The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (44 page)

“Good afternoon; Mr. Sykes,” he said, as the dapper Jamaican glanced up and gave him a grin.

“Hey, Dr. Sinclair! How’re you doing? Dr. Lockhart was really miffed when you did your Houdini on us last week. You here to have your stitches out?”

“Not for a few more days,” Adam allowed with a smile. “Do you know if she’s available?”

“Hmmm, I think she’s with a patient, but let me see how long she’s gonna be.”

He ducked his head into several treatment rooms, but he was shaking his head when he emerged from the last one a few minutes later.

“Man, she’s got two more waiting for her after this one,” Sykes said. “You might catch a few words with her while she’s in transit, though, if you move fast. You here to let her take you up on her dinner prize?”

“Well, a gentleman never reneges on a promise to a lady,” Adam replied, constraining a grin. “It doesn’t look too promising for tonight, though, does it?”

“Hmmm, ‘fraid not, Doc. Everybody tries to get extra time off at the holidays, and one of our consultants hasn’t shown all week. Poor Dr. X has been working her pretty buns off, covering for everybody—ah, no disrespect, sir. She’s one hell of a doctor.”

“Yes, I’d noticed both qualities,” he said with bland neutrality, though something in Sykes’ remark about a missing consultant had piqued his interest. “Who’s the consultant who hasn’t shown? Maybe I know him.”

“It’s Dr. Wemyss. You might have met him the day you came in. But here’s herself. Move fast, if you want to catch her!”

Sykes melted into the background as Ximena came out of the treatment room, looking for and then spotting Adam. She gave him a weary smile and extended her hand as she came toward him, glancing approvingly at his silk sling as she briefly squeezed his left hand.

“Hello, Adam. What a pleasant surprise in an otherwise ghastly day. What are you doing out and about?”

“I thought I’d better make some rounds,” he said easily. “I hadn’t seen most of my patients for a solid week—even worse than your missing man.”

“Oh, you mean Dr. Wemyss,” she said. “Sykes must have told you. Kind of an odd guy—good physician, but not very personable. We’re beginning to worry, though. Nobody’s seen him since Saturday. But how are
you?”

He shrugged and smiled. “Definitely on the mend—and up to dinner tonight, if you are.”

She grimaced, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, you
are
cruel. I haven’t gotten lunch yet, and there’s no way I’ll be able to get away for dinner. Maybe one night later in the week, if Wemyss comes back or we get a locum in.”

“Unfortunately, I’m engaged for the next two evenings,” Adam said, feeling oddly disappointed, “but maybe at the weekend. Do you still intend to come out and remove my stitches?”

“Beg pardon, Dr. Lockhart, but we’re ready for you now,” a nurse called from another treatment room.

Rolling her eyes, Ximena waved a hand in the nurse’s direction, looking frustrated.

“That’s certainly my intention, but this place is crazy! I’ll try to call you first. It may be at short notice.”

“Fair enough,” Adam said. “If you take a peek out to the ambulance bays before you run off, you’ll get a free preview of that tour I promised of my motor house.”

As he jogged his chin in that direction, she moved a few steps closer to the doors to look where he directed.

“An old Bentley. Nice,” she murmured, glancing at him in approval. “Sir Adam Sinclair, you are
on!
Gotta go now, though.

I’ll call you. Bye.”

So saying, she darted in quickly to peck him on the cheek, then was gone, leaving him with a last glimpse of the dark bob of her ponytail against the clean line of her green-clad back. He must have had a silly grin on his face, because the orderly Sykes gave him a droll, knowing nod as he bestirred himself to go back out into the cold.

He wanted to keep her image in his mind on the drive home, but he found himself thinking instead about the missing Dr. Wemyss, who had last been seen on Saturday. He had heard the name before.

It took him a while to remember where, casting back in trance, but by the time Humphrey was guiding the big Bentley down the last stretch of drive toward Strathmourne House, he had tracked the memory to a conversation overheard between his pretty red-headed nurse of Friday night and the pharmacist who had brought up the medication that proved to have been tampered with—something about being delayed because a Dr. Wemyss had insisted on some pharmacy records being checked.

That had to have been when the switch was made—and Wemyss’ disappearance as of Saturday suggested that he might have been the one responsible for the astral lynx attack the night before, gone to ground after his failure to take Adam out. It was a sobering thought, but having a name to attach to his possible attacker was encouraging. Now, if they could make a connection between Wemyss and Raeburn . . .

He rang McLeod when he got back to the house, to have him put Donald Cochrane on the trail of the name, but the inspector and Cochrane had already left for the day, probably to pick up the car for tomorrow’s outing. So he rang the Royal Infirmary to get Wemyss’ first name—Preston—then filed the information to tell McLeod about it in the morning, on their way north.

Chapter Thirty-Two

ADAM TOLD MCCLEOD
and Peregrine over breakfast the next morning, while they all shoveled down porridge, eggs and toast, nearly a dozen rashers of bacon among the three of them, and Mrs. Gilchrist’s ubiquitous scones washed down with tea—fuel for their day in the cold and open. Philippa joined them for the briefing, but confined herself to her usual fare of grapefruit, tea, and toast. They reviewed their maps then, finalizing their route, and McLeod rang Donald Cochrane at home just before they left, to put him on the Preston Wemyss trail before they headed out.

“Find out whatever you can about him without arousing undue suspicion, Donald,” McLeod told the younger officer. “It sounds like friends and colleagues might be on the verge of filing a missing persons report, which would certainly make our lives easier, but right now, we don’t
know
that he’s done anything wrong. It isn’t against the law to disappear. I do want to know if you can make any connection with Raeburn, though.”

“Will do, Inspector,” Cochrane replied. “And good luck to you, sir.”

“Thanks, Donald.”

They were on the road just after seven. The white Toyota Land Cruiser McLeod had rented for the venture was not as luxurious or as comfortable as the Range Rover, but it ate up the miles with ease, coping with sometimes atrocious road conditions once they got past Perth. In hopes of avoiding the worst of the winter conditions, they edged more westerly out of Perth rather than heading on through Blairgowrie and Braemar, making reasonably good time through towns with such historic names as Pitlochry, Killiecrankie, and Blair Atholl and skirting the evergreen sweeps of the Forest of Atholl. Climbing on through the Grampians then, as the A9 curved back northward toward Kingussie and Aviemore, they wound more easterly again, skirting the dark fastness of the Forest of Glen More and heading ever nearer the area Peregrine had isolated in the Cairngorm Mountains.

It was approaching noon as they turned off what passed for a main road in this part of the Highlands and snaked along a road still paved, but treacherous with ice and pot-holes, looking for an even narrower turn-off that showed on their maps only as a pale brown line. It finally materialized on the blind side of a sharp bend in the road, and McLeod had to brake sharply and reverse for several yards before nosing the Toyota through a narrow slot between two freestone markers.

The single-track road beyond was rough and rutted, all but snowed over in many places, and the Toyota’s four-wheel drive became essential rather than merely handy as they crept along it, anxiously peering ahead. Several times, McLeod glanced back at Peregrine as if to question whether they should proceed, but Peregrine always nodded yes.

After half an hour of this, they came at last to a corrugated iron gate posted with a sign that read,
Private—No Trespassing.
A rusty but sturdy-looking padlock locked it shut, and to either side, barbed-wire strands receded into snowy banks and increasing gloom. Behind them, their tire tracks showed black as licorice against the snow, already icing up, with noon past and an early dusk already starting to descend. At one o’clock in the northern Highlands, just a day short of mid-winter, they had perhaps another two hours of decent light before darkness began to close in, even if the weather did not. A light fall of new snow had already begun to dust their windscreen, and Adam leaned across to switch on the wipers.

“What do you think?” he said quietly, as the swish of the wipers joined with the low idle of the engine.

“I think,” said McLeod, as Peregrine craned to peer between the seat backs, “that from here, if we go on, we go on foot. I also think that I should turn the car around before we set foot outside. I don’t like the feel of this place.”

“Neither do I,” Adam said quietly. “Not that we expected anything different.”

McLeod had to back up nearly twenty yards to a slightly wider place in the road to accomplish the necessary maneuver, and even then, it took him half a dozen to-and-fro’s to get the car turned. As he switched off the ignition, the silence of the place settled around them like a cloak, close and heavy. None of them dared to speak or even breathe for several seconds, until finally Adam reached behind the seat for Peregrine to hand him his snow boots, and they all began preparing to brave the elements.

Peregrine kept his head down as he laced up his hiking boots, but he saw McLeod tuck the familiar Browning Hi-Power into his waistband, a couple of spare ammo clips going into the pockets of his black anorak. Adam had left his sling behind today, and had McLeod help him pull on his sheepskin coat when they had gotten out of the car. He had looped a tiny pair of Pentax binoculars over his head while still inside, and tucked them into the front of his coat before partially buttoning it and then drawing on a white knitted watch cap and fur-lined gloves. Peregrine suspected he was also carrying his
skean dubh.
Certainly he and McLeod both wore their rings under their gloves, as Peregrine carried his deep in a trouser pocket.

Other than that, Peregrine was armed with only his wits and a sketch pad and pencils. He had decided against bringing his entire sketchbox—just one more thing to carry if they had to beat a hasty retreat. But he had thought to bring gloves with liners this time, so he could sketch in the cold, and he had a nubbly Arran cap to keep his ears warm. McLeod had come similarly prepared for the cold, and to his other accoutrements added a Polaroid camera which he pulled from his utility bag behind the front seats. He, too, had binoculars hanging around his neck, larger than Adam’s pair.

“It occurred to me that photos would be useful,” he said, patting the camera as he pushed his door closed but did not slam or lock it. “It’ll probably be too dark to get much, but it can’t hurt to try. Now let’s see how far we can get. And keep your voices down. Sound carries farther than you’d think.”

Their first obstacle was the gate, but they did not even bother with that. Heading them about twenty yards farther along the fence to the left, where some of the fence posts had sagged, McLeod gingerly poised the car keys about two inches above the top strand of barbed-wire, then dropped them to straddle the wire—without apparent effect.

“Well, at least it isn’t electrified,” he murmured, retrieving the keys and then grasping the top strand with both gloved hands, while a booted foot pressed the others to the ground. “Of course, I may have set off other alarms—and I may be plain paranoid. Come on through, you two.”

Bending stiffly, Adam folded himself to ease through the gap, helped Peregrine through, then caught the top strand for McLeod as he followed. Ahead, the snow-covered road stretched into ever-whitening dimness, heading gently upward and around to the right.

“I’ll take the point,” McLeod murmured, heading out purposefully. “You two stay alert.”

He forged on ahead then, keeping to one side, the aviator glasses constantly scanning, and Peregrine fell in opposite Adam as they followed after. They carried on up the road in silence for perhaps half a mile, till it bridged the stone-arched span of a narrow, half-frozen stream. From somewhere farther up the valley, they could hear the gurgle of water running under the ice. As they continued to advance, climbing now, Peregrine became aware of a strange undercurrent of vibrations in the air, like the subsonic rumble of distant thunder. A glance at Adam confirmed that he was feeling it, too—or maybe it was the stress of the climb.

“Are you all right?” Peregrine whispered.

“Aye.”

Adam tightened his lips and narrowed his gaze as he scanned the lay of the land ahead. He was breathing a little more heavily than usual under the stress of his body’s lingering aches and pains, and he leaned into the angle of the slope and struggled his way up the sharp incline. McLeod was waiting for them at the top, crouched behind the remains of an ancient stone wall and training his binoculars on something still at some distance off to their left, perched at the side of a low waterfall above the stream. As Adam signaled Peregrine to keep his head down, he struggled his way across the remaining few feet to slip in beside the inspector, Peregrine coming to his other side. Silently McLeod pointed toward what could just be perceived as an artificial structure of some kind, apparently built of stone.

“What do you make of that?” he whispered. “Maybe a Lynx lair?”

Not answering, Adam pulled out his binoculars and tried to focus them on the distant building. Snow was still powdering down, but even allowing for that, the image coming in seemed strangely indistinct. He blew on the lenses to clear any dust and readjusted them for a second look, but McLeod snorted softly.

“You too, eh?” he whispered. “It’s no use. The place is so heavily warded, I can’t make out anything more than a general outline. It won’t photograph properly, either. Look at these.”

He pulled several Polaroid snaps out of his pocket, but though the surrounds of the structure were reasonably clear for the distance and conditions, the structure itself was too blurred to see much.

“Can’t we get any nearer than this?” Peregrine asked.

“Not without risk of exposure,” Adam said. Even as he spoke, he could feel the dark potency residing within those towering walls rasping away at his nerves like iron chains wearing against raw flesh. At close range, the effect would be devastating without more strength to counter it than could be mustered here at this present time. Even so, he was reluctant to give the order to withdraw before they had a chance to form some clearer impression of just what it was up there.

“What do
you
see, Peregrine?” he asked softly, turning his glance to the artist. “Have a look through the glasses, and see if you can get them to focus.”

He passed the smaller binoculars to Peregrine, who pulled off his spectacles and put the binoculars to his eyes. The physical focus wouldn’t quite come, but he had the feeling that if he let his vision kick in, he might be able to see something more.

“Let me have a go with a pencil,” he said, with more conviction than he felt. “After all, isn’t that why I’m here?”

As Adam and McLeod exchanged uneasy looks, Peregrine squirmed himself around until he could get at the sketch pad inside his duffel coat, pulling off his outer gloves with his teeth and then stuffing them into a pocket. He was pulling a pencil out of an inside pocket when Adam laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“Hold for just a moment, Peregrine,” he said, as McLeod circled behind them both to settle on Peregrine’s left. “Give us a chance to put a little protection on you before you begin. This is something different from anything you’ve dealt with before.”

Mystified, but trusting their judgment, Peregrine paused with pencil in hand and spectacles once more in place, bowing his head as hands came to rest on his shoulders from either side. He did not understand the words that Adam murmured, close by his right ear, but he could feel a warmth that was not physical gradually surrounding him. After a moment, he felt Adam’s hand tighten on his shoulder, in signal that he and McLeod were done.

“All right, go for it—but be careful,” Adam said softly.

Peregrine drew a deep breath and raised his gaze to the target ahead, narrowing his gaze. The objects near at hand receded into a hazy blur. He took several more deep breaths, like a pearl fisherman preparing for a dive, then took the plunge, cautiously extending himself to see through the cloud of ill-intent that separated him and his guardians from the stronghold of their enemies.

It was like wading into a polluted stream. He could almost feel the noxious film of psychic corruption clinging to his skin. Shivering in disgust, he made an effort of will to penetrate to the heart of the fog. There was a queasy ripple before his eyes, and all at once, for the twinkling of an eye, he had an unobstructed view of the castle and its outer environs.

In the same instant of awareness, the brooding presence within the house became aware of an intrusion and struck back with a blind blast of energy. The force of it was like a whiplash aimed at his eyes. Even as Peregrine made a gasping recoil, the force of it broke against the invisible wall that Adam and McLeod had erected. There was a sharp crackle, like invisible sparks, and a sudden yawning silence.

“That’s it! We’re out of here!” McLeod ordered, physically seizing him by the arm and starting to shuffle him down the slope as Adam scrambled to his feet and followed. “Try to keep your mind as blank as possible, and don’t look back!”

Together they beat a hasty retreat back in the direction they had come, slogging through snow now somewhat deeper than before. By the time they regained the car, all of them were breathing hard and sweating inside their heavy winter gear, and Adam was whiter than the cap he swept off as he almost fell into the front passenger seat. As McLeod clambered into the driver’s seat and cranked the ignition, Peregrine fumbled urgently for his seat belt in the back, anticipating another of the wild rides of which he knew the inspector was capable.

“Brace yourselves, everybody,” McLeod said, as he hit the accelerator.