Читать книгу Cabal - Clive Barker, Clive Barker - Страница 12

The town was indeed empty, as he’d known it must be. Though the houses had seemed in good shape at half a mile’s distance, closer scrutiny showed them to be much the worse for being left unoccupied for the cycle of seasons. Though the feeling of well being still suffused him, he feared that loss of blood would undo him in time. He needed something to bind his wound, however primitive. In search of a length of curtaining, or a piece of forsaken bedlinen, he opened the door of one of the houses and plunged into the darkness within.

He hadn’t been aware, until he was inside, how strangely attenuated his senses had become. His eyes pierced the gloom readily, discovering the pitiful debris the sometime tenants had left behind, all dusted by the dry earth years of prairie had borne in through broken window and the ill-fitting door. There was cloth to be found; a length of damp stained linen that he tore between teeth and right hand into strips while keeping his left upon the wound.

He was in that process when he heard the creak of boards on the stoop. He let the bandaging drop from his teeth. The door stood open. On the threshold a silhouetted man, whose name Boone knew though the face was all darkness. It was Decker’s cologne he smelt; Decker’s heartbeat he heard; Decker’s sweat he tasted on the air between them.

‘So,’ said the doctor. ‘Here you are.’

There were forces mustering in the starlit street. With ears preternaturally sharp Boone caught the sound of nervous whispers, and of wind passed by churning bowels, and of weapons cocked ready to bring the lunatic down should he try to slip them.

‘How did you find me?’ he said.

‘Narcisse, was it?’ Decker said. ‘Your friend at the hospital?’

‘Is he dead?’

‘I’m afraid so. He died fighting.’

Decker took a step into the house.

‘You’re hurt,’ he said. ‘What did you do to yourself?’

Something prevented Boone from replying. Was it that the mysteries of Midian were so bizarre he’d not be believed? Or that their nature was not Decker’s business? Not the latter surely. Decker’s commitment to comprehending the monstrous could not be in doubt. Who better then to share the revelation with? Yet he hesitated.

‘Tell me,’ Decker said again. ‘How did you get the wound?’

‘Later,’ said Boone.

‘There’ll be no later. I think you know that.’

‘I’ll survive,’ Boone said. ‘This isn’t as bad as it looks. At least it doesn’t feel bad.’

‘I don’t mean the wound. I mean the police. They’re waiting for you.’

‘I know.’

‘And you’re not going to come quietly, are you?’

Boone was no longer sure. Decker’s voice reminded him so much of being safe, he almost believed it would be possible again, if the doctor wanted to make it so.

But there was no talk of safety from Decker now. Only of death.

‘You’re a multiple murderer, Boone. Desperate. Dangerous. It was tough persuading them to let me near you.’

‘I’m glad you did.’

‘I’m glad too,’ Decker replied. ‘I wanted a chance to say goodbye.’

‘Why does it have to be this way?’

‘You know why.’

He didn’t; not really. What he did know, more and more certainly, was that Peloquin had told the truth.

You’re not Nightbreed, he’d said.

Nor was he; he was innocent.

‘I killed nobody,’ he murmured.

‘I know that,’ Decker replied.

‘That’s why I couldn’t remember any of the rooms. I was never there.’

‘But you remember now,’ Decker said.

‘Only because – ’ Boone stopped, and stared at the man in the charcoal suit. ‘ – because you showed me.’

‘Taught you,’ Decker corrected him.

Boone kept staring, waiting for an explanation that wasn’t the one in his head. It couldn’t be Decker. Decker was Reason, Decker was Calm.

‘There are two children dead in Westlock tonight,’ the doctor was saying. ‘They’re blaming you.’

‘I’ve never been to Westlock,’ Boone protested.

‘But I have,’ Decker replied. ‘I made sure they saw the pictures; the men out there. Child murderers are the worst. It’d be better you died here than be turned over to them.’

‘You?’ Boone said. ‘You did it?’

‘Yes.’

‘All of them?’

‘And more.’

‘Why?’

Decker pondered on this a moment.

‘Because I like it,’ he said flatly.

He still looked so sane, in his well cut suit. Even his face, which Boone could see clearly now, bore no visible clue to the lunacy beneath. Who would have doubted, seeing the bloodied man and the clean, which was the lunatic and which his healer? But appearances deceived. It was only the monster, the child of Midian, who actually altered its flesh to parade its true self. The rest hid behind their calm, and plotted the deaths of children.

Decker drew a gun from the inside of his jacket.

‘They armed me,’ he said. ‘In case you lost control.’

His hand trembled, but at such a distance he could scarcely miss. In moments it would all be over. The bullet would fly and he’d be dead, with so many mysteries unsolved. The wound; Midian; Decker. So many questions that he’d never answer.

There was no other moment but now. Flinging the cloth he still held at Decker, he threw himself aside behind it. Decker fired, the shot filling the room with sound and light. By the time the cloth hit the ground Boone was at the door. As he came within a yard of it the gun’s light came again. And an instant after, the sound. And with the sound a blow to Boone’s back that threw him forward, out through the door and onto the stoop.

Decker’s shout came with him.

‘He’s armed!’

Boone heard the shadows prepare to bring him down. He raised his arms in sign of surrender; opened his mouth to protest his innocence.

The men gathered behind their cars saw only his bloodied hands; guilt enough. They fired.

Boone heard the bullets coming his way – two from the left, three from the right, and one from straight ahead, aimed at his heart. He had time to wonder at how slow they were, and how musical. Then they struck him: upper thigh, groin, spleen, shoulder, cheek and heart. He stood upright for several seconds; then somebody fired again, and nervous trigger fingers unleashed a second volley. Two of these shots went wide. The rest hit home: abdomen, knee, two to the chest, one to the temple. This time he fell.

As he hit the ground he felt the wound Peloquin had given him convulse like a second heart, its presence curiously comforting in his dwindling moments.

Somewhere nearby he heard Decker’s voice, and his footsteps approaching as he emerged from the house to peruse the body.

‘Got the bastard,’ somebody said.

‘He’s dead,’ Decker said.

‘No I’m not,’ Boone thought.

Then thought no more.