A Night in the Lonesome October (29 page)

    
I rushed to the head of the ladder, turned, and began my descent.
 
The vicar had already lowered the bow by then and commenced rearming it.
 
I moved as fast as I was able, but as I searched with a hind leg after each wooden crosspiece my back felt terribly exposed.
 
Should I make it to the floor unpierced I knew that I would still be at high risk.
 
I hurried.
 
I saw something black flutter by.

    
I heard the final click.
 
I heard the sounds of his fitting the quarrel into place.
 
It was still a good distance down.
 
I descended another step.
 
I imagined him raising the weapon, taking a leisurely sighting at an easy target.
 
I hoped that I was right about the fluttering, about Needle.
 
Another step. . . .

    
I knew that I was right when I heard the vicar utter an oath.
 
I descended one more step. . . .
 
Then I decided I could risk no more.
 
I pushed myself backward, letting myself fall the rest of the way, recalling things Graymalk had said about always landing on her feet, wishing I'd been born with that ability, trying to achieve it this one time, anyway. . . .

    
I tried to torque my body in the proper direction, along the long axis, relaxing my legs the while.
 
The bolt passed well above me, from the sound I heard of it striking wood.
 
But the man was already cranking the weapon again as I hit the ground.
 
I did land on my feet, but they went out from under me immediately.
 
As I struggled to rise, I saw him finish cocking the thing, now ignoring the black form which darted before him.
 
My left hind leg hurt.
 
I pushed myself upright, anyway, and turned.
 
He had the quarrel in one hand and was moving to fit it into place.
 
I had to rush him, to try knocking him over before he succeeded and got off another shot.
 
I knew that it was going to be close. . . .

    
And then there was a shadow in the doorway at his back.

    
"Why, Vicar Roberts, whatever are you doing with that archaic weapon?" came the wonderfully controlled falsetto of the Great Detective in his Linda Enderby guise.

    
The vicar hesitated, then turned.

    
"Madam," he said, "I was about to perform a community service by dispatching a vicious brute which even now is preparing to attack us."

    
I began wagging my tail immediately and put on my idiot slobbering hound expression, tongue hanging out and all.

    
"That hardly seems a vicious beast to me," the voice of the lady stated, as the Great Detective moved in quickly, passing between the vicar and myself to effectively block a shot.
 
"That's just old Snuff.
 
Everybody knows Snuff.
 
Not a mean bone in his body.
 
Good Snuff!
 
Good dog!"

    
The old hand-on-head business followed, patting.
 
I responded as if it were the greatest invention since free lunch.

    
"Whatever made you think him antisocial?"

    
"Madam, that was the creature that almost tore my ear off."

    
"I am certain you must be mistaken, sir.
 
I cannot conceive of this animal as behaving aggressively, except possibly in self-defense."

    
The vicar's face was quite red and his shoulders looked very tense.
 
For a moment I thought he might actually try angling in a shot at me, anyhow.

    
"I really feel," the Linda voice went on, "that if you have any complaints concerning the animal you ought to take them up with his owner first before embarking on a drastic action that might well draw the attention of the Humane Society and not rest well with the parishioners."

    
"That man is a godless jackanapes . . ." he began, but then his shoulders slumped.
 
"Perhaps, however, I acted hastily.
 
As you say, the parishioners might view it askance, not knowing the full measure of my complaints.
 
Yes.
 
Very well."
 
He lowered the weapon and released its tension.
 
"This will be settled," he said then, "in another day or two.
 
But for now I accept your counsel and will do nothing rash."
 
He put away the quarrel in a case slung over his shoulder, slinging the weapon, also, moments later.
 
"And so, madam, I thank you again for those cookies you brought by, which I found quite tasty, and I bid you a good day."

    
"I trust your daughter enjoyed them as well?"

    
"Indeed she did.
 
We both thank you."

    
He turned then and passed out through the door.
 
The Great Detective immediately followed him to it and peered out, doubtless to make certain that he was indeed departing.
 
Before I could take the same route to the same end, however, he caught hold of the door and slid it the rest of the way shut.

    
Turning, he studied me.

    
"Snuff," he said, the falsetto vanished, "you are fortunate that I have a good pair of binoculars and have been inclined to use them of late.

    
"You are a very unusual creature," he continued.
 
"I first encountered you in Soho when assisting some friends at the Yard in their investigation of a very unusual series of killings.
 
Subsequently, I have found you to be present in numerous situations both bizarre and intriguing.
 
Your presence seems to have become almost a common denominator to all of the recent peculiar occurrences in this area.
 
It long ago passed the point where I could safely deem it a matter of coincidence."

    
I sat down and scratched my left ear with my hind leg.

    
"That is not going to work with me, Snuff," he said.
 
"I know that you are not just a dumb dog, a subhuman intelligence.
 
I have learned a great deal concerning the affairs of this month, this place, the people engaged in the enterprise which I believe you refer to as 'the Game.'"

    
I paused in my scratching to study his face.

    
"I interviewed both the inebriated Russian and the equally distracted Welshman on their ways home from the pub one night, in my guise as a jovial traveler in commercial sales.
 
I have spoken with the Gipsies, with your neighbors, with all of the principals involved in this matter of purported metaphysical conflict, yes, I know it to be that, and I have observed many things which permitted me to deduce the outlines of a dark picture."

    
I yawned in the rude way dogs sometimes do.
 
He smiled.

    
"No good, Snuff," he said.
 
"You can dispense with the mannerisms.
 
I am certain that you understand every word I am saying, and you must be curious as to the extent of my knowledge of the ceremony to be conducted here on All Hallows' Eve and my intentions concerning it."

    
He paused, and we studied each other.
 
He wasn't giving anything away, even at the olfactory level.

    
"So I think it is time for a sign of good faith," he finally said.
 
"Apart from the fact that I may just have rescued you from mortal distress, there are more things that I wish to say and some that I need to know, and I believe these would benefit you as well as myself.
 
If you would be so good as to acknowledge my words, I will proceed."

    
I looked away.
 
I had anticipated this as soon as he had begun addressing me in a rational fashion.
 
I still had not decided what my response should be when he finally got around to asking for what had to be a token of faith.
 
And that is what it came down to . . . faith in the man's professional integrity, though I was certain he would not approve of the goings-on here, and I'd no idea where his significant loyalty lay, to law, or to justice; nor whether he really understood what was at stake.
 
Still, I did want to know what he had learned and what he had intended, and I knew there would be no way for him later to prove his assumptions concerning myself even if I did give him the acknowledgment he wanted.

    
So I looked back at him, met his eyes for several long seconds, then nodded once.

    
"Very good," he responded.
 
"To continue: A great number of crimes have apparently been committed by nearly everyone involved in this 'Game,' as you call it.
 
Many of them would be virtually impossible to demonstrate in court, but I have neither a client who requires that I find a way of doing so, nor inclination to pursue such matters for my own amusement.
 
Technically, I am here only as a friend of the Yard, for purposes of investigating the likely murder of a police officer.
 
And this matter will be dealt with in due time.
 
Since my arrival in this place, however, I have been more and more impressed by the unusual goings-on, until, at length, largely because of Mr. Talbot's strange condition and that of the one known as the Count, I have become convinced that there is something truly unnatural involved.
 
While I dislike such a conclusion, recent personal experiences have also led me to accept its validity.
 
Such being the case, I am moved to interfere with your 'Game' two days hence."

    
I shook my head slowly, from side to side.

    
"Snuff, that rascal who just left is planning to murder his stepdaughter on All Hallows' Eve!"

    
I nodded.

    
"You countenance this behavior?"

    
I shook my head from side to side, then turned and walked away from him to a place where dust lay heavy upon the floorboards.
 
With my paw I made four strokes in the dust: LT.

    
He followed me and watched.
 
Then he said slowly, "Lawrence Talbot?"

    
I nodded.

    
"He plans to prevent the killing?"

    
I nodded again.

    
"Snuff, I know more about him than he realizes, and I have experimented with many sorts of drugs myself over the years.
 
I know that his intent is to rescue Lynette on the night of the ceremony, but I do not believe that he has sufficiently refined the dosage which he feels will carry him past the moon madness of his affliction.
 
And whatever the case, Vicar Roberts is aware that there is one of his sort involved, and he has melted down a piece of the rectory silverware to cast a bullet for a pistol he will be carrying with him that night."

    
He paused and studied me.
 
I believed him, but I did not know what to do.

    
"The only part I can see for myself in this entire affair would be to effect the girl's rescue, should Mr. Talbot fail.
 
To do this, I require something from you: I must know where the ceremony is to take place.
 
Do you know?"

    
I nodded.

    
"Will you show me?"

    
I nodded again, and I looked toward the door.

    
For a second his hand twitched toward my head, then he lowered it and smiled.
 
He moved to the door and slid it open.
 
We stepped outside, where I looked in the direction of Dog's Nest and barked once.
 
Then I began walking.
 
He followed.

    
There was not a great deal to do today.
 
And tomorrow will likely be the same.
 
Till night.
 
Those of us who remain will gather atop the hill at midnight.
 
We will bring kindling, and we will cooperate in the building of a big fire.
 
It will serve as illumination, and into it will be cast all the bones, herbs, and other ingredients we have been preparing all month to give ourselves an edge and to confound our enemies.
 
It may stink.
 
It may smell wonderful.
 
Forces will wrestle within it, play about it, giving to it a multicolored nimbus, and occasionally causing it to produce musical sounds and wailings amid its crackling and popping.
 
Then we will position ourselves in an arc before the thing our divinations have shown us to be the Gateway, which we have already determined to be the stone bearing the inscription.
 
The openers and their friends will stand at one end of the arc, the closers at the other.
 
All will have brought the tools they intend to employ.
 
Some of these are neutral, such as the ring, the pentacle, the icon, to take their character, of opening, or closing, from the hands of those who wield them; others, the two wands, one for opening, one for closing, will naturally be held by those of these persuasions.
 
Jill holds the Opening Wand, my master the Closing Wand.
 
The forces of the neutral objects will support the efforts of that side for which they are employed, which makes the outcome sound like a simple mathematical affair.
 
But it isn't.
 
The strength of the individual counts for much; and these affairs seem to generate strange byplay as well, which contributes to overall dispositions of power.
 
And then there is the matter of experience.
 
Theoretically, everything should be conducted at a metaphysical level, but this is seldom really the case.
 
Still, no matter how physical it may get, the reputation attached to Jack and his knife generally grants us considerable protection against mundane violence.
 
We tend to maintain our positions in the arc once the ceremony has begun, and sometimes things happen to players during its course.
 
There is a sort of psychic circuit established among us.
 
It need not be disastrous to break the arc, though it may be a courting of mischance somewhere along the line.
 
Preliminary rites will begin, as a matter of individual choice, often at odds with one another.
 
The power will build and build.
 
To back it in its shifting, psychic attacks may be shot back and forth.
 
Disasters may follow.
 
Players may fall, or go mad, catch fire, be transformed.
 
The Gateway may begin to open at any time, or it may await the invitation of the Opening Wand.
 
The resistance will begin immediately.
 
The Closing Wand will be employed, and any ancillary forces that may feed it.
 
Eventually, at the end of our exercises, which may take only a little while, though conceivably they could last until dawn (and in such a stalemated case, the closers would win by default), the matter will be decided.
 
Bad things happen to the losers.