The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (36 page)

His sense of his own power was accompanied by an aching compulsion to exercise it, the sweeter for being restrained. He hardly heard the Head-Master’s concluding incantations, so preoccupied was he with contemplation of the coming divine ecstasy, his again when he loosed the potency now vested within him. He mastered himself only with difficulty, to discover that the Head-Master was making him a formal presentation of the torc.

“Praise be to Taranis,” he breathed as he accepted the torc from the hands of his superior. “I accept this charge and pledge the execution of His will.”

* * *

The skies cleared during the next few days, but the weather remained bitterly cold. After the shock of Friday night’s assault at Calton Hill, which Adam now had no doubt was the work of the Lodge of the Lynx, he made a point of warning those members of his Lodge not already under suspicion to avoid making contact except in the event of an emergency. As a matter of precaution, both he and McLeod kept to their respective routines, leaving Philippa to mount guard over Strathmourne and its occupants and pursue Gillian Talbot’s treatment by conventional medicine. Peregrine, likewise, remained within the boundaries of the estate, and spent the better part of each day at Gillian’s bedside making sketches that he was reluctant to show to anyone except Adam.

Adam himself was aware of a brooding sense of foreboding in the air, but could find no focus to the threat. The promised interview notes materialized on Sunday afternoon, dutifully delivered by McLeod himself, but failed to shed any new light on the situation. McLeod paid a visit to Adam’s office at Jordanburn on Tuesday, but his only news had to do with the previous tenants of the “haunted” flat now occupied by Christopher’s former parishioner, Helena Pringle.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing here that’s really encouraging,” McLeod said dourly, shifting his weight in his chair. “Of the three people on the landlady’s list, the first—John Lariston—was single at the time of his tenancy, but has since married and moved down to England, where he’s now practicing dentistry. The Central Post Office was able to track him down through three subsequent residences to give us his current address in Sussex. His life there seems to be more or less an open book. I doubt he’s the man we’re after.”

“I would tend to agree,” Adam said. “Go on.”

“Joseph MacKellar, our second man, is a bit more problematical,” McLeod continued. “Mr. MacKellar is employed by the Bank of Scotland, and was transferred to a branch office in Paris two years ago. We’re still trying to run down his address on the Continent. I’ll let you know if and when we find anything. Again, he doesn’t seem a likely candidate for what Peregrine picked up in the flat.”

He paused to consult his notes before resuming.

“That leaves us the tenant just before Helena Pringle, name of Stephen Victor Geddes. We haven’t had much luck on him, either. At the time of his occupancy, he was working as a part-time lecturer in biology at Edinburgh University, but he’s since left his post without leaving any record of his taking up employment elsewhere. We’re still waiting for Social Services to get around to running his name through their computer to see if he’s gone on the dole. If he has, they’ll be able to give us his current address. If not, we’ll have to try some other tack.”

Adam nodded. “I still think it’s worth pursuing, if only because of that glimpse Peregrine got of a Lynx medallion involved in whatever went on there. I assume none of the three have a criminal record?” .

“Not under those names,” McLeod replied. “And we have no reason to suspect they’ve used any others.”

“This may prove a blind alley then,” Adam said. “We won’t drop it yet, though. In the meantime, I suggest we pursue the Balmoral angle and continue working on the slaying at Calton Hill, of course. No autopsy report yet, I gather, or you would’ve mentioned it.”

“I’ve been promised it tomorrow,” McLeod replied. “You don’t really think that’s going to make a difference, though, do you?”

Adam smiled grimly. “One can always hope.”

That hope, at least, was ill-founded. McLeod rang back on Wednesday, the promised report having arrived, but it was becoming increasingly clear that the physical evidence surrounding the death of the Master Mason MacPherson was not going to lead them any closer to the perpetrators. Like Randall, he had been chloroformed and drugged by his captors, but there any similarity ended, beyond the fact that both were Freemasons. The burn mark on the victim’s chest did suggest the presence of something round and metallic around his neck—something besides the Masonic jewel, whose more irregular outline also had been branded into the flesh by the intense heat—but no trace of any such object had been found at the scene.

“It may well have been the Lynx medallion Peregrine postulated,” McLeod said, “but if so, the perpetrators took it off the body before they made their escape. I’m inclined to agree that it was exactly what Peregrine saw, but we have no proof. And even if we did, it isn’t anything we could use in the official investigation. I can’t advance the opinion that MacPherson was hit by deliberately directed lightning.”

“That may be exactly what happened, though,” Adam said, “just as I’m beginning to wonder whether that’s what happened up at Balmoral. Have you gotten back anything further on that?”

“Not yet,” McLeod replied, “but I hope to send Donald up tomorrow to run down copies of the reports and photos. I’ll get back to you when I have something further to report. How’re things going with the Talbot girl?”

“Nothing yet,” Adam said. “Peregrine’s producing some very interesting drawings, and we’re continuing with conventional therapy in the meantime. I hope to be ready for a definite move within a week or so.”

“Sounds like we all just hang tight for a while, then,” McLeod replied.

* * *

That same evening, Francis Raeburn summoned the pilot Barclay to his library in the house outside Stirling.

“Time is growing short,” he said. “Have you decided how to deal with Sinclair?”

Barclay allowed himself a predatory smile as he folded his lean form into the chair across from his superior.

“By this time tomorrow, he’ll be dead—or at least badly enough injured that his death will be inevitable. Dr. Wemyss will see to that.”

“There’d better not be any slipups,” Raeburn said. “I want no interference on Friday. You’re sure it will look like an accident?”

“Sinclair drives fast,” Barclay said with a smug smile. “And tires do blow at speed. It will look like an accident.”

* * *

Adam did not venture from the house on Thursday, being preoccupied with a series of tests Philippa wanted to run on Gillian. On Friday morning, as Adam prepared to leave for the hospital, an early call from McLeod set up a meeting later in the day to go over the photos and reports Cochrane had secured at Balmoral.

“I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet myself,” McLeod told him, “but Donald came in this morning looking like the proverbial cat with the canary.”

“Sounds promising,” Adam said, adjusting a cuff-link. “How about if I meet you for a late lunch? Say, the Pimpernel at two?”

“Sounds good to me,” McLeod said. “Will you book or shall I?”

“Would you mind doing it?” Adam said. “I skipped rounds yesterday so Philippa and I could work with Gillian, so I’ve got to spend some time with my other patients today.”

“Will do,” McLeod replied. “The Pimpernel at two. See you.” Adam was preoccupied as he got into the Range Rover and buckled up. At just past nine, the morning was hardly brighter than when it had dawned, made grey and dismal by a drifting mist that could not quite seem to decide whether it wanted to be sleet or rain—less than optimum driving conditions, but the Range Rover was designed to cope with just such weather, and Adam was an excellent driver.

Once he had negotiated the icy drive and was on the secondary road, picking up speed, his driving settled into semi-automatic, for he had many things on his mind. As a consequence, he made no special note of the man on the motorcycle who fell in behind him to trail at a discreet distance, or the yellow Mercedes that also joined in as he merged smoothly onto the motorway and pushed the Rover up to a comfortable cruising speed of about 70 mph.

He was approaching the Forth Road Bridge when the man on the motorcycle made his move. Adam had the blue Range Rover in the number one lane, nearest the divider, and had made only idle note of the big Italian motorcycle coming up fast in his rearview mirror.

Before he could ease over to let the machine overtake him, it was nearly even with his left rear quarter-panel, so he stayed where he was, only casually aware of the machine easing forward along the Rover’s left side. He did not see the sawed-off shotgun the rider casually pulled from under his leg and coat and pointed at the Range Rover’s left front tire, or hear the blast as the rider pulled the trigger.

As the Rover’s left front tire went with a bang, Adam was only peripherally aware of the motorcycle shooting on ahead and out of danger; all
too
aware that the Rover was spinning out of control as the wheel’s rim bit into the asphalt.

He fought the wheel, but the car’s right rear swung around to carom off the center divider with a sickening
bam!
That might have set him skidding straight again, except that the left front wheel continued to grind into the road. He could feel the car going over—braced himself as it went—praying that following traffic would be able to avoid piling into him.

In terrible slow motion, the car fell onto the driver’s side and kept rolling, now on its roof, skidding now on the passenger side in a sickening screech of tortured metal, Adam braced against the steering wheel and hanging from his seat belt. The windscreen had crazed and partly buckled, but he could see the metal guard rails on the side of the motorway approaching with horrible speed. The impact flung him hard against his seat harness, wrenching his right shoulder and bouncing his head off something hard. Pain exploded from the point of impact, and his world momentarily went black.

Chapter Twenty-Six

ADAM CLAWED
his way desperately back to consciousness, surfacing in the eerie silence that often seems to follow trauma. He had a death-grip on the steering wheel and was hanging sideways from his seat harness, half-sitting on the side of the center console of the Rover, which was on its left side.

Somehow, through the first fog of pain that radiated from his head, his right shoulder, from nearly every part of his body, he knew that he had to get out. The smell of petrol made it imperative, and through the now-shattered windscreen, he could see smoke or steam escaping from under the Rover’s bonnet. A cold blast of air from above his left shoulder drew his groggy gaze to a gaping opening where the sunroof had been, apparently popped out when the car rolled.

Forcing his left hand to uncurl from around the steering wheel, he pushed the switch for the emergency flashers, fumbled at the ignition switch until he could turn it off, then shifted his left knee to brace against the center console, only then groping along the side of the seat to thumb the seat belt release.

He groaned as the sudden shift of his weight left him half-kneeling on the side of the console, still braced against the steering wheel, and it was all he could do to extricate his legs the rest of the way from under the steering column and scramble to a standing position on the passenger door. As he thrust one trembling leg and then the other through the sunroof opening and crouched to shoulder through, gasping as bruised muscles protested, he found himself facing oncoming traffic, the first cars only now pulling up to render aid—which at least meant that he could not have been unconscious very long.

Wincing as he straightened, every muscle protesting, he staggered around to the front of the car to stare stupidly at the damage, raking hair out of his eyes with a shaking hand that came away bloody.

“Hey, are you all right?” a woman’s voice called behind him.

A little dazedly he turned to see a fortyish-looking brunette in a bright red suit and Christmas bells on her lapel darting toward him on dangerously high-heeled shoes, her brightly-painted mouth agape with concern.

“God, you’re lucky you weren’t killed!” she said, eyeing the car. “You’re bleeding. Can I take you to a doctor?”

He looked down blankly at the blood on his hand, a medically detached part of him warning that he probably had a concussion, possibly was going into shock, and definitely needed medical attention.

“Maybe I ought to wait for an ambulance,” he heard himself saying. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Don’t be daft. It could take an hour for official transport to get here. Come on. I work right next to the Royal Infirmary. You can’t get any better facility than that.”

Some vague stirring at the back of his mind made him want to decline, but it
was
the best emergency facility around. Injured police officers were taken there, if they had a choice, and Adam knew several consultants on staff. Whatever his injuries, he would get the best of care.

Mumbling his thanks—he feared he
was
going into shock—he let her help him back to the yellow Mercedes idling behind the wreck of his own car, stifling a groan as he eased into the passenger seat. She moved the seat back to give him more leg room, then pulled the seat belt down to buckle him in and closed his door.

As she came around to the driver’s side, he folded down the sun visor to peer into its mirror. His pupils appeared to be the same size, but the blood was coming from at least two lacerations that would require suturing, one on his forehead and another just into his hair. He dabbed at the wounds with a silk pocket square, but the movement sent sharp pain through his wrenched right shoulder. As his benefactress got into the car, he shifted his attention to checking his pulse. It was steady enough, but every muscle in his body was starting to ache as the adrenaline surge from the accident started to dissipate.

“You really totalled the car,” she said, as she put the Mercedes into gear and pulled out into traffic. “Do you know what happened?”

“A tire blew,” he said, leaning his head against the seat back and closing his eyes. “Listen, I really do appreciate this.”

“Just think of me as the Christmas Samaritan,” she said with a tight-lipped smile that he did not see. “Why don’t you just lie back and relax? I’ll have you at the hospital as quickly as I can.”

He did try to relax, though he knew he should not let himself fall asleep—not if he was concussed. He spent a few minutes taking himself into a light trance, doing what he could to stabilize heart-rate and respiration, then let himself drift with the drone of the engine and the motion of the car, trying to reconstruct what had happened. Every second seemed clear, but there was something not quite right, something he could not put his finger on. He was still trying to puzzle it out when the car gently came to a halt and then the engine stopped.

They had pulled up outside a hospital emergency entrance, his rescuer already getting out of the car to go and summon help. Carefully, because it already was harder to move, Adam released his seat belt and opened the car door. He had managed to get both feet onto the pavement when a porter came barging up with a wheelchair.

“Now, you just stay where you are, sir, till I get this chair in close, okay? You’re going to be just fine.” The man’s voice had a musical lilt, soft with the accents of Jamaica, and his hands were gentle but strong. “Right, sir. Just shift yourself around now—that’s my man!”

Things moved quickly after that, especially once Adam identified himself as a physician. His benefactress disappeared sometime during the process of filling out necessary forms, without him ever learning her name, and almost before he realized, Adam found himself flat on his back in an examining room, stripped to his shorts and shivering under a blanket, a blood-pressure cuff constricting his left arm.

The doctor who came to examine him was an attractive, no-nonsense brunette whose accent suggested American or Canadian origins. The name tag on her green surgical scrubs read
Dr.
X.
Lockhart.
She seemed satisfied with his blood pressure and neurological signs, but poking and prodding at his physical discomforts had already suggested that he had several cracked ribs and possibly a cracked collarbone.

“I’m sending you over to X-ray before we take care of those lacerations, Dr. Sinclair,” she said, as she began filling out the forms and the orderly, whose name was Sykes, assisted Adam in poking his arms through the sleeves of a hospital gown. “We’ll have a look at the ribs and that shoulder, and I’m also ordering a skull series. I don’t suspect any problem, but you
were
unconscious, even if only for a few seconds. Mr. Sykes will put a temporary dressing on those lacerations before he takes you over to X-ray, and I’ll see you when you get back.”

She had clipped the forms to Adam’s chart and was gone before he could bestir himself to ask any questions. He did ask for another blanket after Sykes had applied his dressing, and had the orderly retrieve his ring from the pocket of his trousers before preparing to wheel him off to X-ray. Other items in his pockets were valuable but replaceable; the ring was not. He slipped it on his hand and turned the stone inward as Sykes gathered up the rest of his belongings and stashed them in a locker.

“I don’t suppose I can make a phone call before we go to X-ray?” Adam asked, as Sykes adjusted the new blanket and then raised the side rails on the gurney.

“Afraid not, Doctor. The sooner we get to X-ray, the sooner you’ll be done. How about if you call from there, after they’ve taken their pictures? We’ll have a five- or ten-minute wait anyway, while they develop the film.”

“Fair enough,” Adam agreed. But he wanted to call as soon as possible, because he had a suspicion that the obviously competent Dr. Lockhart was going to keep him overnight for observation—which was entirely correct under the circumstances, but it did complicate matters considerably.

He settled back resignedly as the orderly wheeled him over to X-ray, too uncomfortable to banter much with the technicians, but doing his best to make their work as easy as possible. At least he was starting to be able to think a bit more clearly. Afterwards, as Sykes had promised, he was wheeled into a waiting area and a telephone receiver placed in his hand.

“What’s the number, and I’ll dial it for you, Doc,” the orderly said.

“It’s 311-3131,” Adam said, putting the receiver to his ear. The man dialed, then moved off a few feet as the number began to ring.

“Police headquarters,” said a voice at the other end.

“Let me speak to Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod,” Adam said. “This is Adam Sinclair calling.”

After a short delay while the operator transferred the call, McLeod’s bass voice echoed from the other end.

“What’s up, Adam?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our luncheon date,” Adam said shakily, choosing his words to produce minimum alarm. “I’ve—ah—bunged up the Rover—totalled it, in fact. I’m all right, but I’m at the Royal Infirmary, waiting for X-rays to come back.”

“Good God, what happened?” McLeod demanded.

“Blew a tire at speed. Lost control and rolled it. It could happen to anybody. Thank God it was the Rover I was driving. Probably saved my life.”

“I should say!” McLeod replied. “You mentioned X-rays—anything broken?”

“I dunno. My shoulder hurts like hell from the seat belt, which 1 suppose is to be expected, and I may have a bit of concussion. I lost consciousness for a few seconds. I expect they’ll keep me overnight. Listen, could you call home and let them know what’s happened? I don’t want them charging down here, because there’s nothing they can do, but I’d appreciate it if you’d pass the word.”

“Glad to do it,” McLeod agreed. “Do I need to chase down your car?”

Adam chuckled weakly. He had not even thought about the abandoned car.

“Good question. I’m afraid I just left it. A very kind woman in a Mercedes insisted on driving me to the hospital, so I have no idea what’s happened to the remains. Lord, I didn’t even get her name to thank her.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” McLeod said. “Where did it happen?”

“Southbound on the A90, just before the Forth Road Bridge. I’m afraid it was rather spectacular. Fortunately, I was able to avoid involving any other vehicles.”

“You’re babbling, you know,” McLeod said gruffly. “Make sure they’re keeping an eye on you. When I’ve made those calls, do you want me to come over?”

Adam blinked. He
was
babbling.

“I think that might be a good idea,” he said. “I doubt they’ll let you see me for an hour or two—I’ve got a couple of lacerations requiring suturing—but they should be through with me by one or two.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” McLeod said.

“Yeah,” Adam replied, lifting his head slightly as the orderly went over to collect the bright orange envelope with the developed X-rays. “Gotta go now, Noel. My pictures are done, and my driver needs to take me back to Emergency. See you in a couple of hours.”

He lay back wearily as the orderly took the receiver from him and cradled it, laying the big envelope on Adam’s chest.

“Okay, let’s go find Dr. Lockhart and show her your pictures,” Sykes said cheerily, releasing the gurney’s brake. “And no free previews!” he added, as Adam started to open the envelope.

Scowling, Adam let the envelope fall back on his chest. “Mr. Sykes, they’re
my
X-rays. And I
am
a physician.”

“Yessir, and a doctor who tries to diagnose himself has a fool for a patient,” Sykes said smugly. “Besides, you can’t see ‘em proper without a light box. Just hang on till we get back to the examining room. If she isn’t there yet, I’ll even put ‘em up for you.”

“Fair enough,” Adam said, lying back with a satisfied sigh.

Sykes just had time to switch on the light box and start slipping the X-rays under their clips when Dr. Lockhart came back in, carrying a tape-sealed bundle of surgical green. Adam had his head up to watch, but he lay back meekly as she shot him a disapproving glance and deposited her bundle on a stainless-steel table, wheeling it close beside his gurney before going back to look at the X-rays Sykes had finished putting up.

“You can prep Dr. Sinclair’s lacerations now, Mr. Sykes,” she said blandly. “And you, Doctor, can lie back and pretend you’re the same as any other patient, and that you really do believe I know what I’m doing.”

As Adam lay back, somehow guessing he was not going to win any concessions where Dr. Lockhart was concerned, she silently studied the X-rays. Adam studied the trim figure, the dark braid escaping from under her surgical cap, trying to get an angle on Dr. X. Lockhart.

After a moment, a rubber-gloved Sykes rolled over another of the stainless-steel tables, this one bedecked with a steel basin and disinfectant solutions, and put a towel under Adam’s head before removing the temporary dressing. It hurt a little as Sykes began gently cleaning the wounds, but Adam kept his attention focused on Dr. Lockhart, who finally nodded and went over to the scrub sink to start washing her hands.