The Thirteen Hallows (5 page)

Richard Fenton pulled off the terry towel and slid naked into the water, hissing with pleasure. A perfect eighty-five degrees. A bit too hot for some, but when you reached his age, the blood grew thin and old bones felt the cold. With long, even strokes he swam the length of the swimming pool, turned, and swam back to the deep end again. On a good day he could swim twenty lengths, but he’d had a late night last night, and it had been dawn before he had gone to bed. He hadn’t woken until one thirty in the afternoon and was feeling stiff and tired…and
old
.

Today, he felt like an old man.

He
was
an old man, he reminded himself grimly, seventy-seven next month, and although he looked at least ten years younger and had a body to match, there were days when he felt every one of his years. Today was one of them. He would try to do ten lengths of the pool and then he’d have Max give him a massage. He had planned to have dinner in the club tonight, but perhaps he’d give it a miss, stay home and relax.

His feet pressed against the teal tiled wall, he pushed off again, his overlong fine white hair streaming out behind him, plastering itself to his skull when he raised his head above the water. Sunlight lanced through the high windows, speckling the water, dappling the tiled floor of the pool, the light bringing the ornate design on the floor to shimmering life. He’d had the architect who’d designed this wing of the house copy the pattern from a Greek vase: stylized human figures copulating in a dozen unusual and improbable positions.

Somewhere deep in the house, a phone rang.

Richard ignored it; Max or Jackie would handle it. He ducked under the water, opening his eyes wide. The water was clean; he would not allow chlorine or any of the other detergents into his pool. The water was completely recycled twice a day, usually just before he took his morning swim and then again late in the evening. Looking down, he watched the design on the floor tremble and shiver, the figures looking as if they were moving.

The phone was still ringing when he raised his head above the water.

Richard ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back off his face, and turned to the double doors at the opposite end of the room. Where was Max…or Jackie, for that matter? They should have answered the phone…unless they were otherwise engaged. He suddenly grinned, showing a perfect set of teeth that were too white and too straight to be real. He’d suspected for a while that they were becoming more than colleagues. The old man’s smile faded. They could do what they liked on their own time, but he employed them to work.

The phone stopped.

Richard Fenton flipped over and floated on his back, raising his left arm to look at the watch that never left his wrist. Two thirty. It had been his father’s watch and his father’s before him. It had cost Richard a fortune to have it rendered waterproof, but the money had meant nothing. The watch was a symbol. Every time he looked at it, he was reminded of his father, who’d finished his days coughing up his lungs, the blood black and speckled with coal dust. His grandfather had died down in the pits; “exhaustion,” the death certificate said, but everyone knew there had been gas leaking down in the mines. Richard barely remembered his grandfather, though he had vague memories of the funeral.

He remembered his father’s funeral vividly.

He recollected standing at the edge of the grave, a clump of earth in his hands, cold and damp and heavy, and swearing that he would never go down into the mines. It was an oath he’d broken only once in his lifetime, and that was when he’d been photographed with a band he’d discovered in the sixties: the Miners. They’d done a publicity shoot in the cages and tunnels, the five teenagers posing wearing miners’ helmets, holding the picks and shovels like the musical instruments they never learned to play.

Richard grinned. He hadn’t thought about the band for years, a sure sign he was going senile. They’d had two top-twenty hits and seemed destined for great things. The next Beatles, the future Stones, the music press called them. Fenton had sold their contract to one of the big American labels—and walked away with a fortune in his pocket. The boys had complained, of course, and looked for their share, but they had signed a contract, a cast-iron contract, that allowed him to be reimbursed for his expenses. And his expenses had been high, very high. They’d threatened to sue, until he’d pointed out how expensive that would be, adding that they would lose. Eventually, they’d given up; they were convinced they were going to make ten times what he’d stolen from them in the States.

They’d never made another record.

The phone started ringing again, and Richard surged up in the water. Where was Max? What the hell was going on? He struck out for the shallow end of the pool, anger making his strokes ragged and choppy.

Richard Fenton caught the barest glimpse of the object in the air—dark, round—before it hit the pool in an explosion of pink-tinged water behind him.

“Jesus!” Fenton looked up. One of the ornamental hanging plants must have fallen from the rafters. He could have been killed. He turned, treading water, looking for the plant. If he didn’t get it out of the pool right now, the soil would clog up the filters.

“Max?…Max!”

Where the fuck was the bastard? Controlling his temper, Richard ducked beneath the surface, looking for the plant. He spotted it in the deep end, surrounded by a growing cloud of dark earth, and struck out for it. He was going to make someone pay for the cleanup of the pool, and for new filters, and for the fright it had given him; he could have had a heart attack. He’d sue the gardeners who’d installed the flowers, or the architect, or both. Breaking the surface, he took a deep breath and then ducked back down again. It was only when he swam into the cloud billowing around the plant that he realized it was pink, shot through with thin, ropy black tendrils. As he reached for the thick ball of earth, it rolled over…and Richard Fenton found himself looking at the severed head of his manservant, eyes wide and staring, face blank with surprise. The mouth opened, and blood, pale and pink, bubbled upward.

Fenton surged out of the pool, coughing and hacking, heart hammering so violently in his chest that he could actually feel the skin tremble. He coughed up the water he’d ingested, felt his gorge rise, and swallowed. He was trembling so hard that he could barely hold on to the metal ladder as he pulled himself up to the slick, cold tiles. He tried to marshal his thoughts, but his head was spinning, the constriction in his chest was tightening, and black spots were dancing before his eyes. Doubled over, he breathed deeply and then straightened. He swayed as the blood rushed to his head; however, he could think clearly now.

There was a loaded gun in the safe behind his desk, shotguns in the cabinet on the wall, ammunition in the drawer underneath. All he had to do…

The water gurgled, bubbles bursting. Fenton turned. Max’s head had floated to the surface, bobbing like an obscene buoy.

Richard Fenton had no doubt that whoever had done this to Max had come for him. He’d made too many enemies in his long life, cut too many sharp deals, and on more than one occasion he’d been forced to
take care
of people who got in his way. But that had been a long time ago. He hadn’t really been active in many years….

Yet people had long memories.

Richard Fenton padded barefoot to the double doors and peered out into the circular conservatory that connected the main body of the house with the swimming pool. The Spanish tiles were speckled with dark blood. Whoever had killed Max had carried his head out here to throw it into the water…which meant that they had watched him…which meant that they were still in the house…which meant…

Maybe he’d forget about the gun. If anyone was waiting for him, they’d be in his study. He could cut across the hall, through the kitchen, and into the garage. The keys were always kept in the cars.

Crouching low, he darted across the tiles and stepped up into the hallway. After the chill of the tiles, the carpet was warm beneath his feet. And moist. He lifted his foot. It came away sticky with gore.

Fenton turned. He clapped both hands to his mouth, trying to keep from crying out, but it was too late. His shriek echoed through the empty house. Jackie dangled upside down by one leg from the curtain rail. Her caramel throat had been cut so deeply that her head dangled too far back, exposing tubes and the hint of bone. Her face was a red mask, her honey hair black and stiff. She was still wearing her Kate Spade glasses.

“Why don’t you come into the study, Mr. Fenton?”

Richard whirled around. The door to his study was open. He glanced toward the hall door. Thirty, maybe forty steps away. He was in good condition. He’d make it.

“It was not a request.”

Through the door, down the cobblestone drive, and out onto the main road. The nearest house was a hundred yards away, but he’d make it. A naked old man running down the road would certainly attract attention.

The hall door creaked, then opened slowly, shafting afternoon light along the length of the highly polished floor, picking out the dust motes spiraling in the still air. A suited figure stood in the doorway, a long, elongated shadow growing along the floor. Richard frowned, squinting shortsightedly. There was something about the figure…something
wrong
.

The figure swayed, then toppled forward. Richard realized then that it had no head. He was looking at the decapitated body of Max.

“Come into the study, Mr. Fenton.”

Defeated, Richard Fenton crossed the hall and pushed open the door of his study. He stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around his thin chest, shivering, blinking in the gloom. The curtains had been pulled and the ornate desk lamp turned to face the door, blinding him, leaving the figure sitting behind the desk in shadow. The harsh light made Fenton’s eyes water, and he rubbed angrily at the tears on his cheeks. The old man felt the sting in the pit of his chest and for once welcomed it, knowing that it might save him the pain he knew was coming.

“You have something I want, Mr. Fenton.” It was a male voice, soft, accentless, precise, controlled.

“There’s money in the safe,” Richard Fenton said quickly. “Take it.” Maybe this was nothing more than extortion, a Young Turk out to make his reputation by ripping him off. He’d give him what he wanted…and then hunt him down like a dog.

“I don’t want your money,” the shadowy figure said, his voice tinged with amusement.

There was movement beside the curtain, and Richard realized that there was a second person in the room. Although the air was rich with meaty blood and the odor from the hide chair and ornate leather bindings, he thought he detected the scent of flowers. But there were no flowering plants in this room. Perfume? A woman?

“We have come for the chessboard.” The woman’s voice was soft, albeit clipped, the vowels touched with the hint of an indefinable accent.

“I have many chessboards,” Fenton began. “I’ve collected them all my life. Take what you want.”

“Oh, but this one is not on display. We’ve come for the Chessboard of Gwenddolau.”

The old man was not surprised. He’d always known that someone, someday, would come for the cursed pieces of crystal or the gold-and-silver board. Indefinably old, it was one of the most beautiful things he possessed, yet he never displayed it with his other antique boards for reasons he could never fully explain.

“We want it,” the woman whispered.

Richard Fenton started to shake his head.

A knife snapped open.

“You will tell me, sooner or later,” she purred, and Fenton had no time to react as the woman threw the knife and it thudded into the polished wooden floorboards between his bare feet. Looking down, he saw the sliver of polished steel vibrating.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Fenton,” she asked politely.

He started to shake his head and then immediately felt white-hot pain in his thigh. Looking down, he saw the hilt of a second wafer-thin metal knife protruding from his flesh, inches from his shriveled groin. Bizarrely, there was no pain, only heat.

“In fact, while we’re waiting for you to tell us the exact location of the Chessboard of Gwenddolau, we’re going to play a little game of chess. Winner takes all.”

The beautiful woman stepped out of the shadows. Fenton tried to focus on her face, which was so ethereally beautiful that she almost didn’t look human. Her face was long and narrow, lips full, and eyes slightly slanted. A mane of jet black hair flowed down her back. He tried to make out her eye color, but the reflected light painted them bronze and metallic. She looked young, early twenties, perhaps; however, she had full breasts and the soft, curvy belly and buttocks of an older woman. A light green silk gown stretched tight across her full figure.

Gently, she prodded the injured Fenton into a chair and nodded at her shadow-wrapped companion. He stood, and the old man realized he was tall and broad, like a bodybuilder. As his arm moved into the light, Fenton saw that the man was holding a short stabbing spear in his left hand. The head was wet with black blood.

The Dark Man moved around the room, perusing the cabinets of chessboards, pulling out one of the more ornate boards, a six-hundred-year-old treasure from the Alhambra carved in the Arabic style. He placed it on the small table in front of Fenton before taking up a position standing behind him.

“Play,” he commanded.

The exotic-looking woman sat facing the old man. Her smile was feral as she quickly laid out the pieces. With black-painted nails, she gripped the pawn and moved it, her eyes never leaving Fenton’s face. He tried to make sense out of what was happening, conscious now of the growing pain in his leg, aware that he was probably going to die in this room. “Your turn,” she whispered.

Automatically, he moved a piece.

“Ah, the game begins,” the woman whispered. It took her less than a dozen moves to trap Fenton’s king, white teeth pressed against her lips, the tip of her tongue protruding between them. “I thought you would be a better opponent. Shame, you could have bought yourself a few more hours.”