"Guy N. Smith - Sabat 3 - Cannibal Cult" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

features, a hint of nobility that failed to hide the evil in those close-set
eyes and narrow mouth. Sabat recalled every detail, indelibly imprinted on his
brain from the one occasion when he had met Nevillon. Maybe the intervening
years had changed the Frenchman physically, a few lines here and there, the
grey slowly turning to white, but the man himself would not alter. A Grand
Master of the Left Hand Path. The Beast of France.

Sabat sighed. Such powerful evil could not be wiped out by the guillotine. In
the same way that bullets had been unable to destroy Sabat's own brother,
Quentin, that day when Mark Sabat had attempted to blast him into oblivion
during their final encounter down in that mountain grave.* The dead man's soul
had found another body- his own! And Sabat had harboured Quentin's evil ever
since, struggled to overcome it but it had only been subdued, his own strength
and faith keeping it under control. One momentary flash of weakness on his own
part and it rose up again like a deadly snake, spread its poison through him,
dominated his every thought and action. Quentin still lived. Even now, he
could hear that nasal, mocking laughter in the recesses of his own brain,
whispered taunting words: 'They didn't kill Louis Nevillon, He lives again'

He cleared his throat, tried to get rid of the rasping soreness that began in
his tonsils and seemed to travel right down to his lungs. He shivered, felt
suddenly cold, his flesh goosepimpling. Damn it, he'd got a chill. Even the
fittest of men, and Sabat had looked after his body since his ignominious
discharge from the SAS, picked up the odd infection. Maybe he would be better
off in bed. It was like giving in, surrendering. Quentin's laughter again,
sensing any weakness, mental or physical, a lurking inner deadly enemy.

Sabat's head was aching. It had been feeling muzzy ever since he had got up
and now his temples were throbbing as though an invisible goblin was pounding
away at them with a tiny hammer. His eyes smarted and there was a dry, sour
taste in his mouth. Bed wis definitely the best place.

It was an effort to climb the stairs, dragging himself up a step at a time,
his sweaty hands slipping on the polished oak rail. A stiff whisky and a
couple of aspirins; he would be OK in the morning.

He shivered uncontrollably as his naked flesh came into contact with the
sheets, cooling his body temperature fast and making him curl himself up into
a ball in an attempt to generate heat. The whisky had burned his throat, he'd
had difficulty getting those aspirin tablets down. He felt as though he might
vomit and wondered if he was capable of making it across to the bathroom.

He closed his eyes, saw Louis Nevillon's face again, smirking. A voice
somewhere; he couldn't make out the words but he knew it was Quentin's. Nobody
was bothering much about the murderer's missing decapitated body except a few
red-faced prison officials whose security system was being criticised. They
didn't realise; they couldn't be expected to. Somebody had to ...

What the hell's it got to do with you, Sabat? Nothing. It's none of my
business. Trying to find a reason not to do anything about it. I'm not well