The Amulet (18 page)

I was puzzled. The man in front of me didn't seem like my idea of a gangland boss, but then again, I had never knowingly met one. Maybe they were all as cultured as he seemed.

I couldn't reconcile this man with the stories I'd heard. But, no matter how sick he was, if he had caused Doug's disappearance, or been involved with Wee Jimmy's death, I intended to see that he got put away for a long time. All I had to do was figure out how to make Stan and Ollie believe me.

I realized that my mind was wandering-a combination of the night's activities, the whisky and the comforting warmth of the fire.

"This is rather a long story, Mr. Adams. It might be better if you slept first-you look done in," Dunlop said.

"You don't know the half of it," I said. "But I've got a feeling we don't have time. Just tell your story. I'll try to take it all in."

Dunlop started talking but my brain was finally beginning to shut down. He told his story, and it seemed that I relived it in my head, in vivid, dream-like pictures.

I was looking into this self-same room, through the keyhole, and I was fourteen years old.

* * *

Andrew Dunlop was angry, no, more than angry, he was almost incandescent with the kind of rage that only teenagers seem able to manage.

His father had returned from the desert a whole two weeks ago, and so far Andrew hadn't been allowed to see any of the finds, let alone touch them. It was as if he was still a child, as if he couldn't be trusted with the exhibits. He was reduced to eavesdropping, creeping around in corridors, all the time trying to sneak a look at the treasures he knew to be there. Father would weaken, given time, but Andrew couldn't wait-he'd waited for long months while Father was away, and he didn't see why he should wait any longer.

Which is how he came to be peering through the keyhole into his father's study, crouched in a painful stance by the door, ready to jump away if he should be discovered.

Father had a visitor, which was in itself unusual-he was normally a solitary man, preferring the company of his books. What's more, he seemed to be arguing, his voice raised to a hoarse shout-a first in Andrew's admittedly limited experience.

The man he was arguing with was a good six inches taller than his father-a huge, fierce, proud man with jet black hair swept back from his forehead and deep, blue, piercing eyes. Andrew had never seen him before, but he knew this man must be Johnson.

He strained to hear the raised voices through the thick wood of the door.

"You must let us see it!" his father was shouting. "It belongs to everyone-not just to you. You've no idea how important this thing is."

Johnson was smiling, a strange, almost feral grin.

"And what if I told you I had no intention of letting it go, that I have every idea how important it is?" he said, his voice soft. Andrew was suddenly, for no obvious reason, frightened, and he wanted more than anything to leave, but something kept him there, crouched behind the door.

His father's voice was louder than before when he replied.

"I'll fight you Johnson!" he shouted. "I'll take it to the authorities! I'm sure they'll agree with me."

Johnson's voice was almost too low for Andrew to hear, and he seemed to be talking to himself.

"Yes. I'm afraid they would. Which is exactly why I can't allow it."

A sudden chill swept through the keyhole, and Andrew was surprised to find that the door was cold to the touch when he pressed against it. He had to cover his mouth and nose with a hand-the smell suddenly threatened to choke him. His eyes watered, but he managed not to sneeze or cough.

Johnson started to speak, almost to sing, a harsh, foreign, almost animal sound. Andrew saw his father's eyes widen-in surprise at first, then in fear.

Suddenly it smelled even worse, as if something had died in the room, and his father's eyes were drawn to something in the corner, something out of Andrew's line of sight.

His father stepped forward, out of Andrew's view. Then the screaming started-a high-pitched keening that Andrew was unable to associate with his father. All he could see was Johnson laughing a great booming laugh as the screams went on and on before finally being cut off in one last, fading, echoing wail.

Nothing moved in the rest of the house. Andrew was waiting for someone to investigate, then he realized that there was probably no one else around. Mother had gone shopping, and Mr. Brown would be too far out in the garden to have heard anything.

Andrew couldn't wait any longer-he threw open the door, ready to protect his father, and was nearly knocked over by the departing figure of Johnson. The man didn't take any notice of him, merely swept passed and out of the house before Andrew had time to react.

His father's body lay curled, strangely small in one corner of the room, his hands curved into claws in front of his face, claws which hadn't been able to help him. His eyes were open, and red, bloody tears ran from their corners. Apart from the prone body, there was nobody else in the room.

His father's stomach had been opened, almost chewed, in a red gore-filled hole. A pool of blood was still spreading around him. Andrew sobbed and stepped forward, just as his father let out a small, almost imperceptible, cry of pain.

Andrew knelt and cradled the old man's head in his lap, unable to prevent the hot tears that ran down his cheeks.

The old man spoke just before the end.

"The amulet," he said, blood spattering from his mouth to join the pool on the floor. "You must get the amulet. Johnson will use it only for his own ends-it is a great evil that must be stopped."

Andrew nodded, and bent to move some hair from his father's eyes, but the old man was already dead. A wet mist clouded Andrew's vision, and there and then he vowed to have his revenge on Johnson.

The scene shifted, and Andrew grew older. And in every frame he was pouring over old books, books of ancient magic, always reading as his body filled out. Lines appeared on his features and his beard grew out into a long gray, flowing thing more befitting an Old Testament patriarch.

* * *

I jerked awake. Dunlop was still talking, but he stopped as I went over to the whisky bottle and poured myself another. I thought that if I had to go through twenty-four hours without food, I might as well get some calories into my system.

* * *

It took twenty long years as Andrew grew to manhood, grew to have enough strength for his challenge. He devoted his life to following his father in the study of mythology, but where his father had only harbored an academic interest, Andrew became a practicing magi, a master of ceremonial magic. He traveled extensively, and in his notes he tells of visits to occult schools around the world. He joined the Golden Dawn, and the O.T.O.

During the same twenty-year period Johnson's wealth had grown and he was now a very important man. He lorded it over Glasgow society, throwing wild parties that were famed for their debauchery. The press loved him, for his larger-than-life persona and his sense of style. They called him The Glasgow Capone.

Andrew followed his enemy's progress with great avidity, and was even more interested when an ancient Arab began to be mentioned in some of the reports.

He knew that the time was getting near-he had been studying the stars in the ancient eastern manner, and they all told him the same thing... a great ceremony would soon take place.

He began to pay even closer attention to Johnson's activities, and when a gathering was announced at Johnson's highland home, Andrew made sure he was an uninvited guest.

Andrew traveled to a remote part of the Highlands, to a dark, brooding house perched on a rocky outcrop above a raging sea. It was a stormy, windy night, wind lashing through the winter skeletons of the trees and black clouds scudding across the face of the full moon.

The coven had already gathered in the house, and Andrew was able to slip into the grounds without notice. He could feel the sleeping power in the place, the sense of doom hanging in the air, and he knew that he would have to be quick-the time was very near.

He slipped into the house through a patio window at the back. It had been locked, but locked doors were little problem for Andrew-his physical skills had grown apace with his magic, and he was an adept burglar.

The faint sound of chanting drifted up from beneath him. He knew that they would be in some kind of cavern beneath the house; he had felt the ancient power there in the first glimpse he had of the house. His movements took on a new urgency-he didn't have much time. There was no guard in the hallway-Johnson was too sure of his own strength, too cocky. Andrew intended to make him see the error of his ways. He was smiling as he made his way down into the depths of the earth, the chanting ringing louder in his ears as he descended.

The coven was in a circle, with the amulet on an altar in the center. There was no sign of the old Arab, but Andrew knew that he would be in the area somewhere-he was needed for the ritual. He suspected that Johnson was about to do a bit of showing off for his acolytes-summoning the amulet's beast into existence for their pleasure. Andrew smiled to himself. The ritual hadn't gone too far-he could still stop it.

Andrew strode into the center of the coven and, before anyone could move to stop him, lifted the amulet in his left hand.

The amulet seemed to squirm in his grasp, surprising him so much that he nearly dropped it. A sudden wind blew up, swirling and shrieking through the narrow confines of the room, strong enough to cause some of the coven to fall to the ground, weeping and wailing.

Johnson strode out of the crowd, making for the amulet, but Andrew held it away from the big man. Under his breath he was chanting a spell, an age-old protection, but he was suddenly frightened, aware that he might be out of his depth.

The wind dropped as suddenly as it came, and silence fell on the room, bringing with it the foul stink of the amulet's creature. Andrew knew it was time to leave, but his legs were refusing to obey orders, and he could only watch, stunned, as the swirling rainbow lights signaled the arrival of the old Arab-or whatever it was he had become.

Johnson began to laugh as the tentacles of the creature began to come through. Andrew hated the man, a deep lasting hate, and it was that hate which fuelled his next move.

He called up a spell from the grimoire of the mad Arab, one that had carried severe warnings against its use, but one that he knew he needed-it promised control of the creature.

Andrew felt the strength leave his legs, felt it flowing through him, and into the amulet. It burned in his hand, a deep emerald green, its glow throwing the room into dancing shadows, causing the coven to cower away from him in fear.

All except Johnson. He still had his eyes on the creature that had now fully materialized. He pointed a finger at Andrew and shouted one harsh, monosyllabic word.

Andrew enjoyed the confusion on the big man's face as the creature refused to do his bidding, and took even more pleasure in the fear in his eyes as the creature moved towards him, tentacles gaping greedily.

Andrew just had enough strength left to crawl to the cavern's entrance. He had one last look back and saw the creature leaning over Johnson, the coven watching on, too terrified to move. The last thing he heard as he made his way up the stairs was Johnson's dying screams. He was smiling as he made his way upwards, into the light.

At the top of the stairs he paused, holding the amulet aloft. He called once more on its power, realizing that he was draining something vital to his well being, but wanting to finish it.

He shouted, his cry echoing around him like ghosts in the wind, and walls began to tremble. There was only one scream, quickly cut short, as the catacomb below collapsed in on itself in one long rumble of stone clashing against stone.

Smiling now, Andrew staggered out of the house into the clean, fresh sea air. And in his left hand, the green glow from the amulet pulsed strongly in the darkness.

* * *

I came fully awake with a start once more. I didn't spill any whisky though-some things are done on instinct.

Had I been dreaming? Or was Dunlop's story still unfolding? In my befuddled state I wasn't sure, but I didn't have time to think about it as Dunlop continued.

* * *

Although he won the battle, Andrew was never to be a strong man again. He spent the reminder of his life writing down as much as he was able, leaving copious notes for the protection of his family against the amulet, and it's power.

He died two years later, and although he was only thirty-six years old, his hair and beard were pure white and his eyes were the eyes of an old man.

* * *

Dunlop took another sip from the glass by his side before continuing.

"He was my grandfather. I never met him, but I have read all his notes, and followed all his advice. The care of the amulet fell on me, and I've done my best," he said.

I nodded noncommittally-I wanted to start playing things a bit closer to the vest until I really understood what was going on. The trouble was, I didn't think I'd ever understand this case-it was certainly different from my usual line of work, and I'd never complain about being bored again.

Dunlop was still talking.

"Since Andrew Dunlop died, my family has kept the amulet, binding its power with strong spells. Over the years we've tried to discover how to harness it's power properly."

"Don't tell me...John Harris," I said.

"My, you have been thorough," he said. "Yes. Poor John almost got us there. But his mind snapped, just as I was about to take control, and it slipped away from us again."

"Okay," I said. "I get that bit. But where does the gangster crap come into it?"

Dunlop smiled.

"I'm afraid I've got myself a bit of a reputation. But you see, my grandfather's notes held a great deal of esoteric information, and I have studied magic all my life. I know places to send people who cross me-places where they'll never be found, places you wouldn't want to go to look for them."

"And the art thefts?" I said.