But intent as Liz was on what she was doing — finding Ben Trask, and relaying Chung's message — her telepathic guard was down. Which was precisely the opening that Nephran Malinari had been waiting for.
Ben, where are you? she anxiously wondered, as she saw the hexagonal spindle of the elevator column looming ahead. But of course Trask wasn't a telepath, and Liz's probe (if she'd actually sent one, if she had even tried to, for in fact she'd simply been talking to herself, a natural response to her circumstances, like whistling in the dark) would go unanswered.
Or it should have gone unanswered. But:
Liz? (it was Ben Trask's voice — his telepathic voice? — in her head!) Is that you, Liz? But… can you hear me? If so, please listen. You've got to kip us. We've got ourselves trapped down here, behind a bulkhead that only opens from the other side. Your side, that is. But there's been shooting and now the place is burning. We'll burn, too, Liz, if you can't reach us!
She could actually feel the heat behind his mental SOS, could almost see the flames, it was so brilliantly clear. Clear like never before. So perhaps Jake was right: her talent really was growing stronger minute by minute! Yes, it must be so. And:
Ben, she sent. But how can I reach you? Where are you?
Down here, he answered. Down in the guts of the place. You can reach us via the elevators. It's the only way.
In the guts of the place? Underground in that maze of tunnels and pipes? At which she instinctively glanced at the floor… and at the ghastly figure of a dead man, who lay there with his brains trickling out through his eye.'
Liz jumped a foot, but Ben had obviously seen through her eyes and quickly said: We got that one, and followed the others down here. But you'll he safe because they're on the other side of the fire. Use the elevator, Liz, the one marked PRIVATE. But please hurry!
She had already called the elevator, and anxiously watched the tiny indicator lights bringing it down to the ground floor. But bringing it down? Well, the military must have used it. For of course, the whole place would have to be checked out.
The doors opened and she got in, and the voice — Trask's voice, in Liz's mind — said: Is there a key in one of the keyholes? He sounded even more anxious, urgent now, and his voice was tinged with something else… anticipation, maybe? But of course it was! She had given him hope, and he was looking forward to being rescued.
A key, yes, she told him. In the UP slot.
Take it out, he said. Use the other keyhole. Turn the key ninety degrees clockwise. But quickly, Liz, quickly!
She did as instructed. And the cage descended, taking her down, down, down…
On Jethro Manchester's island, Jake Cutter, Lardis Lidesci, and Joe Davis arrived at the open-ended, roofed-over section of the man-made channel that housed the millionaire's yacht — in effect a boathouse — midway between the villa and the sea. Hearing voices in heated argument, they split up and Davis took the far side of the structure, while Jake and the Old Lidesci crept up on that end of the boathouse closest to the burning villa.
The lock gates were open, but the yacht was still tied up. Both the boat and the ceiling of the flat-roofed structure were illuminated by their own lights. On the canopied deck, just aft of the cabin, two men faced each other down. The one was older, taller, white-haired and — bearded. Dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts, he looked almost military in his proud, upright stance. This was Jethro Manchester himself, Jake knew. The younger man, who was holding a shotgun on the first, was shorter, stockier; but his hard, leathery, sun-beaten features were very much similar to Bruce Trennier's, his older brother's, which Jake would never be able to forget.
'Martin,' Manchester's voice rang out in the night, 'can't you see it's all over and you can't run from these people? Man, you're like a walking plague, a pestilence — you and me both — but a far worse pestilence than any in the Bible! And would you take that among the people? I see that you would. Well, and why not, for you brought it down on me and mine! That was sheer treachery, Martin! So say and do what you like, you won't be taking my boat. She's mine and she goes with me… wherever.'
Manchester held a jerrycan with both hands; as he had spoken, so he had been splashing its contents on the deck. The smell of diesel was unmistakable.
'Jethro, I'm not forgetting that I owe you,' Martin Trennier spoke up. It's the only reason you're still alive while we stand here and argue like this. But you're wrong to think this is the end of everything. It's only the beginning! You were the last to be taken — after he'd used your family to get his way — after he'd promised that he would give it all back, and cure us of this thing.
Well, he's a liar, as we've seen, and he made me take you, too. But you were the last and it's still taking hold of you. When it does, and when it has fully taken hold — which it will! — then you'll know I was right. So stand aside and let me get on. Or better still, come with me and let's see what we can make of things together.'
As he had spoken, Trennier had stepped to the port side of the boat to cast off a rope. But Manchester had taken the opportunity to pick up a second jerrycan. This time, before he could begin spilling its contents, Trennier stepped close and knocked it out of his hands. And now he trained his weapon dead centre on Manchester's body.
'I've no time for this, Jethro/ he growled. 'You can come with me now, or stay here. You can live or you can die. One way or the other, it's your choice. So what's it to be?'
Manchester took out a cigarette lighter from the pocket of his shorts. He flicked it once — and it failed to spark! Trennier cursed, but he wasn't about to give the older man a second chance. Sending the butt of his weapon crashing to Manchester's face, jostling him to the side of the boat, finally he succeeded in knocking him overboard. And as Manchester swam towards the side of the channel, so Trennier clung to the deck rail, leaned out over the water, and fired his weapon at almost point-blank range.
Which was as far as Jake was willing to let it go. He and Joe Davis acted together. Davis ran in under the far end of the boathouse, firing on the yacht as he came, and Jake ran to meet him, skidding to a halt on his knees to play the roaring, searing lance of his flamethrower on both the vessel and the man on her deck.
Trennier fired another shot, and another — fired blindly, through the shimmering fire that enveloped and ate into him — while the boat literally erupted in flames and he turned into a jet-black, shrieking silhouette, dancing in agony until finally he crumpled down into himself and lay still.
As Jake shut off his lance, there came the sound of feeble
splashing from the channel. It was Manchester. The flesh at the back of his head, his neck and across his shoulders was a livid, liquid red. 'Let me out!' he cried, climbing sunken steps. 'Let me out and finish it then, but not in the water. I lived in the water — lived for the water — so I don't want to die in it.'
And when he was out, and staggering on dry land, Jake told him, 'Mr Manchester, we heard everything. And we're sorry.'
'I know you are,' Manchester nodded his bloody head. 'Yes, and I'm glad you came. My family… is no more, and I… have no reason or right to be here.' With which he held out his arms in the shape of a cross, stood there and closed his feral eyes.
Then Joe Davis gritted his teeth, and cut the old man down with accurate, merciful shooting; the Old Lidesci went in close and used his machete; and finally, making absolutely sure, Jake finished it with roaring fire. By which time both the yacht and the structure that housed it were a mass of leaping flames, and the three backed away, leaning on each other while they watched it all burn…