They lay there, neither one willing to separate.
Halloran felt the wetness on his cheek and lifted his head to look at Cora. She was weeping and when he tried to speak she pulled him down against her. His arm slid beneath her neck and he held her tightly.
They stayed that way until her weeping stopped, neither one saying anything, feeling no need to, content to rest with each other. Cora loved the feel of him inside her, even though he was soft now, and she ran her fingers beneath his shirt, caressing his spine. Halloran raised himself without withdrawing and lifted her legs onto the sofa. He lay on top, brushing his mouth across her face, kissing her eyes, her temples, her cheeks, passion subdued, replaced by tenderness.
'You don't know what he's done to me,' she said.
'None of that matters,' he soothed.
She sighed, a sweet sound, when she felt him becoming hard again. They made love slowly this time, their movement sensuous, almost languid, sensing each other in a different, more perfect, way. Their passion grew but was unleashed easily, a flowing then gently ebbing release.
As before, they remained locked together for some time and, when at last Halloran withdrew, it was with reluctance. He adjusted his clothing, then sat on the floor, an elbow resting on the sofa where Cora was still stretched. He leaned forward to kiss her lips, his hand smoothing away the damp hair from her face.
'Liam . . .' she began to say, but he shook his head and smiled.
'No need, Cora. We'll talk tomorrow. Tonight just think about what's happened between us.' He stroked her body, fingertips tracing a line over her breasts down to her stomach, running into the cleft between her thighs.
Her arms went around his shoulders and she studied his eyes, her expression grave. 'I need to know more about you, can't you see that?'
'In time,' he said.
'Is it possible for me to trust you? There's something . ' she frowned, struggling to find the word '. . .
dark about you, Liam. and I can't understand what it is. There's a remoteness in you that's frightening. I felt it the first time we met.' He began to rise, but Cora held on to him.
'I told you yesterday,' he said. 'I'm what you see, no, more than that.'
'It's what I feel in you that scares me.'
'I often deal with violent people, Cora. It can't help but have an effect on me.'
'You've become the same as them? Is that what you're saying?' He shook his head. 'It isn't that simple.'
'Then try to explain.' There was exasperation in her demand.
He began to rise again and this time her arms dropped away. 'In my trade violence usually has to be met with violence,' he said, looking down at her. 'It's sometimes the only way.'
'Doesn't that corrupt you? Doesn't that make you the same as them?'
'Maybe,' he replied.
She pulled at her robe, covering her nakedness.
Halloran walked to the door and paused there. 'It's when you start to enjoy the corruption that you know you're in trouble.' He went out, quietly closing the door after him.
Leaving Cora to weep alone.
Halloran washed himself in a bathroom along the hall before returning to his room. Once there, he hung his jacket over a bedpost and took the gun from its holster, placing it on the bedside cabinet. He removed his shoes this time, set the small alarm clock, and lay on the bed. The curtains were apart, but moonlight was feeble again that night and barely lit the room. Despite the fact that there was an extra bodyguard on duty inside the house, Halloran would only allow himself four hours' rest, intending to check on Monk and Palusinski during their individual watches, scouting Neath and the immediate outside area in between. Cora had taken up nearly an hour of his rest period. And a lot of energy.
He shut his eyes and remembered the hurt on her face as he'd left the room.
A brightness flashed beyond his eyelids.
Halloran opened his eyes again. The room was in darkness. Had he imagined the sudden flare?
It came once more, filling the room like a lightning flash. Yet no rumble of thunder followed.
He quickly moved from the bed, going to the window. He peered out into the night. A muted white glow marked the moon's presence behind a bank of clouds, the ragged-edged, mountainous shapes barely moving, the landscape below blurred and ill-defined. The lake was a huge flat greyness that appeared solid, as if its depths were of concrete.
Halloran blinked as the light flared again. The source was the lake itself, an emanation from its surface.
And in that brief light he had seen forms on the water, black silhouettes that were human. Or so he assumed.
He rolled back over the bed, pulled on his shoes, and grabbed his gun. Halloran headed for the stairs.
25 LAKE LIGHT
Monk should have been on guard duty. But the main hall was empty.
Halloran wasted no time searching for him; he switched off the hall lights, then opened one side of the frontdoors just enough to slip through. He was disturbed that the door had been left unlocked. His steps were barely audible as he hurried through the stone-floored porch, and he stopped only briefly once out in the open.
The lake was nothing more than a broad expanse, slightly lighter than its surrounds.
Halloran holstered the Browning and moved off, quickly edging along the frontage of the house, using it as a dark backdrop against which it would be difficult to be seen, his intention being to approach the lake from an angle rather than in a direct line from the main door. Once at the corner he made a crouching dash towards the lawn. Instinctively he dropped to the ground when light flared from the lake again. He blinked his eyes rapidly, feeling conspicuous and vulnerable lying there on the damp grass. But imprinted on his mind was the image the sudden brightness had exposed.
There was a boat out there, three or four figures huddled together in its confined space. They were watching something that was outside the boat, on the lake itself. Something that was not in the water but on the surface.
The vision dissolved as his eyes adjusted to the darkness once more. He stiffened when a howling came from the shoreline to his right, an eerie, desolate cry in the night. It was followed by a collective ululation, the baying of wolves—or jackals—a fearful sound wending across the water. He narrowed his eyes, hoping to see them among the indistinct shapes of trees and shrubbery that edged the side of the lake.
He thought he could make out the jackals, although it might only have been a clump of low foliage, for there was no movement. Halloran rose to one knee.
And again was temporarily blinded by a fulguration from the lake.
It had come from below the water, expanding across the surface, a silvery-white luminance swiftly expanding across the flat surface, its extremities shading to indigo and the deepest mauve. The illumination lasted only a second or so, but there was time for Halloran to observe the jackals gathered there at the water's edge. The glare had frozen them. Their heads, with long pointed muzzles and erect ears, stood high from their shoulders, cocked in alertness and perhaps puzzlement. At least a dozen pairs of glowing orbs, set in irregular pattern, reflected the light.