Janusz repaid their kindness by killing them all. He used his trusty metal bar to batter the man unconscious as he stooped to put another log on the fire, and a breadknife quickly grabbed from the table to cut all their throats.
When the two policjanci who had been following his tracks through the forest burst in less than an hour later, he had already started to eat the woodsman's daughter.
In one respect Janusz was lucky. The officers were fresh enough in their careers not yet to have witnessed the worst of criminal brutality and nor were they old enough to comprehend the true barbarism of the Nazi occupation during the last World War. When they saw what had become of the woodsman and his wife, when they realised that what their quarry was stuffing into his mouth was from the child's open belly, they were too shocked—too revolted—to move.
The madness in Janusz, further incited by the excitement of his deed, overcame the fatigue that was still with him; he threw the breadknife at one uniformed intruder and rushed screaming at the other. The vision of this wildman, his body puffed up by the layers of clothing he wore, mouth and beard daubed with blood, eyes huge and crazed, would have frozen the bravest of men, and the two policjanci had thus far won no service awards for gallantry. Neither of them could help but cringe away.
One was pushed back against the wall while the other scrambled to retrieve his rifle, dropped when he had dodged the thrown knife. The thief they had tracked so many miles was through the door and out in the snow again, scurrying back into the trees as a single shot was fired at him. The bullet chipped the top of his right collarbone but, despite the agonising ,jolt, he did not stop running. Nightfall helped cloak his escape.
Soon the gunshots behind him grew fainter and Janusz was both laughing and weeping as he scrambled up a slope. He toppled over the ridge and rolled down the other side, giggling and crying out as he went.
He came to rest at the bottom of the hill, spreadeagled on his back, half-buried in snow and his chest heaving with exertion.
He stayed that way for some time, his breathing gradually slowing as he listened for his pursuers. Their voices came from high above him and soon drifted away again, the darkness now concealing the trail of disturbed snow he had left behind. He had lost them. He had got away. He giggled once more and licked his lips, the taste still strong on his tongue.
Janusz waited a little while longer before rising to his knees.
He was instantly blinded by dazzling white light.
Russian tanks were strategically positioned in many sectors of Poland, never obtrusively, but usually in areas where their threat could be felt rather than continually observed. The soldiers who manned them were highly disciplined and never mingled with the community; but they were always on standby, ready to move against insurgence at a moment's notice. Perpetually bored by their low-profile assignment, the tank crews were eager for any distraction that might come their way. They had observed the dark figure tumbling down the hillside and patiently waited for it to move again once it reached the bottom. When it did, they switched on their tank lights as one.
Janusz screamed in terror. He stumbled away, not caring in which direction he ran, his only thought to be out of that intense glare as quickly as possible. The two policjants, alerted by the abrupt flaring of light, turned back.
Never had Janusz felt so naked, so visible. There was nothing he could see, nothing but blinding light, and he felt like a specimen exposed on a scientist's slab. He crashed into a tree, tasted his own blood rushing into his mouth. He staggered away, hands to his face. Then onwards, refusing to allow pain to stop him, too afraid to let it.
He was hurtling downwards again, over and over, this slope much steeper than the previous one. He shrieked when his damaged shoulder struck something solid. He was no longer falling, the surface flat and hard beneath him.
Janusz sobbed with self-pity. He was lost now. He no longer had the strength to run. They had him and they would punish him for the wicked things he had done.
He raised his head. The lights had found him. They were coming close, exposing him in the roadway as if he were some helpless animal, broken-limbed and prey to anything that should come along. Janusz tried to shield his eyes against the blaze, but there was no strength left in his arms.
The light was almost upon him. He waited in despair.
But now the bright beams were passing him, shining beyond. He blinked and it took an eternity for his eyes to discern the big black car that had drawn up alongside his prone body. The engine was still quietly running and nothing happened for a while. Then a rear door opened.
“Moge cie zrobic niewidzialnym, Janusz,' a soft voice said from within. 'I can make you invisible.' (And in a way, Kline did make him invisible.)
24 CORA'S ANGUISH
'Why jackals, for God's sake? There are plenty of other breeds that make better guard dogs.' Halloran had craned his neck round to look through the black limousine's rear window, halfexpecting to see shadowy shapes back on the roadway.
Palusinski shrugged, then gave a short laugh, his eyes becoming small behind the wire-rimmed glasses he wore. 'Perhaps Felix cares for the underdog.' He laughed again, enjoying his joke.
Halloran faced the front. 'I've never heard of trained jackals before.'
'All animals can be trained, moj kolega. As can all men.'
'I thought they were nocturnal, yet I saw one roaming in daylight yesterday.'
'They prefer night hunting, but even inherent habits can be changed. The dogs obey their master.'
'Kline?'
'Ah no.' Palusinski's foot gently touched the brake pedal as they gathered speed on the hill. The lights of Neath were like a beacon against the leaden slopes behind. 'Even an old dog such as I has learned some new tricks over the past two days. Your driving instructor teaches well.'
'Let's hope you never have to use those techniques.' The older man nodded. 'I am informed that you, yourself, had to do so yesterday.' Halloran made no comment. 'How long have you been employed by Felix Kline, Mr Palusinski?' he asked instead.
'Please, you may call me Janusz. Rest assured, I bear you no ill-will for your rough treatment of me two nights ago. I appreciate that you were merely pointing out the weakness of our defence. And there was no pain at the time, only an aching of the neck muscles afterwards. A skilful blow, sir, if I may say so.'
'Pity your partner can't forgive as easily.'
'Monk? An animal. A beast. It would be prudent to watch yourself with that one. Now, as to your question, I'm sure your company has access to the files on all of us. You must know how long I have been in Felix's employ.'
'Those files are pretty vague. They give no account of length of service.'
'I see. And you are curious, naturally.' The car pulled up behind the silver Mercedes at the front of the house. 'Felix brought me from Poland some years ago,' Palusinski said as he switched off the engine.
'Fourteen or fifteen years ago, I think.' Halloran was startled and about to question the Pole further, but Palusinski was already getting out of the car. 'Wait,' he said, and the older man bent down to look back inside. 'How old is Kline?' Halloran asked.
Palusinski smiled, his eyes narrowing behind the spectacles. 'Felix is older than you would imagine, sir.'
Then he was gone, walking around the front of the car towards the house.
Halloran quietly tapped on the door and waited. He was tired and that was due to more than just the lateness of the hour. There was a tension about this house that had little to do with any kidnap threat. Yet the day before there had been a stillness in Neatly a brooding heaviness which dragged at the spirit. That had now given way to a peculiar atmosphere of instability and he could almost feel a charge in the air, as if the building itself had been roused by the visitors like some slumbering monolith disturbed into a tensed wariness. He pushed the fanciful idea aside. A house was a house, bricks and mortar, timber and glass.