He drew a breath and said, "I am ready."

  Mr. Sarotzini went to the cabinet and opened the door. Then he turned on the videotape player and Klindz shuddered. He knew what was coming next and he did not want to watch this, but Mr. Sarotzini was presenting him with no alternative.

  He had to watch.

  Claudie appeared on the screen. She was naked. The left side of her body was a milky white colour, those flesh tones that had so excited Klindz once, that he had found so sensuous. But the right side was a pinky colour and the texture was quite different, and the nipple was missing from the breast.

  She was held by chains, one around her neck that rose tightly to the ceiling, one around each ankle, securing them to the floor, and one around each arm, holding them out in the crucifixion position. She was staring at the camera and there was such horror in that face, such terror, and she was screaming, pleading, her eyes bulging with fear.

  On the tape, Klindz watched himself enter the frame now and go up close to her. He was holding a knife in his hand, a small boning knife that was as sharp as a razor, and he had no choice, he had to continue with the job he had begun days before.

  He remembered that when he had been close up to Claudie, he had tried to communicate that he was sorry, that he really did not want to do this. And Klindz, watching this now, was pleased that this attempt to communicate with her did not show.

  He observed himself make a small horizontal incision below her left shoulder blade, being careful not to cut into the flesh itself, and then -even he flinched as he watched what followed - he continued his task of skinning her alive.

  After a few minutes, Mr. Sarotzini stopped the tape and said to Klindz, "You would not want to hear Susan Carter scream like this?"

  Klindz said that he wouldn't, and he meant it, he really wouldn't.

  Mr. Sarotzini said, "When you have done your duty, Klindz, I will keep my second pledge. Susan Carter will be yours for ever."

  Klindz stared back at Mr. Sarotzini, stared hard into his eyes, and felt the same trust he always had in the man. It was the right thing, it must be done.

  Taking the barber's razor, he went through into the washroom behind Mr. Sarotzini's office and closed the door. Swiftly, he unbuckled his trousers, let them fall to the floor and then he dropped his cotton boxer shorts.

  Claudie was now, finally, mercifully, dead. But Susan Carter was alive. And if Susan Carter tempted him again, tried to seduce him again, or even just tried to run away again, he understood that Mr. Sarotzini would make him punish her the same way he'd had to punish Claudie. And he could not bear to do this, because he loved Susan. He had to save Susan from this.

  He tested the blade of the razor again, then fought off his nerves, his hesitation, his doubts, by reminding himself that Mr. Sarotzini had experienced this same pain himself, and that he was saving Susan Carter's life. And perhaps some of Mr. Sarotzini's powers were so strong because of the way he was. And that if he wanted to become as strong as Mr. Sarotzini, he must become like him.

  Yes, now he understood, this was Mr. Sarotzini's way of telling him, of making him understand. And he did, and it was beautiful.

  And he was saving Susan Carter's life.

  Flooded with gratitude to Mr. Sarotzini, he gripped his scrotum, and his testicles hurt as he squeezed them, as he pulled them tight against the sac, searching for the base of his penis. But this pain was nothing compared to the pain that now followed as he sliced the blade of the razor through the skin and then through the gristle, blood spurting over his hand and dripping in an increasing trickle on to the tiled floor.

  He bit his lip, stifling a cry of pain through clenched teeth. He was shaking, his eyes narrowed. He tried desperately to keep his hand steady, fighting the pain, perspiration torrenting down him. There was more, a long way to go, he tried to keep up the concentration, to keep going. I'm saving your life, Susan. Tiny grunts, moans, hisses escaped from his mouth: he clenched his teeth even tighter, his body contorting, twisting, bending then straightening.

  He must not scream.

  A dagger shot right up into his guts, skewering the base of his skull, exploding into needles that ripped through his brain, then down through his body again. He doubled over, let out a roar of pain, followed by a terrible, shocked groan; and then, unexpectedly, the bloodied sac was free in his hand. Near delirious with agony, he dropped it into the lavatory bowl and pulled the chain. Blood sprayed into the bowl. He looked down at the blood streaming on to his thighs and the floor, grabbed a handful of lavatory paper, balled it and pressed it up between his legs.

  Then, unable to stand the pain any longer, he knelt, pressed his red-hot forehead against the cool tiles of the lavatory wall and retched. He retched again. He was being weak, he knew, and this scared him. Mr. Sarotzini would not approve of this, he had to be strong, had to find strength, had to draw on reserves. Mr. Sarotzini was waiting for him, he had already taken enough time, he must show strength.

  He retched again, and then he vomited. Afterwards his head felt a little clearer. Staggering to his feet, he took the gold Dunhill lighter from his pocket, and opened the lid. Then, silently reciting each of the Truths in turn, he removed the bloodied paper, and applied the flame to the ragged skin. He felt the pain, the smell of singeing flesh filled his nostrils, but the Truths gave him strength. He continued to repeat them over and over, one after another, until they became like a mantra, and he went on saying them until the wound was cauterised and he had somehow forced the pain into retreat, reduced it to a numb throbbing.

  He washed the bloodstains off his shirt-tails, cleaned his hands, straightened his tie, then returned, walking slowly because it hurt terribly to walk. to Mr. Sarotzini's office. He informed Mr. Sarotzini that he had honoured his pledge.

  But this, still, was not enough. Mr. Sarotzini nodded, but he was not looking pleased. He told Klindz, "Now you must explain to me, Stefan, why you have not yet punished Susan Carter for going to the obstetrician Harvey Addison?"

  Klindz was unable to give this explanation. His brain was burning, the terrible pain was returning, but he dared not let it show.

  "There is a weakness you have, Stefan, which is so dangerous. Do you understand the danger?"

  Klindz swallowed, then nodded.

  "And you are angry, Stefan?"

  Klindz nodded "again. He wanted to sit down, to lie down, to grip his crotch, to double up, to vomit again, but he could do none of these things in the presence of Mr. Sarotzini.

  "You are angry at your weakness? At Susan Carter? You must direct your anger, Klindz, you must focus it. You have brought with you the photograph?"

  Klindz pulled the photograph of Casey from his pocket.

  Mr. Sarotzini nodded at him. Klindz took out the Dunhill lighter and, with it, set fire to the photograph. The banker held out his hand, took the burning photograph, and brought the flame to the end of his cigar. Then he dropped the burning photograph into the glass ashtray on his desk and they both watched as the last corner of it burned. "You have something personal from Susan Carter, Stefan?"

  Klindz produced the tiny handkerchief, embroidered with a blue "S" that he had taken from the laundry basket in Susan's bathroom. She had never missed it.

  Mr. Sarotzini looked at his watch; then, holding the cigar in the crook of his finger drew deeply on it. "Are you grateful, Stefan? Do you now feel gratitude for all I have done for you?" , Klindz dared not open his mouth because he was afraid the pain would show in his voice. He had already shown Mr. Sarotzini one weakness, it was unwise to show him another. And he knew that Mr. Sarotzini was playing with him now, trying to trip him up. And from out of his terrible pain a warning screamed at him. The Twelfth Truth: "Gratitude is weakness."

  "I am aware of being privileged, but that is through birth and not charity."

  Mr. Sarotzini looked delighted. "Good, Stefan, that is such a good answer! Now, we need energy. You must hold the handkerchief, the connection will be made better through you than me. Close your eyes. Tune in the handkerchief. Let it speak."

  Klindz saw a tiny room, a child's room, a row of fluffy toys on a shelf, a flamenco-dancer doll inside a cellophane tube. A woman was sleeping in this room. It was Susan Carter.

  It was twelve thirty-five p.m., local time, three thirty-five a.m. in Los Angeles.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Casey ran on ahead along the hiking trail, though the craggy crimson bluffs and towering boulders, her flaxen hair shimmering beneath the blazing Colorado sun. Susan and her parents lagged behind.

  Then Casey stopped and turned, a great big grin on her face, and shouted, "Hey, come on, you guys, you're gonna miss the show!"

  She sprinted down the ramp alongside the auditorium steps, and on to the stage of the deserted amphitheatre. Then she stood, in her jeans, sneakers and Save the Whales sweatshirt, hands on her hips, and hollered to Susan, her parents, and six thousand empty seats: "This is it, once in a lifetime, Casey Corrigan performing live at the Red Rocks. Yeeeaaaahhhhhhhh!"

  Then, using a short stick she had picked up as a pretend mike, she burst into Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time", singing at the top of her voice, throwing herself wildly around the stage. Then she followed it with Tina Turner's, "What's Love Got To Do With It?". Half-way through she paused. "C'mon, join in, mom, Dad, Susan. C'mon... Susan, Susaaannnnnnn. Susaaaaaannnnnnnnnn. Susaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnn."

  Susan woke in panic, disoriented. Casey's voice echoing in her mind. The bed was too small, the window was in the wrong position. Where was John?

  Then she remembered. She was home, in her old bedroom, in her parents" house. She was drenched in perspiration, deeply afraid. Casey. Casey was crying.

  Something was wrong with Casey.

  I flew over from London yesterday.

  The pain in her abdomen was worse than last night. Her back was aching like hell - probably from the bed, which had been built for a child, not for a heavily pregnant woman. She turned on the light and her watch told her it was three thirty-five a.m.

  The Red Rocks. She could remember that day clearly. It was ten - more like twelve - years ago, when they'd gone on a family hiking holiday in the Rockies. Casey, just turned fifteen, had been the reatest fun on that trip. To look at, she was blossoming into a stunning young woman, but inside she was still a playful child, full of confidence and no cares in the world.

  Susan could remember standing up there in the vast, deserted auditorium, Denver and the plains way down below them, watching her and suddenly getting that feeling of dread. She'd hardly been able to sing the words because of the foreshadowing she had that something bad was about to happen. It was almost as if she had realised that Casey was too kind, too big-hearted, too friendly for this mixed-up world to be able to leave her alone, and that somehow it was going to draw her in, corrupt her, change her, drag her down to its own level.

  Three weeks later Casey took the tab and was changed for ever.

  That hadn't been the first time she'd picked up feelings about Casey., Often when they had been kids, even when they were miles apart, she could tell how Casey was feeling. One afternoon she'd had a terrible pain in her right arm, and discovered when she got home that Casey had fallen off her bike and broken her right arm.

  Susan knew that telepathy between twins was common, and although it was rarer among ordinary siblings, there were plenty of cases of it. Even during these past years when she'd been in England, there had been moments when she was certain she knew what Casey was thinking, or had felt that Casey was trying to get a message through to her.

  She had that feeling now, intensely strongly. A feeling that Casey was frightened.

  Bump was awake also - she could feel one of his feet pushing out the skin of her abdomen. He was thrashing around, agitated, as if he was trying to communicate something to her, as if he, too, could sense his aunt's distress.

  Outside in the night a siren wailed. She swung herself out of bed, put her feet on the floor, stretched as far forward as she could over her swollen abdomen towards her toes, then straightened herself right up, trying to ease her back pain. She looked at the bed which, along with her suitcase on the floor, took up most of the space in this small, narrow room. It was sagging visibly in the middle.

  A row of fluffy toys stared down at her from a shelf above the bed; a flamenco-dancer doll, with jet black hair and an inane smile, sat inside the cellophane tube in which it had been given to her, brought back years ago from some relative's travels.

  She padded across to the window, parted the thin curtains and looked out. There was a full moon and this, together with the background glow of the streetlights, made it so bright she could have read a book in the back yard. A creature leapt over the fence, she didn't see what it was - a cat, or maybe a coyote or a raccoon.

  Then, without warning, she was hit by a giddying wave of nausea. Unable to move, she gripped the window-sill, hung on to it, trying to keep upright, trying not to fall on the floor and pass out. She leant forward, pushing her head out of the window, so at least she would vomit into the garden, and closed her eyes.

  After a few moments the cool night air began to revive her, and the nausea faded. But she stayed longer, breathing in the salty ocean tang, until the dizziness had passed. Then, wide awake now, she eased herself down on the edge of the bed. Her watch said three forty. She did a calculation. Three forty a.m. here made it eleven forty a.m. in London. It was hardly surprising she felt so wide awake: it was the middle of the morning for her.

  What was John doing?

  In his office, phoning around everyone they knew, trying to find her? For an instant she weakened, wanted to feel his arms around her, to hear his voice, to hear him tell her that he wasn't in league with Mr. Sarotzini and Miles Van Rhoe. She wanted so badly to hear it from him now, she wanted him to say it to her face. To swear it.

  But he couldn't do that because he was in league with them. She thought back to that first night she met Mr. Sarotzini, in his club. It was so transparent a set-up. Had the dinner at the Guildhall, where John had met Mr. Sarotzini, or purported to have met him, been a set-up too, just to fool her?

  How far back did John's links with Mr. Sarotzini go? She started thinking about the myriad nights when John had arrived home late, or even stayed away somewhere on business. Had those nights been when the coven, or whatever it was they called it, met?

  Then she tried to think through it more rationally. Could John really have been a satanist long before she'd married him? If so, why had he never talked about it, never tried to convert her? Perhaps it was connected to DigiTrak's problems, a last resort for John. And he hadn't had the courage to tell her.

  Zak Danziger, who had been a threat to DigiTrak, had died weeks after Mr. Sarotzini had become involved. But why had Harvey Addison died? That made no sense, and she could see no connection. Fergus had been delving, that's why he had died. She had told John what Fergus had said, and John had reported this to Mr. Sarotzini, who had had him killed. And ever since Mr. Sarotzini had put in the money, the business had been booming: John had said they'd got almost every contract they'd bid for.

  Susan knew from the book she had edited on the occult, and the one she had read on the flight, and from movies she had seen, that occultists, black magicians, satanists, whatever, could influence people. They could manipulate them, hurt them, paralyse them, blind them and even kill them just by concentrating their thoughts on them, just by thinking of them. It was like the voodoo doll into which people stuck pins, no different.

  Was John in league with them, or had he simply offered them a deal? A baby for sacrifice, no questions asked, in exchange for money and for them using their powers to help his business.

  And he hadn't had the guts to tell her.

  She thought again of that dream (hallucination? reality?) in the clinic." The man from Telecom. The masked people. What if it had been real and not a dream or a hallucination? Had John been there as well, one of the masked people, and she hadn't recognised him?

  Fergus had said that Emil Sarotzini was the devil incarnate.

  But Emil Sarotzini would be a hundred and ten years old, at least.

  If he was the Devil incarnate, there was no reason why he couldn't be a hundred and ten years old. Or older.

  Then she had an even wilder thought. Was Archer Warren one of them too? Their Tuesday night squash games: did they really play squash?

  What about all their other friends? She'd never met any of John's relatives - he had cut himself off from what fragments of family he had. What if all his friends were members of the coven and he'd brought her over, unsuspecting and naive, from America? Delivered her to his coven. And all this crap of his about not wanting children - this had been simply to buy time, to preserve her intact for her true intended role as a brood mare.

  Oh, God, Susan, what the hell are you thinking? "Susaaaaaannnnnnnnnn?

  She shivered. The cry sounded so close, as if Casey was here in the room with her. Bump thrashed again as if he'd heard it too. Casey needs you, he was trying to tell her, urgently.

  She pulled on her dressing-gown, quietly opened her bedroom door and, like a child again, tiptoed past her parents" bedroom and downstairs. Using the phone in the kitchen she dialled the clinic's number. After four rings, she got a recorded voice saying the switchboard was closed until seven a.m.

  Her anxiety deepening, she dialled directories and asked if there was a night emergency number for the Cypress Palisades Clinic in Orange County. The operator told her there wasn't.

  The nausea was returning. Susan looked at the kitchen clock/which said three forty-five, and checked it against her watch, which said three forty-two. Three and a quarter hours before anyone would be at the clinic to answer the phone.

  As she hung up, another wave of nausea swept through her. It was followed by another and now she was going to be sick. She just made it across to the sink and threw up violently. The pain inside her felt like a red-hot poker that was being twisted. Then she threw up again, tears streaming from her eyes. She wished her parents would wake, that her mother would come down here and hold her forehead the way she used to whenever she'd been sick as a child. But since Casey's tragedy both her parents had been on medication at night, and slept in drugged comas.