Winter's End (15 page)

Pastor got up to throw a log on the fire and watched it burn, brooding, sometimes stirring the flames with the poker. All around him the room looked like a battlefield after a defeat. The sleeping dog-men lay about on the floor like corpses. He noticed, with amusement, that Ramses had moved close to Mills and laid his muzzle against his master’s hip. Pastor crossed the room, taking care not to tread on the bodies lying there, stepped over Amenophis, put
on his sheepskin jacket, and opened the door. The cold hit him full on. Snow was still falling, though perhaps not quite as hard as at the beginning of the night.
Good thing we brought snowshoes,
he told himself, looking at the thick layer that had settled.

“Where you going?” grunted Mills, who was only half asleep.

“For a piss,” said the dog-handler.

“OK, but close the door after you. It’s freezing.”

Pastor shut the door and took a step out into the snow. Then he walked a little way along the wall to his right and stopped to urinate. He took his time. When he had finished, he did up his fly and yawned. A snowflake landed in his mouth, and then another. They melted at once on his warm tongue. It was a pleasant, delicate, tickling sensation. He kept his mouth open on purpose to go on with this little game.
Like a kid!
he thought, laughing.
I’m playing like a kid! Hey, if Mills could see me!
That was the last thought he had before the shock hit him.

Crouching on the edge of the roof ready to jump, Milos knew that he couldn’t do it. To drive the blade of his knife into the back of the man standing motionless six feet away was beyond him. So what could he do? He still held the opened knife in his right hand, just in case. Then he concentrated on the two things that his life and Helen’s depended on: knocking Pastor out at the first blow and next, at all costs, preventing him from alerting his dogs. They were sleeping only a few yards away, and
their keen ears would pick up the slightest hint of a groan. He was lucky that Pastor had positioned himself just below him. In spite of the darkness, he easily recognized the man’s thick sheepskin jacket. Now he must make up his mind to jump.

Never, not even before his toughest fights, had Milos felt a quarter of the tension flooding through him now. He realized that all he had ever experienced so far on the wrestling mat was just a game. Yet he had entered into it entirely, body and soul; he had trained hard. He’d never given up the sport in spite of suffering hard blows, sprains, and broken bones. Over the last year he had defeated all the other boys he faced, even fifth-year and sixth-year opponents who were older and heavier than he was. But this time it wasn’t a matter of winning or losing. It was a matter of life or death.

How would his stiff muscles respond when he told them to jump? Would they let him down, for the first time ever? This man Pastor seemed rather thickset — he was massive. Milos guessed he must be about two hundred twenty pounds. Quite a weight difference when he, Milos, fought in the under – one hundred forty-five pounds category! And his opponent was still warm from the fire, and had probably had something to eat.

Frozen and feeling sick inside, Milos still hesitated.
Now! Now!
he urged himself.
In a moment that fat lump is going to turn. He’ll see you, and he’ll shout, and then it’ll all be over. Jump, Milos, jump!

The snow giving way under his feet made his
mind up for him. He began sliding and couldn’t stop by holding on to anything. He had no choice now. He gathered all his energy together and launched himself into the void.

His knees hit Pastor’s backbone with violent force. Pastor collapsed in the snow headfirst, and Milos flung himself furiously on the man. He got his right arm around Pastor’s neck under the chin and locked the hold with his left arm. The armlock was banned in wrestling. No strangling. All his trainers had said the same to him ever since the day when, still a little boy, he had first put on a wrestler’s uniform. No strangling.

The rest of his body had instinctively gone into the on-top position, which prevents the other wrestler from disengaging. Legs, hips, pelvis — he had brought them all into action without stopping for a moment to think about it. The hundreds of hours he’d sweated out on the training mat came from concentrating on a single swift, sure, precise move. Up to this point, he was sure, Pastor had made no sound at all. And it must stay that way. It must stay that way
at any price.
And those words really meant something. Milos braced himself, consolidated his grip, and then tightened his hold.

Bombardone Mills, about to drop off to sleep, felt as if he had heard a muted thump somewhere outside. Had poor old Pastor thrown a snowball? Or had he slipped and fallen flat on his face? He was
tempted to get up and go out to take a look, but the feel of Ramses nestling against his stomach overcame any idea of moving. He patted the dog-man’s long head with the back of his hand. Without opening his eyes, Ramses growled faintly, as if in thanks. Mills closed his own eyes. He had to get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a tough day.

Helen had seen Milos launch himself off the roof and land on the man. She immediately forgot the cold and her exhaustion and fear. There was nothing over there but the shape of the two motionless bodies. The snow was already beginning to cover them. What was Milos doing? Surely he wasn’t going to —? Through the window of the refuge she could see dancing shadows thrown by the flames on the hearth. A cruel man and six dogs were sleeping there only a few yards away, ready to tear Milos to shreds if they found him. Perhaps they weren’t even asleep. And he had gone to face them alone, armed only with his big hands and his courage. “I never get caught!” he kept saying cheerfully. But suppose they did catch him all the same. Suppose they did catch him.

How long does it take to strangle a man? Every time Milos relaxed his armlock, even very slightly, his opponent shook faintly but convulsively and groaned. The sound might rouse his companions. Milos braced himself again to keep the man silent and
immobile. The muscles of his right arm were beginning to seize up under the strain of his intense effort.

Suddenly he saw Pastor’s large hand begin to move, slowly creeping closer to something shining in the snow.
My knife!
he thought.
The knife I dropped. The knife I opened myself! He’s going to grab it!
His first impulse was to free one of his arms to block Pastor’s hand, but then he thought better of it. Relaxing the stranglehold for a single second would allow his opponent to call out, and that meant certain death. Unable to do anything to prevent it, he saw the hand groping, reaching, finally grasping the handle of the knife, and picking it up. For a few seconds Milos was vaguely aware of the effort Pastor was making to move his arm underneath his body, and then he felt a burning pain in his right thigh. He managed not to cry out, and with a defensive reflex action he tightened his stranglehold even more.

The knife stabbed again in the same place, and he couldn’t suppress a groan. He managed to move his leg slightly to immobilize Pastor’s arm and prevent him from stabbing a third time. Unable to draw the knife back to strike again, Pastor dug around with the blade in the wound he had already made. The pain was excruciating. Milos knew he couldn’t endure it much longer. He had to finish this. Very slightly, he shifted his position. His head was now jammed against the dog-handler’s; the man’s dirty hair stank of sweat. Their two bodies, welded together, were a single entity.

Milos tried to think of nothing but Helen, who
would die if he failed, and of Bart whom the dog-men would tear to pieces without a moment’s hesitation. He imagined them sinking their pitiless fangs into Milena’s flesh.
These are barbarians,
he told himself again.
The man pressing so close to me that I can feel the warmth of his body is a barbarian.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, without knowing whether the other man could hear him. “I’m sorry.” And with the aid of his shoulder he began twisting Pastor’s neck. He put all his strength into it until he heard the cracking sound he was waiting for. His opponent’s body gradually seemed to relax. Milos maintained his hold for another ten seconds and then slowly let go. Pastor’s body subsided, inert as an enormous doll. Milos lay there beside it for a moment, almost fainting with pain and exhaustion. No strangling. His eyes blurred with tears. Shame and disgust nearly made him throw up. Strangleholds are banned. Then why hadn’t the referee stopped him? And what were the spectators doing? He’d won, hadn’t he? They might give him a little applause!

He used his forearms to haul himself up to a kneeling position. The silent snowflakes were falling lightly and gracefully all around. He was on a wrestling mat, yes, but it was a mat made of snow. There were no seats for the audience, just a few black spruce trees, hardly visible in the night. There wasn’t even a towel for him to wipe away his sweat.

And his opponent was dead.

He picked up the knife, rose to his feet, and put a hand to his leg. His jeans were drenched with blood. He’d see to that later. Taking the doghandler’s body by the collar of his jacket, he dragged it, with difficulty, toward the rock where Helen was waiting.

Bombardone Mills woke with a sudden start. A branch, probably full of resinous sap, had just exploded on the hearth with a sound like a firework going off. He turned over and saw
that his colleague wasn’t back yet. Some of the dog-men opened an eye. Ramses yawned.

It wasn’t like Pastor to go for a stroll in the middle of the night, with snow falling. It wasn’t like anyone, come to that. Mills gently moved Ramses’ head and got to his feet. As he went out, he bumped into Teti’s left leg. The dog-man showed his teeth.

“That’s enough,” growled Mills. “Don’t overdo it.”

Snowflakes whirled in the beam of his flashlight, but too densely for him to be able to see more than thirty feet ahead. The police chief followed Pastor’s half-covered tracks to the right and found a place where the snow was packed down strangely flat.

“Pastor! Hey, Pastor!” he shouted.

No reply. Looking more closely, he saw a trail beginning here, leading toward the rocks. More than that, he saw drops of blood tracing a scarlet dotted line in the white snow. He didn’t like this at all. He was about to follow the trail when he realized that his boots were nowhere near tall enough to cope with this snow. He hurried back into the refuge to put his snowshoes on, but his glance fell on the travel bag with Bartolomeo’s boots in it. They’d come higher up his legs.

Leaning back against the room partition, he put on the first boot and then the second. They were a little large for him, but supple and comfortable. As he straightened up, he was surprised to see Cheops standing in front of him. The dog-man had risen without a sound and was glaring at him.

“What do you want?” asked Mills uneasily. “Are you thirsty?”

Cheops let his eyes wander slowly down to the police chief’s feet. His muzzle was quivering, and a vicious light gleamed in his eyes.

“Oh, I see!” Mills laughed. “It’s the boots. So you think they’re —”

Teti too came over and sniffed the air near the boots. A low growl rose from the depths of his throat. It made Mills shudder.

“They’re not my boots, you morons!” he said, and swore at them. “It’s not me you’re looking for. We’ve been on the march together for three days — don’t you recognize me? Are you thick or what?”

He walked around the two dogs, making for the door. But now Amenophis, lips curling back to show the white ivory of his teeth, barred the way.

“Let me by, idiot! Your master’s out there. He’s in danger.”

The dog-man took a step forward, and Mills had to retreat. He stumbled against the mattress and fell over backward.

“I’m taking them off, look! Here, watch, I’m taking them off!”

His heart was thudding. He sent the boots flying through the air to the far end of the room, but the three dog-men took no notice. A very simple line of reasoning was forming in their poor, deranged brains: they’d been given a scent to follow, and the man lying on the mattress in front of them carried that scent. They didn’t need to know any more.

“Pastor!” bellowed Mills at the top of his voice. “Pastor, for God’s sake!”

Then he looked for Ramses, who had taken refuge in a corner of the room and looked utterly dazed.

“Ramses, here! Defend me!”

The three dog-men were suddenly transformed. Their eyes were bloodshot; their fangs were bared. In a few seconds they became hatred personified. Chephren and Mykerinos, who had been given Milena’s scarf to sniff, let the heat of the moment carry them along and joined the others.

“Ramses! Hell, can’t you see they’re going for me any minute?”

The unfortunate Ramses was in torment, torn between his brothers and his master. He writhed, groaned, wept.

“Ramses, help me!”

That appeal made up his mind for him. He
leaped forward, jaws slobbering, to stand beside Mills. He was big and strong. The others took a step back.

“Attack, Ramses! Attack!”

The loyal dog-man flung himself on Mykerinos, the nearest of his assailants. He was looking for the creature’s throat but found only his shoulder. The two of them rolled over on the floor, fighting furiously. Then everything happened very fast. Chephren and Teti attacked together. Teti closed his jaws on Ramses’ throat and bit hard. The other two went for his arms, legs, and belly. Struggling, Ramses tried to break free but couldn’t. Mills saw red blood flowing over his black trousers and his jacket, the jacket he had once taught the creature to button up for himself.

“Aaar . . . done,” begged Ramses, groaning. “Aaar . . . done.” And then, making a huge effort, he added, “Ell-ell-ell . . .”

Mills realized that his companion was calling to him for help. A new word, a word he’d just learned. He felt sobs rising in his chest.

“Let go of him!” he shouted.

Then he saw Ramses roll his eyes until only the whites showed. Next moment it was all over.

And when the five Devils turned to Bombardone Mills, he knew that hell itself was very close.