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one huge open wound； while five other hoods crushed Slimeball and Rivas' fingers and toes before chopping off an ear from each and making the boys chew on it （each other's ear； that is）。 They were saving him for something else； because he was the muscle and he had badly altered one of the girls' features two months ago； turning her into an asset loss； no good to no muthuh。
But what the razor…toting buck hadn't counted on…he had a crazy grin to match his crazy eyes…was that pain hardly meant a pig's ass to Monk （it took extreme and prolonged agony to give Monk any pleasure； even in those days）； so the slicing steel could have been chopping cheese for all he cared。 Monk did what he had e to know best。 POT…Pay…Off…Time…had arrived for the nigguh and introduced itself in the form of Monk's hawked phlegm in his eyes （ol' Uncle Mort； in between feeling him up； had taught young Theodore Albert how to do that to dogs straight out of the pick…up windows） and a grinding of the black's privates by Monk's raised knee。 The buck's own razor…blade fingers were used to sever his own jugular。
This last upset had proved too much for the rest of the vigilante squad who； pissed enough already by the cash loss； decided that what they'd had in mind for the ape…walking creep （their girls' description had pin…pointed Monk nicely） wasn't quite special enough。 This bozo required something more permanent。
They came for him with open switch…blades and surgeon's hatchets （that season's in…weapon） and Monk would have been chopped ape if he hadn't used the still…gurgling black man as a battering ram。
Oh yeah； he'd gotten away； but had been damaged in the getting （but not as damaged as the two dead he'd left behind）。 A knife stuck firmly in his shoulder…blade had proved unfortable as well as a bad feature for walking the streets。 Fortunately； a shithead who knew him on a supplier/client basis and whom he ran into several blocks away obliged him by tugging the knife free after much jiggling and muttering 'man…oh…man' and some giggling。 Jiggle and giggle。 The junkie had paid for the enjoyment with a windpipe so badly flattened that he talked like Popeye for the rest of his short years。
Once again； Monk was on the hoof； and this time both Pigs and Mob were after him。 He robbed a drugstore for some travelling money （no gun necessary for a crude dude like Monk）； leaving the druggist seriously splattered among his pills and potions。
The old flaky Dodge he stole only took him as far as the outskirts of town before coughing oil and chunking to a permanent demise。
Shoulder all fiery and already beginning to fester in the heat； ragged oozy cheeks like fast…food counters for flies； Monk legged his way down US95 （maybe he had Boulder City in mind he wasn't thinking straight by then）； a fat thumb hoisted （all fingers fisted； no POT sign this） every time he heard an engine motoring up from behind。 But who would stop for a hiker with a dark bubbly stain on his back and tomato…ketchup spread across his face？ Right。 No fucker。 Nobody normal。
Except one car did stop。
The black car； its windows all tinted dark and mysterious； glided to a soundless halt beside him； the movement as easy as a vulture landing on a carcass。
Monk shifted his bulk so that he was facing the silent car （no grace in his movement； none at all）； pain and fatigue stooping him by now （he'd left the dead Dodge at least five miles behind）； his clothes and pony…tailed hair powdered with dust； his face； with its scarlet…rose cheeks； puckered up into a shit…eating grimace。 For a few moments； he wondered if the occupants were Big Guys who kept Small Guys down （to keep the law in your pocket you had to maintain a certain law yourself） and he waited for a snub…nose to poke through a lowered window like some black viper sliding from its hole。
But a window didn't sink down。 And no gun was pointed towards him when the rear passenger door was opened wide。
He squinted to see into the big gloomy interior and could only just make out the dark shape sitting in there among the shadows。
Then a voice said in a persuasive way： 'Need a lift； Theo？' （That was the first and only time Kline had called him by his first name。）
12 NEATH
'Not far； Liam；' said Cora； leaning forward slightly in her seat。 'Look for the gates； just ahead on your left。' Kline； beside her； opened his eyes and for a moment that seemed no less than infinite； he and Halloran stared at each other in the rearview mirror。 It was Halloran who averted his gaze and he was surprised at the effort it took to do so。
Thick undergrowth and trees crowded either side of the road； the greenery even more dense beyond； the few gaps here and there almost subterranean in their gloom； these were woodlands of perpetual dusk。 The high； old…stone wall that appeared on the left came as a surprise： it looked firmly rooted as though having grown with the trees； a natural part of the forest itself； organic life smothering much of the rough stone and filling cracks。 Twisted branches from trees on the other side loomed over； some reaching down like gnarled tentacles ready to snatch unwary ramblers。
He noticed the opening in the near…distance； the forest withdrawing there； allowing the smallest of incursions into its territory。 Halloran slowed the Mercedes； turning into the drive； the roadway here cracked and uneven。 The rusted iron gates before them looked impregnable； like the forest itself。 Letters worked into the wrought iron declared： NEATH。
'Wait for a moment；' Kline instructed him。
Halloran waited； and studied。
Tall weathered columns hinged the gates； stone animals mounted on each （griffins？ he wondered。 Too decayed to tell）； their blank eyes glaring down at the car； their lichen…filled mouths wide with soundless snarls。 The gates would be easy to scale； he noted； as would be the walls on either side。 No barbed wire and； as far as he could tell； no electronic warning system。 And all the cover between wall and road that any would…be intruder could desire。 Security was going to be difficult。
Then he noticed； beyond the gates； the lodge…house。
A two…storey building； its stone as seasoned as the walls。 Its windows were as black as the Devil's soul。
Halloran frowned when the thought sprang into his mind 。
。 。 。 as black as the Devil's soul。
A phrase remembered from early years in Ireland； only then it had been： The Divil's owhn soul。 Father O'Connell； thrashing the living daylights out of him； had said it。 Thrashing Liam because of the heinous wickedness he had led the two Scalley boys into （the younger one had confessed； fearful of the mortal jeopardy in which his soul had been placed because of Halloran's leadership）。 Thrashing him because of the sacrilege against St Joseph's； breaking into the church in the hush of night； leaving the dead cat the boys had found it crushed at the roadside…inside the holy tabernacle； the animal's innards dripping out onto the soft white silk lining the vessel's walls； its eyes still gleaming dully when Father O'Connell had reached in for the chalice the next morning。 Beyond redemption was Liam's soul； the priest had t