The Reviver (35 page)

As they all promised to steer clear, Jonah heard a voice behind him.

‘Morning,’ said Sam.

Jonah turned, unable to keep the discomfort he still felt off his face.

‘Jonah,’ Sam said. ‘I wondered if you and I could –’

Jonah turned away from Sam and spoke to the others. ‘I’m going to go and read over my notes,’ he said, striding off without looking back.

*   *   *

Jonah stood alone outside the main hall doors as the time for Sam’s opening address approached. He snatched glimpses of Sam preparing at the lectern and chatting to Never and the others, who’d all taken seats at the front. The thought of doing his own presentation was nothing compared with how he felt watching Sam now, wondering if things between them would ever be repaired. With the address about to start, the hall doors were closed. Jonah stood where he was for a few minutes, before setting off upstairs on his own.

As he climbed the stairs, he found himself scanning faces in the still-busy foyer below. It felt like he was looking for something specific, and the feeling baffled him. The security guards were a constant presence, low-key but unmistakable, their practised eyes looking everywhere without seeming to. Checking for trouble, Jonah acknowledged. Maybe that was what he’d been doing too.

The hall upstairs was a third of the size of the main hall. Jonah sat through the talk before his own, to get used to the room. He paid little attention to what was being said, looking over his own notes and trying to focus.

All too soon, the talk finished, most of the audience filing out. He took his place at the lectern up front, arranged his notes, and was taken through some sound checks. Then all he could do was wait.

With five minutes to go, and the audience growing, Never appeared at the door and walked over to him.

‘I know it’s against orders,’ said Never, ‘but I wanted to wish you luck.’

Jonah smiled. ‘Thanks. You still have to get out of here, though.’

The grin that appeared on Never’s face was wide and welcome, the only thing so far that had made Jonah feel in any way better about the prospect. ‘Fucking off now,’ said Never. ‘Come find me when you’re done, right?’

Jonah nodded. One of the organizers prompted him that it was almost time. He shooed Never towards the exit, grin and all, and as the door shut behind his friend the lights dimmed. Jonah took a sip from the glass of water left out for him, his mouth suddenly dry with fear.

Too late to back out.

*   *   *

‘My name is Jonah Miller,’ he said. Uneasy; halting. Hell, he’d been
reading
that, reading his own name, and still his voice was cracking. The hall was half full, the audience spread out across the seats with the front row empty. He knew that if he’d been in that audience, right now he’d have started to feel uncomfortable on behalf of the poor bastard choking in front of them all. He took another drink and leaned closer to the mike. ‘When I…’ Too close. Too loud. Feedback howled. He took another drink and a long breath. He cleared his throat. He felt a wave of nausea. Worse than before a revival, he thought. ‘When I started in forensic revival seven years ago, I knew I’d found something that I was good at. Something that made a difference. I saw the effect a well-handled, respectful revival had on the family of the subject; I saw the results it had for the investigation.’ He paused again, another breath, another drink. His eyes locked onto his notes and stayed there, not wanting to look up. ‘Respect should always be a priority. For the private reviver, that’s what their job
is.
For the rest of us, it’s what we should aspire to.’

He turned a page and reached for his glass, surprised to find it empty. He refilled the glass from the jug next to it, eyes locked on the task, avoiding seeing past to the restless audience. His hand was shaky enough to spill some water over his notes. He wiped it off. ‘But there are those who take a different approach and say it works. Sometimes we all feel that way. Many of us have revived a subject suspected of terrible things. A father in a murder-suicide. A drunk driver wiping out a family.’ Another drink. He coughed, regretting the reference to Pritchard. He couldn’t stop the image of the two-year-old boy with half a face from coming to him; the sound of Pritchard screaming in his mind.

He took another drink and realized he’d finished the glass again.

Realized how thirsty he felt.

Why was he so desperate not to look up? His heart was loud in his ear; adrenaline was magnifying the nausea. He breathed slowly and made himself look.

At the back of the bright hall was an incongruous patch of deep shadow. Daniel Harker was standing in it.

Jonah snapped his eyes down and tried to find his place again. ‘Many of us have … and…’
Where is it?
‘And … and we’ve treated them with contempt. It may have felt
just,
but we all need to recognize something…’

He looked up again. The shadow had moved across the back of the hall towards the doors. As he watched, Harker raised one arm, pointing to the exit.

Jonah coughed. He went to refill the glass again, but his hands were trembling too much.

‘We need to recognize…’ Jonah closed his eyes, wanting to be anywhere but there. He looked up. Harker was at the door now.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the audience. He stepped down from the lectern and strode to the back of the hall, murmurs from the audience growing as he went, his face reddening. He felt the beginnings of panic but managed to hold on. Ahead, Harker had gone.

He burst through the hall exit into the corridor outside and walked to the balcony overlooking the busy foyer. A cool breeze hit him. He stopped, leaning on the metal railing, watching the crowd below.

Jonah closed his eyes, the fresh air just what he needed. He breathed deep, waiting for the panic to subside.

And as it did, and Jonah found himself able to think again, one question struck him.

What did Harker want?

He opened his eyes and found himself scanning faces once more, not knowing why he was doing it. Then he saw, in shadow at the far corner, Daniel Harker standing with his head bowed.

Harker’s arm raised slowly. The hand was bloated, skin sloughed away. He was pointing into the drifting mass of people in the foyer.

Jonah stared at Harker and followed the line of the arm. He couldn’t see. ‘What, Daniel?’

And then:

A face. Short beard, gaunt. Glasses. Hair extremely short. Black shirt and black jeans. Press pass pinned to the shirt. The man was unrecognizable, at least from the photographs the police had used, even though Harker’s description during the revival had made it clear how much thinner the man had become. Jonah, though, knew that gaunt face. Knew it from Daniel Harker’s memories.

Felix Hannerman. Alive. Here.

How he was alive was a question for later. Why he was here, that was far more important.
They suspected this was a target,
he thought.
It still is.

His mind whirled with adrenaline. Should he follow? He had good sight of him now. If Hannerman moved, he might lose him as he descended the stairs. He took his phone and dialled. No signal.

Jonah watched Hannerman, whose eyes were scanning the crowd with a hungry expectation. A desperation, almost.
He’s planning something.

Then Hannerman stopped looking around and started moving with purpose, Jonah unable to tell what it was Hannerman had seen.

Jonah hesitated, then knew he had to follow. Down through an enclosed stairwell, emerging into the crowded foyer, trying to look calm, trying to spot Hannerman again. He couldn’t see him.

‘Shit.’ He looked around, then jumped as Harker was there again at the far wall, pointing from shadows. Jonah walked in the direction Harker was indicating. He moved faster with each step, knowing he couldn’t risk breaking into a run.

Round past the reception. A glass corridor leading to a walled garden area at the back of the hotel, a scattering of people walking along it. Hannerman was just entering. Ahead of Hannerman, Jonah saw Sam with Jason Shepperton and Pru Dryden, strolling in the same direction halfway down the corridor.

Who was Hannerman following? Not them, surely?

To risk coming here himself had to mean Hannerman was working alone, all that was left; the desperation on his face a sign he was making it up as he went. Maybe Hannerman just wanted to hit at revivers any way he could. Jason and Pru were among the best revivers in the country.

Or Sam,
he thought. Sam, who had initiated the project that had kick-started Hannerman’s whole venture.

God, no,
Jonah thought. He tried Never’s number again. It rang.

‘Jonah?’ whispered Never. ‘Thought you were in your talk?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Tech presentation, Hall 2. J. J.’s here with me.’

‘Felix Hannerman isn’t dead.’

‘
What?
’

‘Hannerman’s
here,
Never. In the foyer, heading to the garden. He’s planning something. I think he’s following Sam. I don’t want to spook him. Tell security.’

A moment of silence as Never digested what Jonah was telling him. It was fair enough, Jonah thought. A few seconds to decide if his friend had gone crazy. ‘On it,’ said Never.

Sam and the others were nearing the end of the corridor.
He’s not following them,
Jonah told himself.

A slip of paper fell from the speech notes Sam was carrying. He stopped walking and picked it up, then continued.

Hannerman stopped too, matching their steps.

Sam was in danger.

Jonah increased his pace, wondering what Hannerman intended. Wondering what the hell he could do about it.

Sam and the others reached the end of the corridor, rounding a corner into the walled garden area. As Hannerman approached the corner, Jonah could see he was closing on them.

Hannerman slipped one hand into a pocket and pulled something out, keeping it hidden in his fingers. The sun glinted off it for an instant. A blade? He may not have risked bringing anything through security, but getting some kind of knife in a hotel wouldn’t be hard.

Hannerman was speeding up. Jonah did the same, the indecision painful now. He started to run, started to gain ground. Hannerman looked back, his eyes meeting Jonah’s, a sudden fiery realization on his face; he turned back again and ran on, long strides that Jonah couldn’t match.

No,
thought Jonah.
NO.

‘
Sam!
’ he yelled. ‘
Run!
’ He heard a shout from behind him and caught a quick look as he reached the turn: two security guards, not yet at the far end of the corridor. Ahead, he saw Sam, looking past Hannerman at Jonah, not noticing Hannerman bearing down on them all. Jonah thought his shout had made things worse, but Jason Shepperton had seen, moving towards Hannerman as the blade raised and descended.

Jonah was there in five strides.

Hannerman’s hand shot out again and again, Shepperton’s arms flailing in the way of the blade, blood flying. Sam and Pru were hitting out at the attacker. Jonah let his momentum do the work, lunging into Hannerman’s side, grabbing tight and taking him down, the fall heavy, Jonah on top. Hannerman was splattered in Jason Shepperton’s blood, and Jonah could feel it soak through his own shirt.

The grip on the blood-covered knife was lost; it skittered out of reach, just a small paring knife that Hannerman could have stolen from the hotel kitchen.

Hannerman was winded, but there was more: severe chill where bare skin contact was made. Jonah used it, putting his hands fully over Hannerman’s face. The shock in the man’s eyes was clear, but it didn’t last. He brought his knee up, hitting Jonah hard in the thigh, pushing him off with ease. The man looked thin but he was strong, up and running before any other help reached them, bystanders getting out of the way as he ran to a closed doorway in the wall around the garden. He kicked it open and ran through.

Jason Shepperton was lying on the ground, blood everywhere, arms covered in wounds, one pouring blood even as Jason tried to clamp his other hand over it. A rush of people started helping; Sam and Pru crouched by Jason’s side, both covered in blood, Sam’s face grey.

The man he’d taken as a security guard now had a gun drawn, a detective’s badge hanging over the breast pocket of his jacket. He was on his radio, giving rapid orders, looking around for Hannerman. ‘Where?’ he yelled.

Jonah took a breath. ‘This way,’ he said, and ran.

*   *   *

Jonah led the way out the door Hannerman had broken through, into a staff and hotel vehicle lot, passing service entrances to the hotel before catching a glimpse of Hannerman rounding a corner in the distance. By the time they reached it to find themselves at the front of the hotel, there was no sign of him. The detective was waving to other officers and security guards while Jonah tried to find anyone who’d seen Hannerman run past, but they all were just staring at him. He looked down, realizing how much blood was showing on his white shirt. Hannerman, all in black, had been less conspicuous.

A car passed along the hotel driveway ahead of him. From the driver’s seat, Hannerman’s eyes met his, and the car sped away.

‘There!’ he shouted to the detective, running after it, stopping when it was clear the chase was pointless.

But Hannerman had pushed it too hard. Two hundred yards down, at the tight bend joining the main street, the car skidded, the rear hitting a concrete fencepost hard. Hannerman gunned it repeatedly, tyres screeching and digging up gravel, but the wire fence had snarled the car; it wasn’t going anywhere.

‘Get everyone back,’ the detective instructed, eyes fixed on the car. ‘Inside the hotel.
Now.
’

Hannerman got out and went to the rear of the car, disappearing from view as he worked at the tangled fencing.

Jonah felt rage grow inside him. He had little time for Jason Shepperton, but he was a colleague. The injuries had looked serious and would leave their mark. Sam, though: that was the real source of his anger. Sam was family.