Necropolis (10 page)

The man began to walk toward the house. At the same time, Richard went over to the cabinet and reached inside. There was another gun there. He wasn't taking any chances.

The man came into the main room, Professor Chambers following him with the rifle. Now that he was inside, Matt could see that he was a few years older than Richard, with the dark hair and olive skin of a native Peruvian. He had obviously been on the road for a while. He was dusty and unshaven, and his clothes were crumpled, with sweat patches under the arms. There was a haunted look in his eyes. From the look of him, he didn't seem to be a threat.

The first thing he did was to take a pair of spectacles out of his top pocket and put them on. Now he looked like a schoolteacher or perhaps an accountant working in a small, local office. He had a cheap watch on his wrist, and his shoes were scuffed and down-at-heel. He looked straight at Matt. "Are you Matthew Freeman?" He blinked. "I did not think I would find you here."

"Sit down," Richard said.

The man sat on the sofa with his back to the French windows. Richard pressed the button that turned off the garden lights, and everything outside the room disappeared into blackness again. It had clouded over during the night. The moon and the stars had disappeared. Richard came back over to the sofa and sat down on one of the arms. He hadn't reset the security system. But then the visitor wouldn't be staying very long. Scott and Jamie perched on the edge of the coffee table. Professor Chambers sat in a chair with the rifle between her knees.

"So what do you want?" she demanded.

"I will tell you everything you want to know," Ramon said. "But can I first ask you for a drink? I have been traveling all day and I had to wait until night before coming here. Believe me — if I had been seen, I would have been killed."

"I'll get it," Pedro said. He went into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of water. The man took it in both hands and gulped greedily.

"How do you know about me?" Matt asked.

"I know a great deal about you, Matthew. May I call you that? I know how you came to Peru and I think I know what you have been doing since you arrived here. I was present, also, the night you came to the hacienda at Ica, although perhaps you did not see me. I was there because I was hired to work for Diego Salamanda."

Ramon must have known the effect the name would have on everyone in the room. Salamanda had been the chairman and owner of a huge news corporation in South America. Deliberately deformed as a child

— his head had been grotesquely stretched — he had used his power and wealth to bring back the Old Ones. Matt and Pedro had gone to his hacienda searching for Richard, and later on Matt and Salamanda had confronted each other in the Nazca Desert. Matt had killed him, turning back the bullets fired from his own gun.

"Please — do not think of me as your enemy," Ramon continued, hastily. "I swear to you that I was not part of his plans." He paused. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. "I am not even in business. I am a lecturer at Lima University and Se Salamanda paid me to help him with a special project. I should explain that my specialty is ancient history." He bowed in the direction of Professor Chambers. "I have heard you speak many times, Se. I was there, for example, last April when you gave the presentation at the Museo Nacional de Antropolog. I thought it was a brilliant talk."

Professor Chambers thought for a moment. "It's true that I was there," she said. "But anyone could know that."

"Se Salamanda told me that he was in possession of a diary that he wanted me to interpret on his behalf,"

Ramon went on. "The diary had been written in the sixteenth century by a man called Joseph of Cordoba. This man traveled here to Peru with the Spanish conquistadors.

Salamanda told me that he bought the diary from a bookseller in London, a man called William Morton."

"He didn't buy it," Matt said. "He stole it. He killed William Morton to get it." Matt knew because he had been there at the time. Morton had been demanding two million pounds, but all he had got was a knife in the back.

"I did not know these things," Ramon exclaimed. "I was innocent. My job was to work only on the text, to unlock its secrets, and I spent many, many hours in his office and also at his home in lea. The diary was never allowed to leave his side. He made it clear to me from the start that it was the most precious thing to him in the world. And as I read it, as I began to study it, I realized why. It told this extraordinary history…the Old Ones, a battle many thousands of years ago, and a gate that could be unlocked by the stars."

He lowered his head.

"I know that I am responsible for what happened last June. I did the work that I was paid to do and I helped Salamanda to open the gate. I have allowed a terrible thing to happen and it has been on my conscience ever since." He twisted on the sofa, urging them to believe him. "I am not a bad man. I am a Catholic. I go to church. I believe in heaven and hell. And I have been thinking…what can I do to make amends for what I have done? What can I do to undo the damage that I have caused? And I knew, finally, that I must find you. So I came."

"How did you know where we were?" Jamie asked.

"Se Salamanda often mentioned the name of Professor Chambers. I guessed that you would be with her, and I have brought you something. You will not shoot me if I reach into my bag?"

He glanced at the professor, then reached beside him. He took out an old, leather-bound book and laid it on the table. Nobody in the room said anything. But they all knew what it was. It was hard to believe that it was actually there, in front of them. The cover was dark brown with a few faint tracings of gold, tied with a cord. The edges of the pages were rough and uneven. Matt recognized it at once. It contained everything they needed to know about the Old Ones. It might even describe how they could be defeated.

"It is the diary of the mad monk," Ramon said.

And it was. The small, square book sitting there in the middle of the table was, supposedly, the only copy in the world. There was no limit to how many secrets it might contain, how valuable it might be.

"How did you get it?" Richard demanded.

"I stole it!" Ramon took out a handkerchief and wiped it across his forehead. "I thought it would be impossible, but in fact it was easy. You see, I still had my electronic passkey to the office of Salamanda News International in Lima. And I had this crazy idea. Maybe the key had not been canceled. Se Salamanda was dead, but surely they had forgotten about me. Two days ago, I returned to the office.

Nobody saw me, although by now they will know that it is gone. I took it from his desk and hurried away into the night. It is possible that the cameras will have identified me and that they will be searching for me even now."

Richard was still suspicious. "What do you want from us?" he asked. "Do you want us to pay you?"

Ramon shook his head. "Can you not understand me?" he exclaimed. He clasped his hands in front of him. "I am twenty-eight years old. Next year I hope to be married. When I was given this work by Se Salamanda, I knew nothing. It was just, for me, a job."

He pushed the diary away.

"Here! You can have it without payment. It is yours. I brought it to you only because I thought you might make use of it in this great…" He searched for the word in English. "…

lucha.

Struggle. I want nothing from you. I am sorry that I came."

There was a pause. Matt knew that he had just been given a fantastic prize. The diary might explain the dreamworld. It might tell them the history of the twenty-five doorways that stood in so many different countries. Who had built them, and when? It might even help them work out what they were supposed to do when the five of them finally met in London. Ramon was right: Salamanda had been prepared to kill to get his hands on the diary, and now it had just been handed to them, out of the blue.

Jamie leaned forward and picked it up. He unwound the cord, and the diary opened in his hands. He examined the page in front of him. It was covered in handwriting that would have been almost unreadable even if it hadn't been in Spanish. There were tiny diagrams in the margins. Suddenly his eyes lit up. He pointed to a single word.

"Sapling," he said. "That was my name when I went back in time. Sapling was killed and I took his place."

The diary was real. Matt had no doubt of it. But what about the man who had brought it to them? He looked genuine, but Richard had been expecting some sort of trap, and this could well be it. Suddenly Matt had an idea. There was an easy way to find out. "Jamie," he said. "Ask him if he's telling the truth."

Jamie understood at once. But before he could act, Scott stood up. "I'll do it," he said.

Scott walked forward and stopped in front of the visitor. He looked Ramon straight in the eyes. "Are you telling the truth?" he demanded.

"On my mother's grave," Ramon replied, crossing himself and then kissing his thumb. "I'm only here because it is the right thing to do. Because I want to help."

Scott concentrated. This was his power, the ability that had kept audiences entertained for the many months when he was performing in Reno. They had thought it was a trick, but in fact it was real. He could read minds.

Unfortunately, it wasn't quite as easy as that sounded. It wasn't like throwing a switch. Scott and Jamie had a connection with each other. When they were in the same room or even a short distance away, they could communicate with each other just by thinking. But when it came to other people, strangers like Ramon, what they saw was confused, chaotic. Nothing was ever black-and-white.

Perhaps a minute passed. Then Scott nodded. "He's telling the truth," he said.

"I promise you…" Ramon knew that he had been tested in some way. The words came pouring out. "I don't care if you don't trust me. I'll leave you with the diary. I'll go. I have no other reason to be here."

'You said it wasn't safe for you outside," Richard said. "Were you followed?"

Ramon shook his head and swallowed nervously. "I don't think so. After I took the diary, I hid in Lima. I wanted to see if the police would come. Then, when nothing happened, I took a tourist bus to Paracas. I thought it was less likely that I would be noticed that way. By now they will know that the diary is missing. They will know that I have taken it. And although Salamanda is gone, there are people in his organization who will still wish to continue what he began."

"So where will you go now?" Professor Chambers asked. "Do you have somewhere to hide?"

"I was hoping…" Ramon began. There was a strange sound, a whistling that came through the air, then the tearing of fabric. He looked down. There was something sticking out of his shirt. Puzzled, he reached down and touched it, then tried to pull it free. It wouldn't move, and when he released it, his hand was wet with blood.

They had all heard it but hadn't realized what it was. A fence post. It had been thrown with impossible force from out of the darkness. It must have traveled more than fifty yards before the pointed end smashed into the back of the sofa, penetrating through the leather and padding before impaling the man who was sitting there. Ramon's eyes widened. He tried to speak. Then he slumped forward, pinned into place, unable even to fall.

The alarms hadn't gone off. The radar screen was empty. Professor Chambers sprang to her feet and pressed the button to turn on the outside lights. Nothing happened.

Something was moving in the garden. There were figures, edging forward, dressed in filthy, tattered clothes that hung off them as if they were rotting away. Matt could just make them out in the light spilling from the room. It was suddenly very cold, and he knew at once that dark forces were at work and whatever the figures were, coming toward him, they weren't human.

They had come for the diary.

NINE

Night Attack

Slowly, determinedly, they closed in on the house.

There were more than a dozen of them: nightmare figures, shuffling across the lawn. Where had they come from? Matt could imagine them climbing out of the local cemetery. There was something corpse-like about them. A gleam of light from the living room caught one of their faces, and he saw glistening bone, one empty eye socket, dried blood streaking down the side of the cheek and neck. At that moment he was sure of it: These creatures couldn't be killed. They were already dead.

As if to prove him wrong, Professor Chambers stepped forward and fired a shot at the nearest of them.

Matt saw a great gout of blood explode out of the back of its head. It fell facedown and lay shuddering in the grass. So at least they could be stopped! She fired again, hitting another of them in the shoulder.

The creature twitched as if shrugging the bullet off. Blood spread across what was left of its shirt — but it kept on coming. It didn't seem to feel pain.

Richard was already on his feet, loading the revolver that he had taken from the gun cabinet. A few weeks before, Matt had smiled when he had stumbled across him, shooting tin cans in the desert. Now he was glad that Richard had decided to practice.

When the attack had begun, Scott and Jamie had snatched up a couple of makeshift weapons —

anything they could get their hands on. Jamie had a baseball bat. Scott had found a kitchen knife, which he was holding in front of him, the blade slanting up. Pedro had backed away to the other side of the room. He was standing with his back to a full-length window, his eyes darting left and right, waiting for the first attack.

He wasn't looking behind him.

"Pedro…! Watch out!" Richard shouted in warning.

One of the creatures was looming out of the shadows on the other side of the glass. Pedro spun round just in time to see a dead white face, staring eyes, gray lips, hands stretching toward him. The creature didn't stop. It walked straight through the window, smashing the glass and entering the room with blood streaming down its face. Shards of broken glass were sticking out of its flesh, but it didn't seem to notice. Richard lifted his revolver and shot it twice in the head. It crumpled and fell at Pedro's feet. At the same time, Richard twisted round and fired again. Another of the creatures had reached the open French windows and was about to step inside. It threw up its hands and fell back with a bullet between its eyes.