketed　his　nite…lites。
　Clarke's　car　was　parked　in　a　layby　where　the　hedge　and　fence　were　cut　back　twenty…five　yards　down　the　road。　He　was　on　the　field　side　of　the　hedge。　He　put　his　hand　on　the　top　bar　preparatory　to　climbing　over　to　the　road；　then　thought　better　of　it。　Though　he　didn't　know　it；　that　was　his　hidden　talent　ing　into　play。　Instead　of　climbing　the　fence；　he　hurried　through　the　long　grass　at　the　edge　of　the　field　towards　his　car。　The　grass　was　wet　where　it　whipped　his　trousers；　but　he　ignored　it。　It　saved　time　this　way　and　he　was　in　a　hurry　now；　eager　to　be　away　from　the　place。　Only　natural；　he　supposed；　considering　what　he'd　just　learned。　And　he　hardly　gave　it　a　thought　that　by　the　time　he　got　to　his　car　he　was　almost　running。
　But　it　was　then；　as　he　fumbled　the　key　into　the　lock　and　turned　it；　that　he　heard　something　else　running：　the　faint　scuff　of　padded　feet　slapping　the　road；　the　scrabble　of　claws　as　something　heavy　jumped　the　fence　back　there　where　he'd　been　standing。　Then　he　was　into　the　car；　slamming　the　door　behind　him；　eyes　wide　and　heart　thumping　as　he　gazed　back　into　the　night。
　And　two　seconds　later　Viad　hit　the　car！
　He　hit　so　hard；　with　forepaws；　shoulder　and　head；　that　the　glass　of　the　window　in　Clarke's　door　was　starred　into　a　cobweb　pattern。　The　impact　had　sounded　like　a　hammer　blow；　and　Clarke　knew　that　one　more　charge　like　that　would　shatter　the　glass　to　fragments　and　leave　him　totally　unprotected。　But　he'd　seen　who；　or　what；　his　assailant　was；　and　he　had　no　intention　of　sitting　here　immobile　and　just　waiting　for　it　to　happen。
　Clarke　turned　the　key　in　the　ignition；　revved；　reversed　a　skidding　three　feet　to　bring　the　bonnet　free　of　overhanging　branches。　Vlad's　second　spring；　aimed　again　at　Clarke's　window；　sent　the　dog　sprawling　on　the　bonnet　directly　in　front　of　the　windscreen。　And　now　the　young　esper　saw　just　how　fortunate　his　escape　had　been。　Out　in　the　open…there　was　little　he　could　have　done　against　that！
　Viad's　face　was　a　savage　black　mask　of　hatred；　a　contorted；　snarling；　saliva…flecked　visage　of　madness！　Yellow　eyes　spotted　with　crimson　pupils　glared　through　the　glass　at　Clarke　with　such　a　burning　intensity　that　he　almost　fancied　he　could　feel　their　heat。　Then　he　was　into　first　gear　and　skidding　out　on　to　the　road。
　As　the　car　jerked　and　slewed　forward；　so　the　dog's　feet　were　jolted　from　under　him。　He　crashed　over　on　to　his　side　on　the　bonnet　and　was　sent　sprawling　into　the　darkness　of　the　hedgerow　as　Clarke　straightened　the　car　up　and　sent　it　careening　along　the　road。　In　his　rearview　mirror；　he　saw　the　dog　emerge　from　the　hedge　and　shake　itself；　glaring　after　the　speeding　car。　Then　Clarke　was　round　a　bend　and　Vlad　lost　to　sight。
　
　That　wasn't　something　he　felt　sorry　about。　Indeed；　he　was　still　shaking　when　he　switched　off　the　car's　engine　in　the　hotel　car　park　in　Paignton。　Following　which。。。　he　flopped　back　in　his　seat　and　wearily　lit　a　cigarette；　which　he　smoked　right　down　to　the　cork　tip　before　securing　the　car　and　going　in　to　make　his　report　Frankie's　Franchise　was　wall　to　wall　sleazy。　It　was　a　place　for　habitual　wharf…rats；　prostitutes　and　their　pimps；　pushers　and　Genoese　low…life　in　general。　And　it　was　noisy。　An　old　American　juke…box；　back　in　fashion；　was　blasting　Little　Richard's　raw　〃Tutti　Frutti〃　across　the　main　room　like　a　gale　force　wind。　There　was　no　smallest　corner　of　the　place　that　escaped　the　music's　blast；　but　in　any　one　of　the　half…dozen　arched　alcoves　you　could　at　least　hear　yourself　think。　That　was　why　Frankie's　was　so　ideally　suitable：　you　couldn't　concentrate　enough　to　hear　anyone　else　think。
　Alec　Kyle　and　Carl　Quint；　Felix　Krakovitch　and　Sergei　Gulharov；　sat　at　a　small　square　table　with　their　backs　to　the　protective　alcove　walls。　East　and　West　faced　each　other　across　their　drinks。　Curiously；　on　the　one　side　Kyle　and　Quint　drank　vodka；　and　on　the　other　Krakovitch　and　Gulharov　sipped　American　beers。
　Identifying　each　other　had　been　the　easiest　thing　in　the　world：　in　Frankie's　Franchise；　no　one　else　fitted　the　prescribed　picture　at　all。　But　personal　appearance　wasn't　the　only　yardstick；　for　of　course；　even　in　the　hubbub；　the　three　sensitives　were　able　to　detect　each　other's　psychic　auras。　They　had　made　their　acknowledgement　with　nods　of　their　heads；　picked　their　way　with　their　drinks　from　the　bar　to　an　empty　alcove。　Certain　of　the　club's　regulars　had　given　them　curious　glances：　the　hard　men　a　little　wary；　narrow…eyed；　the　prostitutes　speculative。　They　had　not　returned　them。
　Seated　for　a　few　moments；　finally　Krakovitch　had　opened　the　discussion。　〃I　don't　suppose　you　speaking　my　language；〃　he　said；　his　voice　heavily　but　not　unpleasantly　accented；　〃but　I　speaking　yours。　But　badly。　This　my　friend　Sergei。〃　He　tipped　his　head　sideways　a　little　to　indicate　his　panion。　〃He　know　a　little；　very　little；　English。　He　not　have　ESP。〃
　Kyle　and　Quint　glanced　obediently　at　Gulharov。　What　they　saw　was　a　moderately　handsome　young　man　with　close…cropped　blond　hair；　grey　eyes；　hard…looking　hands　where　they　lay　loosely　crossed　on　the　table；　enclosing　his　drink。　He　seemed　uneasy　in　his