Gabe clamped Percy's upper arm. 'Okay. I appreciate it. Let's find a way past the goddamn tree.'
He leaned into the Range Rover and switched off the engine and lights, but turned on the hazard lights to warn any approaching vehicles on that side of the lane. Together, bending into the gale, Gabe and Percy headed towards the charred tree stump on the grass verge. Without the car, it was going to be one hell of a journey, thought Gabe.
69: ESCAPE
Never had Eve seen a personality change so fast. One moment Pyke was striding towards her and Lili, bringing Loren with him, his limp hardly evident as he avoided the puddles, only friendly curiosity in his eyes (he had been regarding the psychic), the next his face was screwed up into a snarl, nothing but fury now blazing from those same but frighteningly different eyes.
His slight limp was no impediment as he marched towards Lili, raising his thick stick over his head as he came.
Lili took a step backwards and lifted her arms to defend herself from the blow that surely would follow. Loren froze, her complexion paling, her mouth open in consternation.
'Don't—' Eve began to say, but Lili screamed, drowning the next words, the sound shrilling through the great hall.
Pyke—Maurice Stafford? Lili had said he was Maurice Stafford!—barely paused, the walking stick quivering at the end of its backward arc, about to come crashing down. His face was a mask of sheer hatred and wrath, as if the exposure had revealed his true nature.
Lili kept her arms high to protect herself, her terrified scream reaching its peak.
All the lights flickered. They went out.
•
Shocked, and with Lili's scream ringing in her ears, Eve reached out for Loren in the darkness. Just before the lights went off she had seen Pyke's walking stick begin its descent, then heard it strike something—she knew it was Lili, for the scream turned into a howl of pain. Footsteps clacked on the stone floor, but Eve could see nothing until the lightning flashed outside and the grand hall was illuminated by a stark silver-white coruscation that came through the tall window over the stairs.
In the sequence of still-lifes caused by the lightning's strobing, Eve saw that Lili was retreating to the front door, was pulling it open, was rushing out, was a black silhouette against the flashing light that spilled through the portal.
•
Lili had already began to duck and hold up her arms to protect her head when all the lights flickered then died, only the absorbing thickness of her coat sleeves preventing serious damage to her right forearm when the stout cane struck. Her scream turned into a painful cry.
Horror had gripped her the moment the man once known as Maurice Stafford had come striding purposefully towards her, the walking stick held aloft as a weapon, his face rendered ugly by its expression. She managed to recover enough to turn and run.
Lightning lit up the hall as her panic drove her to the front door, her boots clacking on the flagstones, her right arm numbed by the blow and hanging down by her side, her left hand stretched before her. When her hand touched wood, her fingers scrabbled for the doorknob; she found it, twisted it, pulled the nail-studded door open and escaped into the storm-filled night.
Almost blinded by the fierce stuttering light, she ran across the rain-sodden lawn, mortal dread of what she had left inside the house (and it was not only the limping man that caused this dread, for she had sensed other terrors lurking within those solid walls) driving her on. The wind seemed to contest her progress and she had to lean into it, her left hand raised palm outwards to keep the rain out of her eyes. Thunder boomed as the soft wet earth sucked at her boots with each stumbling stride and she cringed under its power.
She failed to see the heavy, black seat of the swing as it hurtled towards her from the darkness. It struck her right temple, stunning her so badly that she fell.
Lili lay there in the close-cropped grass with rain hammering at her outstretched body, the fingers of one hand curling into the muddy soil. She tried to lift her head, but it took too much effort.
Lili passed out.
70: EPICENTRE
Eve reached into the darkness for Loren, but could barely see her own hand in front of her.
'Loren!' she hissed, but there was no response.
The lights of the black iron chandelier high overhead suddenly came on, dimly at first, then seeming to catch, growing brighter. They dimmed again, as did all the other lights around Crickley Hall that were switched on. Brighter once more, then waning to a lacklustre but steady glow that threw shadows and created gloomy recesses around the hall and landing.
Eve realized what had happened. Somewhere in the Hollow Bay area power lines had been struck by lightning or blown down by the gale—either way, electricity to homes in the locale, and probably the whole of the harbour village too, was out. Crickley Hall's generator, the generator that Gabe had fixed and serviced only last Sunday, had kicked in and was now the power source for the house. The light was weak, barely adequate in fact, but it was better than total blackout.
She saw the tall man—Pyke, Stafford, whatever his real name was!—standing by the front door which he had just slammed shut.
He looked at Loren, who was standing frightened and disorientated a few feet away from her mother, then at Eve.
'Your friend won't get far,' Pyke said in an unexcited, almost friendly, way. 'Not on a night like this. And even if she does manage to find help—which I doubt very much; those people who've chosen to stay in the area will be locked inside their homes with barricades round their doors and windows—well, by then it will be too late.'
Too late for what? Eve asked herself. She had stepped towards Loren and held out her hand again for her daughter to take. Loren's hand was cold and shaking in her own.
'Do you feel it, Eve?' Pyke asked, his glittering eyes seeking out every corner of the vast room and even searching the high beamed ceiling. 'The hall is the epicentre of the psychic activity. The spirits are gathering here, their vigour is almost palpable.'
Pyke was blocking the front door. His coat and hat, which he had discarded earlier, were hanging on the rack by the door, but it was obvious he was not going to put them on and leave. Eve began to back away and Loren kept in step with her, regardless of the puddles they trod through. If they made a break for the kitchen to escape by its outer door, Pyke would cut them off in a few strides. He held his walking stick like a weapon.
Eve had never been so afraid. Oh, she had suffered more than just fear since Cam had gone missing, but this was different. She knew that this was a dangerous situation and her fear was for herself and Loren—and Cally upstairs, of course—for the man at the door exuded menace. She had thought him so kindly, so mannerly, and now his eyes seemed to gleam with malice.
Loren was squeezing her hand so tightly that it hurt. Eve fought to keep the nervousness from her voice.
'What do you want from us, Mr Pyke?' She had put the question mildly, her tone even, as if she might be enquiring of a grocer the price of tomatoes. Somehow she had to humour this man, get him to respond in a non-hostile way.
'Dear woman, it's what the house wants from me that's the problem.'
He moved away from the door, taking two steps towards them. Eve and Loren backed off even more, matching him step for step, their direction taking them towards the stairway.
'I don't understand, Mr Pyke.' Humour him, humour him, Eve told herself. Why had he hurt Lili Peel? Just because she'd recognized who he was? But now they, she and Loren, knew his true identity, so what would he do to them? And why did their knowing he was Maurice Stafford matter? What had Stafford done and, my God, why wasn't he dead, drowned like the other evacuees?