The Fraternity of the Stone by David Morrell Read Free Book Online Page B

murky sleeping quarters, pausing, sensing. An assassin would have to be terribly determined, not to mention patient, to wait here two nights in a row on the slim chance that Drew was hiding in the attic. More likely, the team would have sent someone up there after him or at least have used tear gas to force Drew down. Besides, once the team had suspected that Drew was out of the building, they'd have felt compromised, afraid that if he escaped he'd alert the police. When their harried search had failed to reveal him, they'd have been forced to pull out.
    Or so Drew hoped. Nothing was sure. But here in the night he had an advantage. One of his principal skills, the result of concentrated special training, was hand-to-hand combat in total darkness. Even after six years of inactivity, he hadn't forgotten how it was done. For an instant, he felt transported back to that oppressive black room in the abandoned airplane hangar in Colorado. Now motionless, breathing slowly, listening intently, he neither smelled nor heard a lurking assailant.
    Of course, the drumming of the rain would obscure other sounds. At a certain point, he had to act on faith, crossing his sleeping quarters, on guard against a brush of cloth, a sudden rush in his direction. It didn't occur. He glanced back. As rain lashed his window, lightning streaked beyond it, illuminating the room, giving him a hurried chance to reassure himself that no one was there.
    Darkness returned as thunder rumbled, and he realized that staring at the lightning had been a mistake. His pupils had contracted to protect themselves against the sudden brilliance; now in the dark they were slow to dilate again. His night vision had been impaired. He had to wait, unsettled, temporarily blind. With agonizing slowness, he began to see murky outlines in the dark. He bit his lip. All right, he'd made a mistake. He admitted it. But the mistake had been a useful one. He'd learned from it. His skills were returning. Already he was calculating a way to turn the lightning to his advantage.
    Keeping his back to the window, he left his sleeping quarters, then passed through the deeper blackness of the study and the oratory, again still feeling and ignoring the tug of habit to stop there and pray. On the stairs that led down to his workroom, he saw his open door, the light that glowed from the hall. He smelled a too-familiar, stomach-turning stench. When he reached the bottom, he cautiously surveyed the room. His cup and bowl remained on the workbench. Stuart Little was in the same position on the floor. But as he'd anticipated, the mouse was now bloated, filled with gas.
    Drew swallowed, not in disgust but in pity. Because he needed the body, he lovingly picked up the corpse by the tail and gently wrapped it in a handkerchief that he'd left on his woodpile. He tied the handkerchief to his skipping rope and tied the rope around the waist of his habit.
    From a drawer in his workroom bench, he removed four photographs, the only items he'd brought with him from his former life. Six years ago, he'd shown these photographs to Father Hafer after the priest, gasping, had heard his confession. The photographs had verified what Drew had said, convincing the priest to relent, to recommend Drew's acceptance by the Carthusians. The photographs showed a man and woman consumed by flames, a young boy screaming in horror. In the monastery, Drew had studied these images every day, reminding himself of what he'd been, of his need for penance. He couldn't bring himself to leave now without them.
    Shoving them into a pocket in his robe, he glanced around. What else? He needed a weapon. The ax from his woodpile.
    The storm became more violent. Even with his back to the window, he saw another blaze of lightning fill the room. He approached his open door, peered both ways along the empty corridor, glanced back with longing toward the place that had been his home for the past six years, then hefted his ax and crept down the