Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (81 page)

And al of this money here in his room, in the night, in Sicily. Harry broke out in a sweat again. He wasn’t a thief - but he was now! But so were the Francezcis.

And what the hel, he’d known what he was doing. And what it was for. But…

… He had to get it
out
of here!

He did, to the old house in Bonnyrig. Then returned to the Hotel Adrano, and lay tossing and turning al through the rest of the night, unable to sleep.

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Rising with the sun, Harry checked out of the hotel. He didn’t dare simply disappear, for that would be to invite investigation. But having checked out,
then
he disappeared—

—back to his home in Bonnyrig, where at last he would be able to set the wheels of a real search in motion.

In his house - which felt unaccountably strange and empty now, as if he’d been away for a week at least - Harry secreted the money away and began to feel a little easier. And then, to make up for the deficiencies of last night, he slept…

… But only for an hour, until the sun rose again for the second time in just sixty minutes.

It was the telephone that brought him awake; Bonnie Jean’s husky voice inquiring oh-so-knowingly, ‘Is that mah wee man?’

And oh, yes, it was him. And he was hers, beyond a doubt:

The full moon, its golden light streaming down … B.J.’s strange eyes, undergoing an even stranger metamorphosis … and a wolfs head in
silhouette, dark against the disk of the moon.

Harry said nothing, because her words hadn’t been a question but a trigger. On the other end of the line BJ. understood his silence, smiled at it and asked him:

‘Wel, did you get your finances sorted out? You can answer normaly, Harry.’

‘Er, yes,’ he said. ‘I’m al fixed up now.’

‘And ready for a weekend’s climbing?’

‘Ready as I ever wil be,’ he answered.

‘Good!’

She arranged a meeting for lunch: 12:00 noon, at a little place she knew outside Falkirk, about halfway to where they’d be climbing. And she finished by asking him, ‘How wil you get there?’

Til bike it,’ Harry answered. ‘Looks like a nice day. I should enjoy the ride.’ It was no lie; he would bike it - some of the way, anyhow.

He sensed B.J.’s surprise. ‘But that’s -1 don’t know - maybe fifteen miles?’

‘I’l be seting out about 9:30. Plenty of time.’

Til have my car. I could pick you up?’

‘I … think I’l enjoy the fresh air.’

At last he sensed her shrug. ‘Wel, okay, just as long as you save
some
of your energy. Er, for the climbing, I mean …’

‘Oh, I’l have enough of energy.’

‘Very wel then,’ she laughed. Til see you around midday. Afterwards, when we’re done, we can always put your bike on the roofrack and I’ll drive you home …

mah wee man.’

Which left Harry feeling as if the world had blinked and for a moment he’d felt the darkness. But al he could remember was that he had a date with Bonnie Jean, and that she was innocent, of course.

But innocent of what … ?

At Le Manse Madonie there was hell on. There had been hell on all night. And unheard by the brothers’ lieutenants and common thralls (their servants or ‘soldiers,’) and ignored for now by the Francezcis themselves, because they were busy, the ancient thing in the pit had wailed piteously, continuously to itself for hours now.

And one by one the interrogations went on: the ‘household staff were called forward one after the other into Francesco’s private rooms; he and Anthony talked to them, threatened them, required them to admit responsibility for last night’s damage and robbery.

Or if they weren’t directly responsible, to admit that they’d been seduced by some outside agency, and were part and parcel of the breakin. To no avail; but the brothers had known that from the start; it was simply something that had to be done.

Finally it was done. Le Manse’s staff, sufficiently cowed but all perfectly ‘innocent’ - or as innocent as vampires can be - were back at their duties; the Francezcis could now begin to consider, or at least attempt to consider, the mechanics of this thing. Which had to be the most frustrating, infuriating part, for it was patently impossible.

Francesco paced, while Tony sprawled in an easy chair. The latter looked entirely exhausted, but his looks were deceptive.

Wamphyri, he was simply exhausted of ideas. But in fact he was the most ‘sensitive’ or ‘passive’ one, while Francesco had all the aggression.

‘We should have Guy Cavee in again!’ Francesco burst out. He strode to the hugely heavy curtains, looked for a moment as if he might draw them, tear them aside. But out there, all was brilliant sunlight. And throughout Le Manse Madonie all of the curtains would stay closed until sundown. The Francezcis had a woman whose sole responsibility it was to open and close curtains. No one else touched them, not even the brothers.

The night watch? To what end?’ Tony lolled in his chair. ‘He gave warning, while still the intruder was in the vault.’

‘We don’t know that!’ Francesco rounded on him. ‘If Cavee is lying, the thief could have been in there - and out of there - before he called out. If there was a plot, he is the obvious one to have been in on it.’

‘But if he is lying,’ Tony waved a slender, languid hand, ‘then he’s also planning his escape from this place. Indeed, he would
be
fled by now, or dead by his own hand. For he must know that when, if, we discover the truth …’

‘In any case,’ Francesco stopped pacing. ‘We have to make an example of someone. And again, he is the most obvious one.’

‘You’re saying that whoever did this, he can’t be seen to get away with it entirely? Someone must pay?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But it will make no difference. We still won’t
know
who did it, or how

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he got into the strongroom without tripping an alarm, and out again -and out of Le Manse - without anyone so much as seeing, hearing, or even smelling him!’ Even Tony was beginning to show his agitation now.

‘Oh, I smelled him well enough!’ Francesco shouted. ‘Tear-gas! In the ventilation! And grenades, in the vault!

Uncounted - literally
uncounted
- billions in marks, lira, francs, dollars, and treasures, destroyed or stolen. From under our noses. At least a quarter of everything we held down there. And as if that weren’t enough, he actually locked up before leaving! The impertinence of this bastard! Unbelievable!’

‘Impertinent, yes,’ his brother agreed, scowling. ‘And we sit here impotent.’

Francesco ground his teeth, and repeated: ‘We should have Cavee in again.’

Tony’s shrug. ‘He knows nothing. One look at his face says it all: why, he thinks he should be
rewarded;
he was that quick off the mark!’

‘Rewarded!’ Francesco snarled.

‘And the cameras, ruined,’ Tony slumped more yet. ‘It was hot in there.’

‘Not necessarily ruined,’ Francesco answered. ‘They think they can save one of them - or rather, its contents. We can at least
hope
that we have this dog on film!’

‘We do have Cavee’s description.’

‘Hah!’
Francesco snorted. ‘What, a true description? If he was in on it? And if he wasn’t, what was that for a description anyway? A face and figure, seen distorted, in monochrome and at an angle from above?’

Tony stirred himself, stood up. ‘You know, of course, that
He
has been crying out al this time? There was gas down there, too.

And he is, after all, our greatest “treasure.” For without him, where would we be?’

‘I’ve heard him, yes,’ Francesco rumbled. ‘But then, who could avoid hearing him? Raving, babbling about bloody Radu, at a time like this!’ But he knew that it must have been worse for his brother, for Anthony and his father were closer. Then, in a moment, Francesco’s expression changed. And turning to face the other, his eyes narrowed more yet and became red-burning slits in his dark face.

‘Oh?’ said Tony, wonderingly.

‘We have to make an example of someone,’ Francesco growled. ‘We can’t be seen to be … impotent, as you put it.

Our dear father is ever hungry. And if Guy Cavee has knowledge of this thing … ”

‘He’s a lieutenant,’ Tony pointed out. ‘Junior, but—’

‘No, he is our
example!’
Francesco cut him off, grinning darkly. ‘Our important example. We can always promote another junior lieutenant, but we shall never be able to make a better example - of anyone.’

Again Tony’s shrug. ‘Well, at least it’s a course of action,’ he said. ‘Certainly we need to do something. But I can’t see that it will produce anything of a solution. However, and since you seem determined …’ Grudgingly, he nodded his head. ‘So be it…’

By 11:30 the Necroscope was cycling through wild and gorgeous country somewhere west of Edinburgh. He wore his track-suit; a pack on his shoulders contained a pair of decent climbing shoes and some spare items of clothing; he supposed B.J. would see to anything else. Himself: Harry had already seen to something and got himself some expert tuition; or he’d arranged access to it, at least.

Not wanting to make a total fool of himself in the hills, this morning he’d spoken to the dead in a Bonnyrig cemetery and got some leads. The man he had been looking for was in a graveyard in Dalkeith. Harry had gone there along the Mobius way and introduced himself in his fashion; when the excitement had died down, he’d explained his reason for being there. Now he felt a lot happier that he could look after himself on a cliff face.

The dead man he’d spoken to had been a climber of the old school. Not a mountaineer as such, no, but someone who had made himself something of a local legend in his lifetime, as a rock-climbing man without peer.
No nylon ropes in they days,
Necryscope,
he’d told Harry.
And I wouldn’ae be caught dead - ye’ll excuse mah language - with hammer and piton in mah
hand! Lord, no! All that cock wiz fer the so-called ‘professionals.’ Ah wiz no professional - but man, ah could monkey
up a sheer slab o’ a rock like a wee lizard! Lookin’ back now, all eighty years and more - ah can’t say, ah don’t know - ah think it wiz the view
pure and simple. Toe look doon on the world frae on high, frae a
new place,
ye ken, and ken that only the eagles had ever perched there afore
a man? Ah, that wiz something!

‘Will be again,’ Harry had told him from his seat on the old lad’s sarcophagus in the shade of a tree, breathing in the cool, calming quiet of the cemetery. ‘You can see it all again, through my eyes; though I can’t promise you the climb is going to excite you. I’m only a beginner. I don’t suppose my guide will be letting me tackle anything too adventurous.’

A beginner, is it? Wel, ye’re in good hands, be sure, I wouldn’ae
dare
let anything happen to ye!
The dead man had assured him.
Me. but ah traveled tae do mah
climbing, Harry. Ben Nevis, the Peak District, North Wales, Derbyshire, the Dartmoor Tors, the Cornish and Pembrokeshire sea cliffs … you name it! But a wee
climb will be beter than none at al! Just gi’ me a cal, and ah’l be there fer ye. And don’t fret none … ah’l no be letting ye down, Necryscope. No wi’ a bump,
anyhow!

‘Good!’ Harry told him. ‘See, this lady I’ll be climbing with is good at it. I don’t want to be made to look, you know, stupid, that’s all.’

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Eh? A wee lassie, is it? Aye, well there were a few good ones in mah day, too. Ah mind one who … oh, it’s a long time ago. But she wiz the
only one who ever beat me up a crag, ah’ll tell ye that…!

And shortly it had been time to go.

It was only after the Necroscope had left that his new friend recalled the name of the girl from his time, eighty years ago, who had

‘beaten him up a crag.’ Then, he’d thought to call out after the Necroscope, but Harry’s Ma had got to him first:
Don’t,
she told him.
My son … is in trouble. But we have it under control. We think so, anyway. The thing is, if he were to hear
that girl’s name … we really don’t know what it would do to his mind. So let it be for now. There will be time later, if it comes to it…

The old climber had asked no questions. Like most of the Great Majority, he’d heard of Mary Keogh and knew her reputation; that whatever she did on Harry’s behalf would be for the best. But he really couldn’t understand her concern. Why, that young lassie he’d remembered, that Bonnie Jean Mirlu, would be a long time down in the ground herself by now! What, after all these long years? Of course she would.

But because Mary Keogh had spoken, these were thoughts he would keep to himself, always …

The Necroscope had long since mastered the technique of vacating the Continuum astride his machine: it was just a matter of balance, of going from metaphysical to physical, weightlessness to gravity, darkness to light - ‘simple’

things, to Harry. But he still had his other thing - about someone seeing him in the moment he emerged into this spacetime. He had become
that
concerned with keeping his esoteric talents secret.

On this occasion, though (and oddly enough,
because
he was riding a bike), he didn’t worry. For it’s one thing for a man to suddenly appear out of nowhere, but quite another for a man
on a bicycle
to spring into existence. For a bicycle is such a mundane thing that if a man on a bike comes from nowhere, then it’s a trick of the light, or the eye, or the mind. But it certainly can’t be weird or supernatural.

Thus in only ten minutes Harry was able to cover the distance from his house on the outskirts of Bonnyrig to his rendezvous with Bonnie Jean at a pub on the approaches to Falkirk, by ‘jumping’ stretches of the road ahead for distances of anything from a hundred yards to half a mile. If he could see the way was clear ahead - see with his own eyes the place where he would like to emerge - it was as good as a co-ordinate, and he could simply ‘go’ there.