The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (24 page)

“Only, I assure you, for my personal convenience,” Adam said. “My practice is in Edinburgh; I can’t work with her here. If Mr. and Mrs. Talbot are amenable, I intend to recommend that she be transferred to Jordanburn.” He smiled. “Here in London, you probably know it as the Royal Edinburgh Hospital. The name was changed a few years back, but old habits die hard with those of us who trained there. In any case, both I and my mother—who also has considerable experience in dealing with cases likes Gillian’s will be able to give her a measure of concentrated care that wouldn’t be feasible otherwise.”

The Talbots, when Adam broached the subject to them, evinced some signs of uncertainty. After hearing Adam out, they begged a moment alone to discuss the matter. Adam, Philippa, and Dr. Ogilvy stepped out of the room to leave them their privacy. When the Talbots joined them a few moments later, George Talbot was looking pale but resolved.

“We’ve been thinking over all that you’ve said, Dr. Sinclair, and we’ve decided we
would
like you to take Gillian’s case. We’ll mortgage our house, if need be. What’s important is that our daughter should have every chance to recover and lead a normal life.”

Enlightenment dawned on Adam. “Are you worried about expenses, Mr. Talbot? Please rest easy on that account. I’ll see that the hospital charges are limited to what’s covered by National Health. And my mother and I offer our own professional services gratis,
pro bonum.
Let’s just say that your daughter’s case poses an interesting challenge.”

Both the Talbots looked astonished and visibly relieved.

“That’s uncommonly generous of you, Dr. Sinclair,” said George Talbot. “We—I hardly know what to say—”

“Except to thank you from the bottom of our hearts!” said his wife, crying and laughing at the same time. “I almost feel we might have something to hope for after all.”

Philippa and Adam traded glances. The Talbots’ faith was touching—and worrying. For their own part, the Sinclairs knew that the battle for Gillian’s survival was only just beginning. There was still so much that could go wrong.

Chapter Eighteen

THAT SAME THURSDAY
morning, Inspector McLeod paid only a brief visit to police headquarters in Edinburgh before heading off to Perth for another stint of press liaison on the Randall Stewart slaying. He departed before the arrival of the morning post, and therefore missed being spotted by one of his police colleagues who had a vested interest in keeping track of his movements.

Detective Inspector Charles Napier was a heavyset man in his middle forties, with thick, dark hair and bristling eyebrows that gave him the frowning look of a Rottweiler. He had a reputation for being taciturn, but on this occasion he seemed less reserved than usual as he strolled among the desks in the outer office, pausing now and again to pass a remark to a subordinate. In this leisurely manner, he contrived to be in the vicinity of McLeod’s office cubicle just as the mail clerk arrived, pushing a tiered wire cart laden with stacks of mail bundled together with rubber bands.

“Good morning, Miss Desmond,” he said with gruff pleasantry. “Anything there for me?”

“Aye, sir.” As she flipped through the top stacks to pull out a tidy bundle of letters, Napier was able to confirm that the manila inter-office envelope he had pushed through the slot of the mail room earlier today had, indeed, found its way into the stack for McLeod.

“Here you are, Inspector,” the clerk said, handing over his bundle.

“Thank you. That’s fine.”

While shuffling through what she handed him, Napier lingered long enough to see the mail clerk duck into McLeod’s office to leave the augmented bundle of mail on the desktop. Then, satisfied that the trap had been successfully set, he went off to his own cubicle to await further developments.

But McLeod did not return to his office that day. Though Napier made a point of sticking close to his office, ostensibly to catch up on back paperwork, lunchtime and then the afternoon wore on without McLeod’s putting in an appearance. By half past five, Napier was forced to conclude that his victim was not going to show up.

He did not look forward to the phone call he now must make. Finally setting his reports aside, he locked up his office, signed out for the day, and headed downstairs. Just inside the lobby, he dropped a coin in a public phone box and punched a number. The voice that answered was humbly respectful, with an accent that suggested the northwest region of Pakistan.

“This is Charles Napier,” he informed the speaker curtly. “If my uncle is free, I would like a word with him.”

A moment later, Raeburn’s voice came on the line.

“Well?”

“Everything’s in place, just as you ordered,” Napier said. “Unfortunately, it looks as if the desired event is going to have to keep till tomorrow. He didn’t come back to the office today.”

There was a slight pause, pregnant with displeasure. “Very well,” said Raeburn coldly. “Just remember the price of failure.”

* * *

The next morning, McLeod trudged in to work feeling as if he could have done with a holiday, more than ready for a weekend off. The previous day’s series of meetings and discussions in Perth had yielded no new insights into the murder of Randall Stewart. His jaundiced outlook was not brightened by the knowledge that the work load from all his other cases was beginning to mount up in the face of enforced neglect. This reflection was hideously confirmed when he opened the door to his own office to find the top of his desk nearly buried under tidy stacks of file folders, computer print-outs, mail, memos, and reports.

McLeod glowered at the clutter from the threshold. At the same moment, a smartly uniformed PC Cochrane shouldered his way into the general office through the door that led to and from Police Records and came over to greet him.

“Morning, Inspector,” he said cheerfully. “How did things go with the Procurator Fiscal?”

“They didn’t,” McLeod grumbled. He cocked an eye at his subordinate and asked, “What about the MacIntosh burglary? The superintendent collared me on the way in. Any progress there?”

“A bit. Some of the stuff turned up in a pawnshop in Carlisle. The Carlisle police are going to get back in touch with us once they’ve had a chance to run down the lead the pawnbroker was able to give them.” Cochrane added, “I’ve also finished typing up my notes from the interviews we did in Stirling. They’re on my desk, if you want to look them over.”

“Not right now, thanks,” said McLeod. “Let me at least get some of this other rubbish cleared away first.”

Cochrane peered in at the mounds of paperwork and pulled a sympathetic grin. “Aye, sir, I see what you mean.”

“And that’s only the surface,” McLeod informed him with a glimmer of returning humor. “Now if you really want to make yourself useful, you could try finding me a cup of coffee.”

Chuckling, Cochrane went off to comply. Left alone, McLeod pushed his door shut, then rolled his chair back from several pieces of mail that had spilled off the desk and sat down. Where to start? Sighing, he picked up the fallen mail and tossed it on the desk, moved the sheaf of computer printouts to a side chair, and set the stack of file folders on top of that. Then he set about opening the mail.

The first batch yielded the usual collection of odds and ends: over-sized catalogues from a German gun-manufacturing company and an American firm that specialized in holsters and other leather goods; a flyer announcing an in-service course that had already taken place; a letter requesting an officer to attend a local Neighborhood Watch meeting; and two complaints from self-styled concerned citizens taking exception to his most recent statements to the press over Randall Stewart’s involvement with Freemasonry.

He pitched the in-service flyer and dead envelopes into the wastebasket, marked the Neighborhood Watch request for redirection to Community Relations and tossed it in his out-basket, and bunged the rest into his in-basket for later attention. He paused to read more closely an interdepartmental update on police procedure for dealing with drug-related arrests, wondering where Cochrane was with his coffee, then reached for the next item on the stack.

It was a large manila inter-office envelope with McLeod’s name and office number typed on a white self-stick label and “Personal” stamped in red beside it. Mildly curious, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands, reaching for a paper-knife when the flap proved to be stuck down tight. When he had slit it open, he parted the two sides with his fingers to peer inside, then up-ended the envelope to spill its contents onto the desk in front of him.

To his surprise, what fell out was a shiny gold origami figure of some kind of animal, about six inches long. He grinned, for it appeared that another of his department colleagues was ribbing him again—for his own prowess at origami was well-known throughout the building. The corkboard on the wall beside his head sported a colorful if rather tattered collection of other people’s attempts alongside some of McLeod’s better examples.

Chuckling, and wondering who could have provided this latest addition to his display, McLeod picked it up.

He knew instantly that he had made a mistake. The moment his fingers closed on the paper, a savage jolt of energy leapt up his arm. Searing as a lightning strike, the charge raced through his nervous system, paralyzing him from head to foot. Transfixed with shock, he reeled back in his chair, the origami figure dropping from nerveless fingers.

Ending physical contact did not end the assault. The material world around McLeod receded into a nightmare blur. As if in a dream, he found himself plummeting backward through phantom fog banks crackling with fire. The falling sensation ended with another blazing jolt. He fought to regain conscious control of his faculties, but the only physical image to penetrate the blanketing psychic fog was that of the origami sculpture now lying on the floor between his feet, which he now saw clearly was made in the likeness of a lynx.

With a venomous buzz like the amplified hiss of a cobra, the origami shape seemed to ignite in a billowing plume of sickly yellow smoke. As McLeod cringed away from it, struggling to ward off the attack, the smoke thickened and spread, resolving into a rearing feline shape with tufted cheeks and burning crimson eyes. The lynx spat at him in mingled hunger and contempt, baring fangs that dripped saliva like slow poison. Before he could summon the strength to move or cry out, the creature sprang at him, overwhelming him in a miasma like a gas-cloud.

Choke-fire filled his eyes and lungs, like an attack of tear gas only much, much worse. The intensity of the pain broke his paralysis. Racked with nausea, he groped blindly through the swirling mists for the inner pocket of his jacket. A heartbeat later, his quaking fingers located it, clawing inside for the one thing that might save him in his present extremity.

Warm and solid, his Huntsman’s ring came to his hand. By then the pain had become a constricting crown of thorns, squeezing ever more tightly about his head until he was sure his skull would eventually burst. His breath came in labored gasps as he worked the ring onto his third finger, and he drew on everything it symbolized as he focused his dwindling reserves of strength to push back the lynx’s killing force.

For an awful moment, he thought he might be too late to save himself. Then, as the seconds ticked away, he realized that the pressure on his skull had stabilized. It cost him to renew his own counter—imperative, but he felt the tight circle of pain give way a stubborn fraction. Yes, it was showing signs of loosening. If he could just—

An urgent voice penetrated the surrounding fog.

“Inspector? Inspector McLeod, are you all right?”

The words seemed to resonate and boom. The tide-wash of psychic reverberations threatened for a moment to plunge McLeod back into chaos. Importunate hands clutched at his shoulders, demanding his response.

Fixing the whole of his attention on the presence beyond the hands, McLeod forced his eyes open and found himself gazing fuzzily up into the face of Donald Cochrane. He blinked and realized that he was no longer wearing his spectacles.

“Donald—” he managed to gasp.

“I think I’d better call an ambulance,” Cochrane said, reaching across him for one of the phones.

“No!”
McLeod’s hand grasped hard at the constable’s sleeve. A part of him was somewhat astonished to find that he was still in his chair, if slumped rather precariously.

“Be all right,” he managed to rasp, struggling to make his vocal cords work. “No fuss!” Seeing Cochrane hesitate, he added more forcefully, “This is
—not medical,
Donald!
No outside interference!”

He tried to punctuate the directive with a shake of his head. The attempted movement very nearly caused him to pass out. Choking back a mouthful of bile, he repeated, “Be . . . all right in a minute. Shut the blinds.
Please,
Donald!”

To his infinite relief, Cochrane did as he was told. By the time the young constable turned back to him, McLeod had had time to get his bearings. By some miracle, the door to his office was all but closed. The origami lynx was lying intact a few feet from his chair. The fire evidently had been only a visionary manifestation of the triggering reaction.

“Close the door,” he whispered, gesturing jerkily toward it and steeling himself against another wave of nausea as Cochrane obeyed. “D’ye see that?” he grated, indicating the lynx with a shaky forefinger. “Silk handkerchief . . . here in m’ jacket pocket.” He gestured toward it vaguely but could not seem to muster enough coordination to pull it out. “Wrap it around that an’ pick it up—but don’t touch . . . for th’ sake o’ the Widow’s Son . . . “

Wide-eyed, Cochrane came to him and pulled out the handkerchief. He knew nothing of McLeod’s esoteric connections other than Freemasonry, but his training with McLeod in the same Masonic Lodge had forged a bond of trust that could not lightly refuse an entreaty invoking that shared brotherhood. Bending cautiously over the lynx, he shielded his hand in several layers of silk before very tentatively plucking it from the floor.

“What the hell is this thing?” he whispered, casting a suspicious glance over it and then holding it at arm’s length again. “It just looks like one of your origami figures.”

“Wrap it up and put it in the desk drawer,” McLeod rasped. “Can’t explain right now.” He could feel the pain pulsing behind his eyeballs, and he propped his brow on his fists while’ he tried to think. The effects of the attack were still with him, circulating throughout his mind and body like a virus just waiting to break out again with renewed virulence.

I can’t fight this off on my own,
he thought dizzily.
Thank God it was Donald who found me, but he can’t deal with this. I’ve got to get help from somewhere else.

Adam was due back from London just after noon, but that was no help now. McLeod swallowed hard and thought again, even though the effort sent red-hot needles of pain shooting through his brain. It seemed to be getting worse, not better. A Styrofoam cup materialized in front of him, and with it, his spectacles.

“You dropped your glasses,” Cochrane said worriedly. “Would some coffee help? Are you sure I can’t get you a doctor?”