End of him, with al his blood leaking out onto the floor, to mix with the rain and the oil-clogged dirt ...
He lay just inside the garage, looking out. After a while (it might have been hours but could only have been seconds), his eyes focused one last time on the rain-blurred street lamp. It was either that, a focusing, or the mucus of his eyes drying on the nerveless eyeballs to sharpen his dying vision. But as his brain prepared to switch off, someone or thing -a face, anyway - leaned down and looked him in his own torn and bloodied face.
But god, that the last thing he would ever see should be that face! It wasn't Skippy; it wasn't human; it wasn't anything Banks might ever have believed in. But it was as monstrous as the death it had delivered. So that he didn't just die but went out screaming, however silently.
And as if in mocking answer, the last thing he ever heard seemed to be a distant howling ...
... Banks was still doing it, silently screaming - but in the eye of memory now, a scream of rage and frustration as well as horror - as that rabid wolf visage gradually faded from his mind, and the drizzle worked its way inside Harry's colar, and Bank's sobbing from beyond lit a fire in the Necroscope's guts that he knew couldn't be extinguished as long as this went unresolved, unpunished. Until he'd 'seen' the face of the wolf for himself, Harry had almost forgotten what Darcy Clarke had told him: the werewolf theory. Having seen it, his senses were as shocked as the dead mind's that transmitted the pictures, as stunned as Banks had been on the night of his murder. He couldn't help but wonder if he would have fared any better. Probably not, not then, but he would now. It was al a mater of knowing what you were up against.
Gathering his composure and his thoughts, he finally said: 'Two of them, then. Skippy and ... that, whatever it was.'
His voice was colder than the grave itself, so that Jim Banks knew Harry wouldn't let him down even if his own life were forfeit.
And: Wel, what do you think? The dead man was able to ask him at last. / mean, was I crazy, Harry? Or what?
'You're as sane as I am,' Harry told him. And to himself: Which right now isn't saying much! 'But what do you reckon?'
Banks shook off the last remnants of his own horror, and answered, What do I reckon? Dead reckoning, eh, Harry? But his words contained litle or no humour. All right: I think it was a bloke dressed up as a wolf. See, a wolf or big dog goes on all fours, but this bloke was leaning over me! So ... why the disguise? I mean, if I'd survived they were goners anyway. I had already identified Skippy. So why that crazy horror mask?
'Work on "crazy," ' Harry told him. 'A lunatic, Jim. Someone influenced by the full moon, who thinks he's a werewolf.'
Really? The single word sounded like a sigh of relief to the Necroscope. Even dead, Banks was pleased to know that his mind hadn't been cracking up.
Harry squared his shoulders, tucked his collar in more yet and prepared to leave. 'I have some people waiting for me,' he was apologetic. 'But before I go I want to thank you, Jim, for what you've told me. It wasn't easy for you, I know. I mean, I really do know.'
Its okay, the other told him. Just don't forget to let me know how it turns out, right? It might make all of... this, a little easier to get used to.
'Be sure I'll let you know,' Harry told him. 'One way or the other, I'll let you know ... "
Beyond the gates of the cemetery, Darcy Clarke and the locator Ken Layard were waiting in a Branch car. Darcy was at the wheel and Layard sat slumped in the back seat, half asleep, his mouth lolling open. As the figure of the Necroscope loomed out of the wreathing mist, Darcy opened the front passenger door for him.
He got in, looked at Darcy, said: 'You know, there's really no need. Transport is the last thing I require. You could find a lot better things to do with your time.'
Darcy gave a shrug and started up the motor. 'Harry, the way we see it you're our most valuable asset. We can't