Read Online Lair by James Herbert - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Herbert
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Horror, Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Rats, Horror & Ghost Stories, Fiction / Horror, Horror - General, Animal mutation
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its rough bark. She was standing with her hands up to her face, her whole body trembling and knees beginning to sag. He rushed forward and held her to him to prevent her from falling.
"Jesus Christ," he said when he saw what had caused her shock.
The tree was hollow, the opening facing him. And the hollow and the area just outside were soaked in blood, small lumps of wet flesh lying all around, tiny, disjointed bones, smeared red, scattered in the dirt.
There were no recognizable animal parts among the debris; the stoats must have either been dragged off or eaten whole there and then. Fender cleared his throat uncomfortably.
There must have been a family of stoats," he said. The rats must have slaughtered all of them."
The girl did not reply and he realized she was weeping against his chest. He looked around at the undergrowth nearby, seeing the short trails of blood disappearing into the shadows. They were darker now.
The sun was beginning to dim and early evening was approaching. The trees around them suddenly seemed black and threatening.
"Come on," he said gently, "I think I've got all the evidence I need.
Let's get back to the Centre."
He led her back through the darkening forest, his eyes wary and searching.
FIVE
The walls of the large house glowed pinkly as the last rays of the fast-setting sun reflected off the white surface. Fender had left his car in the small car park at the entrance to The Warren and made his way up to the house on foot. He had passed two attached cottages which, he assumed, belonged to forest keepers or whoever maintained the grounds of The Warren, and taken a lane branching to the left. He approached the house from the rear, the rough road winding round till it formed a circle enclosing a centre lawn set out before the house itself, another road leading off from it towards the estate's main entrance. Before Fender had branched off, he had noticed the sign pointing towards The Warren's offices and realized the forest's administrative staff were kept separate from the main house in which Edward Whitney-Evans, the Superintendent of Epping Forest, lived.
His own shadow was cast darkly before him as Fender strode past three high windows, their glass reaching down to the ground. White-painted lattice-work covered with deep green foliage clung to the lower half of the house, rising up on either side of the windows and joining above them. If the house came with the job, then the Superintendent's lot was a happy one, Fender thought as he rang the doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately and a small, waspish woman peered out at him.
"Mr. Fender, is it?" she said and before he had a chance to correct her, she ushered him in. "Mr. Whitney-Evans is waiting for you."
She moved aside to allow him entrance and he stepped through the porch into the main building.
Through there, sir," she said, indicating a door on the left of the hallway. He thanked her and entered the room finding it empty. He walked over to one of the deep windows and gazed out; the grounds sloped away from the circular lawn and, even in the dusk, Fender could see the estate was beautifully situated. The Epping New Road, with its heavy traffic, was completely screened from the house by trees and shrubbery. Beyond he could see the hills of woodland and it was hard to consider he was so close to the world's largest city.
"Ah, Fender."
He turned to see a man in a dark grey suit standing in the doorway.
Tender, actually."
The man looked puzzled for a moment. "I thought Milton said Fender over the phone. Not to worry. Tell me what this is all about, Fender." He strode forward and settled himself in an armchair and indicated a chair for Fender. He was a squat man, who appeared to be in his late fifties; a few streaks of hair were combed carefully across his bald head, compensated by wispy locks curling around his ears and resting on his shirt collar. Enlarged eyes stared out at Fender through thick
"Jesus Christ," he said when he saw what had caused her shock.
The tree was hollow, the opening facing him. And the hollow and the area just outside were soaked in blood, small lumps of wet flesh lying all around, tiny, disjointed bones, smeared red, scattered in the dirt.
There were no recognizable animal parts among the debris; the stoats must have either been dragged off or eaten whole there and then. Fender cleared his throat uncomfortably.
There must have been a family of stoats," he said. The rats must have slaughtered all of them."
The girl did not reply and he realized she was weeping against his chest. He looked around at the undergrowth nearby, seeing the short trails of blood disappearing into the shadows. They were darker now.
The sun was beginning to dim and early evening was approaching. The trees around them suddenly seemed black and threatening.
"Come on," he said gently, "I think I've got all the evidence I need.
Let's get back to the Centre."
He led her back through the darkening forest, his eyes wary and searching.
FIVE
The walls of the large house glowed pinkly as the last rays of the fast-setting sun reflected off the white surface. Fender had left his car in the small car park at the entrance to The Warren and made his way up to the house on foot. He had passed two attached cottages which, he assumed, belonged to forest keepers or whoever maintained the grounds of The Warren, and taken a lane branching to the left. He approached the house from the rear, the rough road winding round till it formed a circle enclosing a centre lawn set out before the house itself, another road leading off from it towards the estate's main entrance. Before Fender had branched off, he had noticed the sign pointing towards The Warren's offices and realized the forest's administrative staff were kept separate from the main house in which Edward Whitney-Evans, the Superintendent of Epping Forest, lived.
His own shadow was cast darkly before him as Fender strode past three high windows, their glass reaching down to the ground. White-painted lattice-work covered with deep green foliage clung to the lower half of the house, rising up on either side of the windows and joining above them. If the house came with the job, then the Superintendent's lot was a happy one, Fender thought as he rang the doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately and a small, waspish woman peered out at him.
"Mr. Fender, is it?" she said and before he had a chance to correct her, she ushered him in. "Mr. Whitney-Evans is waiting for you."
She moved aside to allow him entrance and he stepped through the porch into the main building.
Through there, sir," she said, indicating a door on the left of the hallway. He thanked her and entered the room finding it empty. He walked over to one of the deep windows and gazed out; the grounds sloped away from the circular lawn and, even in the dusk, Fender could see the estate was beautifully situated. The Epping New Road, with its heavy traffic, was completely screened from the house by trees and shrubbery. Beyond he could see the hills of woodland and it was hard to consider he was so close to the world's largest city.
"Ah, Fender."
He turned to see a man in a dark grey suit standing in the doorway.
Tender, actually."
The man looked puzzled for a moment. "I thought Milton said Fender over the phone. Not to worry. Tell me what this is all about, Fender." He strode forward and settled himself in an armchair and indicated a chair for Fender. He was a squat man, who appeared to be in his late fifties; a few streaks of hair were combed carefully across his bald head, compensated by wispy locks curling around his ears and resting on his shirt collar. Enlarged eyes stared out at Fender through thick
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