The Trespass(115)

“Where the hell is he?” Potzner slammed down his fist on the Humvee dash. He glanced at his watch. “Okay. That’s it. We’re going in.” Damn Farrell. He’d have to look after himself.

He opened the door and stepped onto the baked earth. The marines silently disembarked, assembling in a disciplined phalanx around the vehicles. Conversation was limited to terse, monosyllabic checks and affirmations. Weapons clicked in the darkness as they were primed and loaded. A shadow approached.

“Mr Potzner?”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“Keep to the rear of the second squad. I’ve assigned two guys to you personally. They’ll do whatever is necessary.”

Potzner nodded with satisfaction as two marines materialized beside Colonel Osbourne. Nametags identified them as Cruickshank and Rutter. They were built like football players. Good. Things were going to get tough in there.

Potzner looked up at the great Tell, silhouetted against the skyline and blocking the stars with its bulk. He felt a rising excitement, a tingling in his loins. At last.





Chapter 41





The grip was firm, clasping Dracup’s hand and drawing him towards the shimmering curtain. But Dracup’s mind was in rebellion. He fought against the unrelenting vice that would sever him from Paradise. Natasha was screaming, pulling and kicking his legs. Dracup fought for control. I can’t leave.

You must.

He felt a coldness seeping into his outstretched arm and with it came a reluctant clarity. He realised that he was half-in, half-out. He could see Moran, the tendons on the DCI’s neck straining with the effort of dragging Dracup from the persuasive influence of the tree.

And then he was out. He felt a shock run through him, like a rapid electrical discharge. He was lying next to Natasha, his lungs struggling for breath. Moran was flat on his back, panting and cursing.

“Daddy?” Natasha shook him gently by the shoulder. “Can we go back now?” She pulled Dracup’s hand. “I want to see Sara.”

“Yes. We should go back.” Dracup felt groggy, like an interrupted lotus-eater. He looked around at the stunted roots and grey, lifeless earth. Behind him, the tree pulsed with unremitting energy.

Moran was standing by the curtain, his hands caressing the translucent space in front of him. The air rippled and parted at his touch.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dracup said. “I haven’t the strength to get you out.”

“The Tree of Life.” Moran’s face was pressed against the solid air, trying to see. “This is the Tree of Life.”

“I heard you speaking,” Dracup told him. “I remembered the verses you quoted.”

“I didn’t quote anything,” Moran snorted. “I was pulling like a dray horse.”

“Thanks.” Dracup smiled wryly. “But someone was talking to me –”

“Daddy, you are thin.” Natasha assessed him with the uninhibited assurance of her years. “And your face is dirty.”

Dracup fought back tears. He reached out his hand. “Come here. Just give me a hug.” He cupped Natasha’s face in his hands. She appeared unharmed, tranquil.

“By the way,” Moran said, “have you noticed?”

“What?”

Moran pointed. “Your arm. Have you checked it recently?”

Dracup pulled up his shirtsleeve to reveal the rough bandage Farrell had applied. With a shock he realised he felt no pain. More than that – he had forgotten his injury. His fingers probed under the dressing. They reappeared dry. No blood. He unravelled the gauze. The skin was unbroken.

“Someone’s on our side.” Moran took a deep breath. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Dracup took Natasha’s hand and they walked away, retracing their steps. He wondered when the elation would kick in, but found that he was consumed by other, unbidden feelings; he dared not glance back. He could feel the tree’s energy seducing him, as if he were straining against the insistent tug of some invisible, elastic connection. As he made one foot follow the other he thought about the voice. He hadn’t imagined it. But if it wasn’t Moran’s...

Then whose was it?





Chapter 42





Potzner crouched low. He had heard something. Up ahead the leading marine hissed a warning. Behind him Cruickshank and Rutter’s nervous banter had stopped, replaced by the sound of adrenaline-primed heavy breathing. The signal came to move on. The stairwell was firm under Potzner’s feet, his steps confident. He felt unstoppable.

Suddenly there was nothing under his feet. The marines in front simply fell into the void, like stones dropped into a well. Potzner’s arms shot out for purchase, catching the edge of the stairwell and finding some metal projection, part of the trap’s machinery. He was a heavy man and the odds were against his being able to support his weight. He felt his back judder with the shock, a stinging pain in his bicep. For a moment he swung precariously above the blackness, then with gritted teeth he clawed at the crumbling stonework until he felt Cruickshank’s farmhand grip on his wrist. It took all the marine’s muscle to pull him up. Rutter added his energy to the final heave and then Potzner was lying across the staircase, the taste of blood in his mouth where his teeth had clamped against his tongue during the fall.