Horsts mad smile was still directed up at the supervisor.
Is that when it started, priest? Powel asked. Quinn had months to turn them, to break them, to control them. Didnt he? Thats what he was doing all the time inside that fancy A-frame hut of theirs. Then when hed got them all whipped into line, they started to come after us. His finger lined up on Horst. He wanted it to be a hunting rifle, to blow this failed wreckage of a man to pieces. Those muggings back in Durringham, Gwyn Lawes, Roger Chadwick, the Hoffmans. My God, what did they do to the Hoffmans that they had to incinerate them afterwards so we wouldnt see? And all because you didnt tell us. How are you going to explain that to your God when you face him, priest? Tell me that.
I wasnt sure, Horst wailed. Youre as bad as them. Youre a savage, you love it out here. The only difference between you and an Ivet is that you get paid for what you do. You would have gone berserk if I even hinted that they had turned to the sect instead of me.
When did you know? Powel screamed at him.
Horsts shoulders quaked, he hugged his chest, curling up. The day Gwyn died.
Powel threw his head back, fists thrust into the sky. QUINN! he bellowed. Ill have you. Ill have every fucking one of you. Do you hear me, Quinn? Youre dead. Vorix was howling defiance into the heavens.
He looked round at the numb expressions centred on him, seeing the cracks opening into their fear, and the anger that was beginning to spark inside. He knew people, and these were with him now. At long last, every one of them. There would be no rest now until the Ivets had been tracked down and exterminated.
We cant just assume the Ivets are guilty like this, Rai Molvi said. Not on his word. He glanced scathingly down at Horst. That was how Vorix took him unawares. The hound landed on his chest, bowling him over. Rai Molvi yelped in terror as Vorix barked, long fangs snapping centimetres from his nose.
You, Powel Manani said. It was spat out like an allegation. You, lawyer man! You are the one who wanted me to ease off them. You let them have their A-frame. You wanted them walking round free. If we had done this by the book, kept those dickheads in the filth where they belong, none of this would have happened. He called Vorix off from the panting, badly scared man. But youre right. We dont know the Ivets had anything to do with Gwyn or Roger or the Hoffmans. We cant prove that, can we, counsel for the defence? So all weve got is Carter. Do you know anyone else out here that is going to rip apart a ten-year-old child? Do you? Because if you do, I think wed all like to hear who.
Rai Molvi shook his head, teeth clamped together in anguish.
Right then, Powel said. So what do you say, Dimitri? Carter was your boy. What do you think we should do to the people who did this to your son?
Kill them, Dimitri said from the centre of the little knot of people who were trying to comfort him. Kill every last one of them.
High above the treetops, the kestrel wheeled and turned in an agile aerial dance, using the fast streams of hot, moist air to stay aloft with minimum effort. Laton always allowed the birds natural instincts to take over on such occasions, contenting himself simply to direct. Down below, under the almost impenetrable barrier of leaves, people were moving. Little flecks of colour were visible through the minute gaps, the distinctive pattern of a particular shirt, grubby, sweaty skin. The kestrels predator instincts amplified each motion, building up a comprehensive picture.
Four men carried the body of the boy on a makeshift stretcher. They moved slowly, picking their way over roots and small gullies, all of them labouring under an air of reluctance.
Ahead of them was the main body of men, led by Supervisor Manani. They walked with a bold stride. Men who had a purpose. Laton could see it in the stern, hate-filled faces, the grim determination. Those that didnt have laser rifles had acquired clubs or stout sticks.
Trailing way behind everyone else the kestrel saw Ruth Hilton and Rai Molvi. Weak, dejected figures who never said a word. Both lost in their own private guilt.
Horst Elwes was left by himself in the small clearing. He was still curled up on the ground, shivering quite violently. Every now and then he would let out a loud cry, as if something had bitten him. Laton suspected his mind had gone completely. It didnt matter, he had fulfilled his role beautifully.
Leslie Atcliffe broke surface ten metres away from the end of Aberdales jetty, a creel full of mousecrabs clamped between his hands. He rolled onto his back, and began to kick towards the shore, towing the creel. Rifts of gun-metal cloud were starting to slash the western horizon. It would rain in another thirty minutes, he reckoned.
Kay was sitting on the shore just above the water, opening a creel and tipping the still wriggling mousecrabs into a box ready for filleting. She was wearing a pair of faded shorts, halter made out of a cut-up T-shirt, boots with blue socks rolled down, and a scrappy dried-grass hat she had woven herself. Leslie enjoyed the look of her lean body, a rich nut-brown after all these months in the sun. It was another three days until they would have a night together. And he liked to think Kay enjoyed screwing with him more than the others. She certainly talked to him the rest of the time, like a friend.
His feet found the shingle and he stood up. Another lot for you, he called. The mousecrabs slithered and squirmed round each other in the creel, ten at least; narrow flat bodies with twelve spindly legs apiece, brown scales that did resemble wet fur, and a pointed head ending in a black tip like a rodent nose.
Kay grinned, and waved at him, her filleting knife gripped in her hand, steel blade glinting in the sun. That grin made his whole day worthwhile.
The search party emerged from the jungle forty metres away from the quay. Leslie knew something was wrong straight away. They were walking too fast, the way angry men walk. And they were heading towards the jetty, all of them, fifty or more. Leslie stared uncertainly. It wasnt the jetty, they were heading for him!
Gods Brother, he murmured. They looked like a lynch mob. Quinn! It had to be something Quinn had done. Quinn who was always so smart he never got caught.
Kay twisted round at the sound of the low rumble of voices, shielding her eyes from the sun. Tony had just surfaced with a full creel; he was watching the approaching crowd in confusion.
Leslie looked behind him, over the river. The far shore with its muddy bank and wall of creeper-bound trees was a hundred and forty metres away. It suddenly looked very tempting, he had become a strong swimmer over the last few months. They wouldnt catch him if he started straight away.
The first members of the crowd reached Kay where she was sitting. She was punched full in the face without the slightest warning. Leslie saw who did it, Mr Garlworth, a forty-five-year-old oenophile who was determined to establish his own vineyard. A quiet, peaceable man who was fairly reclusive. Now his face was flushed, berserker exhilaration lighting his features. He grunted in triumph as his knuckles connected with Kays jaw.
She cried out in pain and toppled over, a bead of blood spurting from her mouth. Men clustered round, kicking at her with a fierceness that rivalled a sayces blood-lust.
Fuck you! Leslie yelled. He slung the creel away and drove his legs through the knee-high water towards the shore, sending up long tails of spray. Kay was screaming, lost behind the flurry of kicking legs. Leslie saw the filleting knife slash once. One of the men fell, clutching at his shin. Then a club was raised high.
Leslie never heard nor saw if it fell on the battered girl. He cannoned into the band of villagers who were racing down the slope at him. Powel Manani was one of them, a big fist cocked back. Leslies world disintegrated into a chaos where instinct ruled. Fists slammed into him from all directions. He lashed out with blind violence. Men shouted and roared. His hair was gripped by a meaty hand, strands making a terrible ripping sound as they were torn slowly out of his scalp. A torrent of foam raged around him, almost as though he was fighting under a waterfall. Fangs clamped around his wrist, dragging his arm down. There was snarling, the snap of splintering bone that went on interminably. Pain was everything now, flooding down every nerve. Somehow it didnt bother him nearly as much as it should. He couldnt strike back the way he wanted to now. His arms didnt respond. He found he was on his knees, vision fading away into pink-grey streaks. The muddy river water was boiling scarlet.