The Eye of the Moon (49 page)

‘Well …’

‘You absolved him? You dumb fuck!
Forgive me Lord.
So, that man – no, monster – is now walking the streets believing that God has forgiven him for all the murders he has committed? Well let me tell you, if he thinks that, he’s very much mistaken.’

‘I told him if he woke up tomorrow morning it meant God had forgiven him, so technically it’s in God’s hands now, right?’

The priest looked down into the frightened eyes of the teenager, and relented a little.

‘I guess so,’ he said, shaking his head. Then he sniffed the air. ‘What on earth is that smell?’

‘I’ve shit myself, Father.’

‘In
my confessional?
’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Holy shit!’

Robert Swann was an extremely strong man. He was also superbly well trained in how to deal with a struggling captive. And as struggling prisoners went Kacy was pretty feeble. It didn’t take much for him to drag her in to the bedroom in which he had spent the last few nights. With considerable aggression he threw her like a rag doll on to the nearer of two single beds. She landed flat on her back on top of the orange duvet, her head thudding gently into the white pillow below the headboard. The right-hand side of the bed was pressed up against the wall, meaning that her only escape route would be to roll over to her left into the space, no more than six feet wide, that separated the two beds. In between, against the wall, was a small dressing table with a mirror above it. Before Kacy could make any attempt to roll off the bed, however, Swann had lurched on top of her, his heavy muscular body pinning her down beneath him. It knocked the wind right out of her, so that she found she couldn’t even scream. As she saw his leering face come pressing towards hers with his tongue out and his eyes bulging she turned her face sideways. The move ensured that he missed any chance of kissing her on the mouth, but only encouraged him to lick the side of her face with his wet, slobbering tongue.

His hands moved fast, one of them grabbing her left breast, the other sliding down towards her crotch. Kacy was ready to be sick, but somehow she held it back, knowing that she would be unable to fight back if she was busy retching. Just about the only part of her body that wasn’t pinned under the panting figure of Robert Swann was her left arm. With it she
reached out towards the dressing table, trying to find and grab hold of anything she might use as a weapon. What she found was a bedside lamp. Not a great weapon, but all she had at her disposal. She seized it by its base and swung it at Swann’s head as he pressed it against hers. The lamp crashed against his ear and the flimsy orange shade fell off. The impact of it barely registered with her attacker. Swann merely sat himself up, keeping Kacy prisoner by squeezing her waist tightly between his knees. His eyes were everywhere, eagerly anticipating the sight of her naked flesh, and he wasted no time in grabbing her grey sweatshirt and pulling it up over her head. It lifted her arms back with it and she dropped the bedside lamp on to the floor. A crashing sound followed as the light bulb shattered.

While Kacy struggled to free her arms and head from her sweatshirt sleeves so that she could fight back, Swann quickly took the opportunity to unbelt and unzip his trousers. His speed was impressive, not that Kacy would have noticed. Her face was still trapped inside her sweatshirt as he pulled his pants and underwear down to his knees. His penis was already erect – and now all he had to do was rip the girl’s jeans and underwear off, so he could put it to use. He went straight for the thin black leather belt on her jeans and frantically began unbuckling it. His fumblings were reminiscent of a teenage schoolboy, so out of practice was he, and by the time he’d unbuckled it and was ready to rip her jeans open at the fly, Kacy had freed her left arm from the sleeve of her shirt. Swann was too slow to react when she lunged at him. He had been so transfixed by the sight of the smooth skin of her stomach, and so aroused by the thought of the rest of her body, that he hadn’t noticed her left hand scrabbling around on the floor. Kacy had managed to grab the metal end of what remained of the light bulb and swung it at him as he knelt over her, in the manner of a boxer’s upper cut. Only she wasn’t aiming for his chin. She went for his crotch.

‘AAAAAAARGH!’ Swann screamed as loud as he’d ever done, as the jagged ends of the bulb ripped into his ass and part of his scrotum. His hands reached straight down and cupped
the wound, hoping that nothing was permanently damaged. Kacy let go of the bulb and tried to wriggle free. It proved easier than she’d dared hope, for in his agony Swann lost his balance and fell sideways, collapsing off the bed and on to the floor, screaming and holding his balls and ass together. Kacy quickly redressed her upper half, pulling her sweatshirt back on in a second, rebuckled her belt and jumped up off the bed.

She was about to rush out of the bedroom when she spotted Swann’s gun tucked into a holster below his left shoulder. The filthy scumbag was on his knees on the floor with his back to her and his hairy ass up in the air, so, taking advantage of the situation, she lunged forward, reached over his shoulder and grabbed the gun. She plucked it from its holster and then pointed it at the back of her attacker’s head.

‘Don’t fuckin’ move!’ she yelled at him.

It barely registered with Swann, who was busy inspecting his balls and moaning in agony.

What to do?
Kacy thought of all the cop films and cop TV shows she’d seen.
Smack him over the head with the gun,
she told herself. She rearranged her grip on the weapon and did exactly that.

SMACK! Right on the back of Swann’s head. The serial rapist yelled out in pain, then took one hand from his groin and placed it on the back of his head where Kacy had hit him. Then he twisted his head around and looked back at her.

‘You cunt,’ he sneered.

Kacy had had enough. The blow to the head hadn’t knocked him out at all; it had only angered him further.

Fuck it. Time to get out of there.

Dante and Peto were soaked through when they finally made it to the Santa Mondega International Hotel. They also looked a little messy on account of the bloodstained police uniforms they were wearing. Neither man could wait to get inside. Dante led the way up the stone steps outside the ten-storey building, shivering violently from the cold rain. Peto followed, trying to squeeze some of the excess moisture out of his heavy dreadlocked hair.

Once through the glass doors at the front they found themselves in the lobby. It came as quite a relief to them both to feel some warm air on their bodies at last. The lobby was clean, dry and civilized, as always. The sight of two bedraggled men dressed as police officers dripping water all over the expensive red Egyptian rug in the middle of the floor brought a tut of disapproval from the girl on the reception desk to their left. She was only young, barely out of her teens, but watching Dante and Peto shake themselves like a couple of hounds who’d been rolling in mud drew a distinctly unamused look from her. Not that either of the two men noticed. They were just relieved to be out of the storm.

The general calming ambience inside the lobby lifted their spirits considerably. The soft lighting, the warm red rug and the beige carpet beneath it, and the brown leather sofas dotted around were extremely comforting sights. There was also some light music playing in the background. Peto recognized it as Andrea Bocelli singing ‘Con Te Partiro’. He had taken a distinct liking to classical music and opera in his time away from Hubal, and Bocelli was a particular favourite of his, even
when singing pop-opera like Sartori’s hit.

Dante didn’t even notice the music, however. He just wanted to get to Kacy as quickly as possible. ‘She should be on the third floor,’ he said to Peto, the urgency in his voice all too evident. ‘I’ll take the stairs, you catch the elevator. That way we can be sure we don’t miss her if she’s comin’ down.’

‘Sure thing.’

Dante rushed off up the beige-carpeted staircase to the right of the elevator, while Peto pressed the button to call the elevator. He watched his friend disappear around the first corner on the stairs and then stood and waited for a good fifteen seconds before the lift eventually arrived on the ground floor. He was enjoying the music so much, that he would have happily waited longer. Bocelli appeared to be dueting with a woman who had the most beautiful, angelic voice Peto could ever recall hearing.

He looked down at his sodden police shirt and tugged at it to try to keep it from sticking to his body. Then, as the polished steel doors to the elevator opened, he stepped forward.
And looked up.

His path in to the carriage was obstructed by a dark shadow. To his shock a figure loomed out of the lift, dressed all in black and thrusting a shiny silver double-edged sword in his direction. Peto’s reactions were quick, but not quick enough for this unexpected assault. The black-clad woman surging out of the elevator was Jessica. With unbelievable speed and accuracy she plunged the sword right into Peto’s chest, through his heart and out through the damp blue shirt on his back. Then, using her extraordinary strength, she used the blade to lift the soaking wet monk off the ground. Grinning horribly and looking deep into his stunned eyes, she angled a swift kick of her boot into his stomach and pulled the sword back out. Blood covered all of what had once been bright steel.

Peto slumped to the floor on his knees, dizzy and stunned, blood filling his lungs and spilling up through his throat and into his mouth. His eyes were wide open with the shock of what had just happened to him. He had the Eye of the Moon
around his neck so this normally fatal wound had a chance of healing, but it would take a long time. And time was not on his side. Recovering from a wound like this was no thirty-second job.

The only thing keeping him from screaming out in agony at the sheer pain of the blow was shock, which had completely overcome him. He looked up into Jessica’s leering eyes as she loomed over him. She could see his blood dripping from her sword and, unable to control her thirst, she lifted the blade to her mouth and ran her tongue along it, licking up as much of the blood as possible with one long stroke of her tongue. It served to quench her thirst a little, but then, like a true professional, she quickly refocused her attentions on the stricken monk kneeling before her.