Necroscope: The Touch by Brian Lumley
“Your accomplice,” Garvey grunted.
“—In the Metropolitan Police,” said Samuels. And again he paused. “Should I continue? H-h-hopefully without further interruptions and accusations?”
“Just get on with it!” Trask scowled.
“As for his diary,” Samuels went on, “it mentioned a certain sum of money—an enormous amount, and in gold—which was to be paid to someone who Stamper seemed to see as his one last hope in (a) helping his infant son, which would perhaps assist in (b) sorting out his marital problems. As for this someone’s name—”
But here Paul Garvey gasped, starting up rigid in his seat as his face performed one of its convulsions.
Alarmed, Trask said, “Paul? Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes,” said the other, relaxing a little. “Wind, that’s all. Something I must have heard . . . er, I mean eaten.”
Having received Garvey’s disguised message loud and clear, Trask turned back to Samuels. “Yes? You were saying? This someone’s name was—?”
“It was Simon Salcombe,” said Samuels. “That faith-healer fellow. As for what Stamper saw in him . . . if you ask me he was grasping at straws! But here’s the weird part: in the course of further investigations I’ve discovered that Stamper’s baby son is now fit and well! That child who was crawling around in his father’s blood and his own excrement—that allegedly incurable infant—is back with his mother and enjoying sound health!”
Fortunately Samuels had gone on at some length, allowing Trask time to recover a little of his assumed insouciance following the shock of once more hearing Salcombe’s name mentioned. And now he said: “So, what do you make of all this? Do you see a connection between this Salcombe and Greg Stamper’s death?”
“I’ve seen pictures of Salcombe in the papers,” the other answered, low-voiced. “And I’ve also seen those security photographs. Now, while it’s impossible to say they’re pictures of one and the same man, it’s also impossible to say that they’re not . . .” He fell silent.
“And that’s it?” said Trask. “You’ve told us everything?”
“Everything,” Samuels replied.
Trask looked at Garvey, who pursed his lips and shrugged. So then, maybe not everything, but if there was anything else the telepath would probably know all about it. And so:
“Right,” said Trask, “you can go. And since you’ve been straight with us I’ll be straight with you. I won’t be reporting your little transgressions, but that’s on one condition: that as of now you’ll terminate your investigations. The fact is you could easily compromise our work, and that’s something I can’t allow. However, and as promised, if and when we bring someone to justice for Gregory Stamper’s murder—and if your information has helped us to do so—you’ll get full credit.”
“Well,” the other sniffed, “I suppose that’s something.”
“Oh?” said Trask. “You suppose that’s something, do you? And is that all? Well, one thing’s for sure: it’s a damn sight better than a lockup in one of Her Majesty’s prisons!”
After Samuels left, Trask turned to Garvey and said: “Well?”
“He told most of it,” the other answered. “But he didn’t mention that he knows where Salcombe is; not his actual location, no, but the name of this Schloss Zonigen place in Switzerland, definitely. He didn’t mention it, but there again you didn’t ask him.”
“And that’s it? He wasn’t holding anything else back?”
Garvey frowned, with half of his face at least, and said, “I’m pretty sure you got most of it, but I don’t think he was taking your warnings any too seriously.”
“You think he’ll disregard them?”
“I think he’ll certainly give it some thought,” the telepath answered. “But as for his interest in this case: actually, it’s more an obsession. While I don’t think Samuels had a very nice mind to begin with, now that it’s been knocked out of skew it’s that much worse. It’s a very complicated, almost a twisted mind, yes. And there are pictures in there that I really didn’t care to look at.”
And that was that. But Trask was left with a great deal to think about, an awful lot on his mind . . .
24
Earlier, in Zakynthos:
Along with many of his fellow travellers, Scott St. John had caught the Sunways Holidays coach heading east for Argasi, where most of them were staying. On the crowded coach, a droning Sunways Holidays rep in a faded uniform had seated himself beside the driver—the only one allowed to smoke, apparently—and gone on about the “natural beauty” of the island: its safe, crystal-clear waters for swimming, its myriad bays and beaches, especially its turtle beach; its industry: honey, wines, fishing, and, most importantly, tourism. Except for Scott, almost everyone on the coach had heard it all before and seemed uninterested. Undaunted, the rep had tried for a laugh with an old joke about mosquitos: “You won’t find a single mosquito on the entire island!” he’d said. Followed by the punch line: “That’s ‘cos they’re all married with kids!” Until eventually, realizing no one was listening, he’d given in and fallen silent.
In Argasi, at the Mimoza Beach Hotel, Scott had de-bussed with a handful of others, then tried to show at least a little interest in his accommodation: a small, sparsely furnished but clean ceramic-tiled room with a small balcony under a blue-and-white-striped awning; but his mind was on other things, namely a dog—or rather “a wolf of the wild”—called unconfusingly Wolf, or perhaps St. John Three. And having dumped his luggage, one small sausage bag containing two T-shirts, socks, an extra pair of trousers, and several other necessaries he’d thought to pack, finally Scott had called for a taxi and asked to be taken to Porto Zoro.
A little less than five kilometres later on a road heading south, Scott’s driver—a man with shining jet-black hair, lots of stubble, a cheroot in a gap in his teeth, and wearing an oil- and sweat-stained yellow T-shirt—pointed ahead to indicate a sharp left turn. “Here is thee Porto Zoro,” he said. “You going thee beach? You know Porto Zoro is thee beach?”
Scott could see a horizon of ocean and little else. But he also saw a signpost reading: “Vassilikos: 3 Km.” And:
“Hold it!” he said. “No, not the beach. Carry straight on, toward Vassilikos.”
The driver turned to look at Scott, and said, “You knowing where you go?”
“I think so,” Scott answered.
“Okay.” And shrugging his shoulders, the driver turned his vehicle back onto the main road.
They swept on; in a little while the road rose up to follow the contours of the rising ground through a region of dense Mediterranean pines; the car was dappled in constantly changing patterns of brilliant sunlight, dark leafy shade. And suddenly Scott knew where he was. The sea on his left, glimpsed through the trees; the embankment on his right, where the road was cut through rock and flinty earth; that pantiled villa down there, almost hidden in the foliage, with blue smoke coiling from its chimney.
“Stop!” said Scott, and the driver applied his brakes and stopped.
Scott got out onto the potholed road, and because he had left his drachmas at the hotel paid the fare in British pounds: three small, heavy coins. Accepting the money, the driver also got out of his car. Looking all around, and obviously baffled, he scratched his head, shrugged, got back in his taxi, and made a jerky three-point turn. Standing in a cloud of dust and blue exhaust fumes, Scott watched him drive back the way they had come, until the taxi rounded a bend and passed from sight.
Then the silence settled in, broken only by the cooing of doves from somewhere close at hand and the soft hush, hush of wavelets breaking on a rocky shore down below. But that didn’t last for long. From the direction of Vassilikos came a distance-muted babble of voices and the yelping of dogs. Trackers? Possibly. And:
How many chickens vanished last night? Scott wondered.
None! came the answer, startling him. And Wolf explained: Last night, many men were out with their dogs; they were hunting me! I, too,
“Yes, it’s me, and I’m coming.” Scott nodded, mouthing the words in a whisper as if talking to himself; and, if anyone had been there to see him, indeed seeming to talk to himself. “Now tell me,” he went on. “Where exactly are you?”
Follow the pebble pathway down to the house, Wolf replied, with some urgency now. Then come down to the ledges at the edge of the water. I will meet you there. But hurry, for I can hear the dogs.
“Okay,” said Scott. “I’m coming.”
How will you save me, take me away?
“I have no idea . . . but I’ll think of something.”
He hurried back along the road to where a path snaked down through the trees. If not for the blue wood smoke spiralling up from its chimney, the villa would look temporarily deserted; on the other hand, and if its occupants followed the Greek custom, they would probably be asleep: the afternoon siesta.
Scott went quietly. He passed the house by, found a steep, well-worn track down through the pines, began to descend—and stopped. Suddenly there was a presence. Scott sensed a presence and knew there was someone there, behind him.
He turned, looked back. The door to the villa stood open. A woman stood not ten paces away, dappled by beams of sunlight and shaded under the tortured branches of a sprawling Mediterranean pine. Moving hesitantly forward, she came more properly into view. Scott saw that she was beautiful, also that she was holding a hand to her mouth. He didn’t know why.
She was five-nine or -ten, slim, blonde, blue-eyed, and perfectly proportioned. She wore a blue blouse tucked into a dark-blue skirt belted with a tasselled scarf, a gold bangle on her left wrist, leather sandals on her feet. Her hair was loose; it framed her oval face and fell forward on her shoulders.
“Oh!” said Scott, not knowing what else to say. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I mean, it’s kind of lonely here and I’m probably trespassing.” His words sounded stupid to him; probably to her, too.
Momentarily wide-eyed, now she relaxed. Her hand fell from her mouth and her breast moved visibly in a deep sigh of . . . of what? Relief? Or regret? Scott couldn’t make up his mind. Whichever, she said, “I think we startled each other! But just for a moment there I was confused. I thought . . . I thought that maybe you were someone else.”
“I’m Scott St. John,” Scott replied. “And you must be Zek, the owner of a wolf—his One?”
She blinked, and then in a hurry said, “Now I know you—I think. You’re his One! But time is short and we shouldn’t waste it talking out here. You must go and get him, and quickly. He’s down by the sea.”
“I know,” said Scott, accepting the strangeness of it all.
“Listen,” she said, cocking her head to the not-so-distant barking. “The tracker dogs. They’ll be here soon. You’d best go for him, try to bring him inside the house. Maybe if you enter, he’ll come in, too. He doesn’t trust people very much—not even me, and I’ve been feeding him and trying to keep him safe—and he’s none too keen on houses, either!”
“I didn’t suppose he would be,” said Scott. “After all, he is a wolf of the wild.” Then, as he turned away downhill, “I’ll go and get him . . .”
Down below, jutting ledges of white, sea-carved rock ran horizontal to the ocean. Clambering down over sharply scalloped rims that scarred his shoes and would have cut bare feet to ribbons, Scott called out loud, “Wolf! I’m here!”
And I! that one replied, emerging from his hiding place, a deep cave under a wave-washed ledge. Wolf looked miserable, the soul of unhappiness. Bathed, and with the salt removed from his matted hair, and fed until his ribs weren’t quite so prominent, he might even look handsome. But even in his current condition his lineage showed: the fact that he wasn’t just a dog.
I itch, he said, and my paws are bleeding. But if you are my One—no, I know you are—you’ll look after me. And I shall look after you. His tail, at first hanging low, lifted a little and commenced to wag, albeit tentatively. And: Well, he continued, limping slowly forward, so you are Scott, my One. And I am Wolf, and here we are together.
I also am here, said one other, in a low, growling “voice” that was new to this weird conversation. Over the wash of wavelets Scott heard the scrape of pebbles, turned, and saw—
—A second Wolf, and a bigger wolf, crouched with muscles bunched, flat-eared, as if poised to spring from a position two ledges higher!
“Wolf!” came a cry from on high. The man and both canines turned their heads, looked up toward the villa. Zek was barely visible through the trees. The older animal’s ears came erect; his brown eyes were fixed on the woman, and hers on him; Scott sensed something pass between them. Then Wolf Sr.—for such he must surely be—turned his head to look along the undulating rim of the ocean.
To the south along the shoreline, figures moved. Men, and dogs, down by the sea.
I came back here along that route this morning, said Wolf Jr. These poor tame creatures are a surly lot, but their noses are keen!
I go, said his father, to lead them astray. They’ll chase me instead of you. You—he jerked his nose at Wolf Jr.—you go to Zek. And then to Scott: I know you hear me. Men who talk to wolves are rare; I knew some on Sunside, a few. And there’s Zek, of course. But tell me: you mean no harm? And you’ll help this wild cub of mine?
“That’s why I’m here.” Scott nodded. “I’m his One.”
Then take him to Zek. I go!
And he went—belly low to the earth, loping up the rock terraces—to the tree line where, like a grey shadow, he disappeared into the pines. An ululating, long-drawn-out howl came echoing back. And along the rocky shore the tracker dogs yelped and yipped, and their masters urged them on.
“Let’s go,” said Scott. “Zek’s waiting.”
We’re to go indoors? (This hesitantly.)
“I live indoors,” Scott replied, watching the animal limp. “And if you’re going to live with me, you will, too.”
Indoors smells strange. There’s nothing of the wild.
“Right now indoors is safer than out here,” Scott replied, seeing blood splash on the rocks where Wolf stepped, and noticing how he almost fell when a hind leg buckled under him. They climbed the ledges, but here close to the trees the ground was littered with pine needles. From now on the going would be far slower and a lot more painful for Wolf, and meanwhile the barking and snarling of the trackers had come that much closer.
Scott didn’t think twice but stooped, grabbed hold, lifted the animal up and across his shoulders. Huh! Wolf growled, paws dangling. Already I am a burden to you!
You’re not heavy, Scott answered telepathically, remembering a song he liked. You’re my number Three—for God’s sake!
In a little while the going was easier, so that Scott completed the final stretch at a jouncing trot.
Such strength! said Wolf, admiringly. I think I may enjoy us being One, Two, and Three with Shania; though there will be much that is strange.
And Scott said, You can say that again!
Zek was at the door; she let them in, took them to a cool room where she lifted a trapdoor to reveal steps descending to a cellar. Scott lowered Wolf to the tiled floor, and Zek said, “He’ll be safe down there for a while.”
Wolf cringed back. You wish me to go down into a hole?
“It’s more comfortable than a damp cave,” Scott reassured him. “And as soon as those dogs have gone we’ll have you out of there.”
Wolf uttered a low whine, limping as he started down into darkness.
“Amazing!” said Zek. “He trusts you completely. And yet he had to be close to starving before he’d even take food from me! And that reminds me—” She went into the kitchen, returned with a half-pound slab of lamb wrapped in clean white paper. “If you give it to him he’ll eat it,” she said.
My thanks, said Wolf, already beginning to salivate as he pawed the meat down onto the carpet. And to Zek. Perhaps I was beings too careful. I haven’t seen too many good people.
At which Zek called down, “Scott, come up—quickly now. I think those men are coming here!”
Scott hurried back up the steps; they lowered the trapdoor and Zek threw a carpet over it; there was something of a tumult outside: men shouting, the snapping and snarling of dogs. There came a hammering at the door and a man’s voice, hoarse and panting, shouted, “In there—you, Englishwoman—please opening thee door!”
Looking through a small circular window beside the door, Zek nodded and said, “I thought I recognized this one’s voice.” Her own voice was more than a little sour. “In Argasi one evening, Jazz and I were eating in a favourite taverna with a handful of friends. A bunch of local men, usually very nice people, had consumed too much ouzo; they were looking for trouble. This one insulted me and Jazz knocked him down. That was all; it was over and done with. But I think he’s been looking for a way to get back at us ever since.”
Scott said, “Open the door.”
Zek looked at him and raised a golden eyebrow. “This could turn nasty. Are you—?”
“It’s okay,” Scott told her. “Just open the door.”
She nodded and did as he asked, then stepped outside onto whitewashed flags. Scott followed her, closing the door behind him. Three hot, sweaty men, two of them cradling shotguns, and all three with dogs on leashes, had moved aside to let the door open outward. Their spokesman—a bearded, jowly, big-bellied man in sandals, shorts, a wide-brimmed hat, and a safari jacket in which he looked totally ridiculous—now pushed to the fore. Flabby lips quivering, piggy eyes glaring, he pointed a stubby finger at Zek and grunted, “You, Englishwoman—”