The Sister (55 page)

He's been after Kennedy all along.

Chapter 115

April 5th

The rapid decline in Ryan's health had nibbled away at his once unshakeable belief. He felt abandoned. Determined to hold on to the last vestiges of hope, he decided to finish a task he'd begun fifteen years ago.

The archiving of his patient files.

The older ones had survived the initial exercise because of their particular interest to him. His thoughts touched on Penny. Pleasant memories bloomed, and then withered quickly as he recalled how their working relationship had turned sour.

After starting a list of files for Stella to prepare for boxing, he decided it would be easier to send them all with the exception of three. One of those files he kept under lock and key. The other two were the files of Bruce Milowski and Jackie Solomons.

Solomons had been the last of his unconventional treatments and a witness to his secret visits to Vera Flynn in those days. Over the years, he'd noticed a correlation between childhood tragedy and the development of resilience in later life. Solomons had undoubtedly fallen into that category. Losing her father at the age of four, she'd been raped and almost murdered, yet she'd gone on to thrive. At one time, he'd considered writing a book on his theories, and although it was prominent on the list of things he had to do, he never got around to it.
It's too late now.

His thoughts turned to Milowski. He'd been lined up to become the first candidate to receive Vera's remarkable attentions when his mother suddenly refused any further treatment of her son.

Mrs Milowski . . . What was her first name again? Ellen, yes that was it . . . S
he possessed an innocence that had appealed to Ryan's fatherly nature. He'd wanted more than anything to help her son. The termination of his services had been abrupt. Stung by the recollection for a second time, Ryan moved the file squarely in front of him.

His memories were quite clear.

With Mrs Milowski's permission, he'd hypnotised him, taking him back through the years. He'd asked him to focus on the earliest thing he could remember, something in the past that had perhaps bothered him. Ryan was astounded to learn that the boy had fallen into a coal fire at the age of ten months and survived unscathed apart from a few singed hairs. It all came back to him. How, aged four, he had escaped suffocation when a tunnel he'd dug into the sand dunes on a Cornish beach collapsed and buried him.
We found him because his grandfather noticed four of his fingers sticking up above the sand.
At the age of seven, Ryan had seen him as a physician. Only later did he realise that the first visit was related to something Bruce had never told him at the time. He revealed that somebody had chased him in the woods and that from then onwards, he never slept without a light on. The experience had led to his first encounter with the 'shadows' as he called them, but no amount of coercion could get him to reveal more. The boy just locked up, even under hypnosis.

What happened to you Bruce? Did you make it? Or did you die without me hearing about it?

Ryan drummed his fingers on Solomons' records, lost for a moment, indecisive. Then he put her file and Milowski's on the spare desk, well away from those destined for microfiche.

He pushed his chair back abruptly, straightened his back and then crossed the room. Running his fingers under the lip of the bottom-most shelf, he produced a key. Going from the archive room into his office, he unlocked the top drawer of his personal filing cabinet. The file was right at the back. A plastic tab identified it simply as 'Vera Flynn'.

Ryan removed the brown paper package from its sleeve and placed it on his desk. Inside it, along with her file, was an unopened envelope, containing the last prediction; he recalled how she'd told him not to open it until the time was right.

"But how will I know?" he asked.

"When the time is right, you will know."

"And then what?"

"You will see."

He unfolded the packaging and pulled her folder clear, releasing a musty odour. The paperwork had yellowed at the edges; the hand-written notes faded. From beneath them, he retrieved a discoloured buff envelope. The sellotape securing the flap had dried out and brittled with age. Holding a corner in each hand, he debated whether to open it.

It wasn't the time.

He drifted back through the years and examined her all over again, with the benefit of a more experienced mind.

Chapter 116

To have believed for thirty-two years that whatever it was that she'd predicted would come true was a measure of Ryan's conviction, but it faded as fast as his health declined.

The test of faith she'd set him all those years before, the reason he'd carried on working after Gracie had died… He had to know what it was and whether it had been worth it. More than that, he needed to know that she was right. Because if she were, he'd know without a doubt that there really
were
more things in heaven than earth, that there truly
could
be a life after death and that he'd be reunited with Gracie at last.

It had to be true.

The spectre of self-doubt rose in him. To have waited this long in vain, would mean the end of everything. He was almost ready to accept he might have been wrong . . . that perhaps The Sister wasn't quite all he thought she was, no more than a clever trickster after all . . .

Sensing how little time he had left, he made up his mind. As soon as Stella had found a new job, he'd stop fighting just to live another day. He'd just give in and slip quietly and unnoticed out of the back door.

The temptation to open the envelope containing the prediction had never been stronger. He wondered what could happen if he peeked inside. After years of self-control and with time running out, Ryan succumbed and opened it. Pulling out a yellowing sheet of paper, he unfolded it.

Chapter 117

Miller shot forward on the bed gasping for air before he'd even opened his eyes. The folds in his bedcovers restrained him as if he were wearing a lap belt. Gulping another lungful, he realised he actually
had
been holding his breath. His heart hammered so hard against the inside of his ribs that he felt as though a herd of stampeding buffalo were trampling his chest, the heavy beating pounded in his head.

It was just a dream.
He flopped down onto his pillows while the effects subsided. There were no curtains or blinds at the windows. The daylight intensified by the whiteness of the walls and ceilings hurt his eyes. He closed them.

During the course of his life, he'd escaped drowning many times, but never before had his sleep been troubled by these apparent flashbacks. Lately his dreams generally had become more frequent and increasingly lucid, their significance progressively disturbing and portentous. Last week he dreamed that he was working with a researcher named Michael Simpson, who specialised in the study of brainwashing and its application within cults. Although he'd never seen or heard of him before, his nightly encounters with him had seemed so real. The dreams culminated in a trip to
Amsterdam where he'd confided that someone was trying to kill him. It was crazy, but he feared for Simpson.

The dreams meant something, and despite endless analysis, he couldn't fathom what. Deep down, he thought they represented a warning.

He switched on his laptop with the intention of googling the meaning of dreams. A news feed caught his eye. He stared in growing disbelief.
Researcher Murdered in Amsterdam.

Able to guess correctly a good deal of the time, his intuitive powers now seemed to border on the psychic. He knew now with certainty before he read on, what the researcher's name would be.

Stunned, he reached over to the bedside table and checked his watch. Just before nine o' clock. Opening the bedside cabinet drawer, he fumbled through the accumulation of discarded notes and half-empty boxes until he found what he was looking for: a dog-eared old business card. After all these years, he wasn't sure why he still kept it; perhaps he'd thought he would need it one day. The area code was an old one, but he knew what it should be, so he added the new digit and keyed the number into his phone.

A few seconds later, it started to ring.

Chapter 118

If he'd been on stage with a magician, he'd have thought it was sleight of hand, or some other conjuring trick. The note read:
When a former patient returns, a new church rises from the mountain.

It wasn't at all what he'd expected.
A former patient returns, and a new church . . . What was all that about?
He always thought it would be something momentous, not something so mundane and cryptic. Guilt weighed heavy on him or was it merely disappointment.

You should have waited.

An uneasy feeling crept over him. He feared the consequences of his actions.
Which former patient? You should have waited, you silly old fool.

A seemingly random thought popped into his head. A vision appeared of someone he'd not thought about in years.

The telephone rang. Startled, he lifted the receiver. "Hello, Ryan here."

"Dr Ryan?"

"Bruce?"

"How did you know it was me?"

His heart leapt at the realisation that he'd chosen exactly the right time to open the envelope. Was it a coincidence?
It couldn't be
. For a moment, he worried how he would tell her, and then realised there was no need.

She already knew.

Chapter 119

Miller pulled up in a taxi, paid the driver and stepped out into the unseasonably warm sunshine. From the pavement, the façade of the building didn't appear as imposing as it did when he was last there. The heavy ornate cast-iron gate was secured in the open position with a heel operated counterweighted stay. The stone steps looked familiar, though more dished and worn in the middle than he remembered. High on the wall, the unblinking eye of a CCTV camera lens pointed down, covering the entrance. Arranged vertically, four buzzers shared the same bright alloy speaker panel.

Miller selected the third one up and pressed, the buzzer sounded, and the electronic keep snapped back, allowing him entry. Climbing the stairs, he noticed that the creamy-coloured walls were scuffed and scruffy, probably not painted in years.

He made a quick diversion to the men's lavatories before going into reception. He looked at himself in the mirror while washing his hands. Picked out in the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting, the scar on his chin showed white against the peppery stubble. The cut had been so deep that his beard no longer grew on it. Miller traced the smooth, inverted scimitar shape with his finger, to where it curved away from just below his lower lip onto his chin.

Donovan Kale had kept Miller's identity a secret from the press, but someone, although unable to get it directly from Kale, had eventually tracked him down. They attacked him on an isolated section of a canal towpath beneath a bridge. The darkness had masked the danger signals, and he hadn't seen the shadows as they'd swirled about him, warning of danger. At the last instant, he caught the dull gleam of a knife as it slashed at his face.
If he hadn't pulled out of the way… Now, that was a close shave.
He dried his hands and sauntered out across the landing. Opening the door into the reception area, he was surprised to see that the layout had not changed. The chairs, coffee tables and magazines were laid out exactly as he remembered. He picked up a dog-eared old National Geographic magazine and checked the date: 1970.
Like stepping back in time.

Ryan emerged from a door behind the reception desk and came around to greet him.

Miller felt the cool, papery texture of his skin as they shook hands. He was shocked at how frail the doctor had become, but gave no sign of it. The psychiatrist looked pleased to see him; his good eye full of mirth.

"Bruce, how are you?" he said leaning back to get a better look at him. "How you've grown!"

Miller responded with a laugh, "I'm fine - you haven't changed a bit!"

Ryan shot him a suspicious look. "Well, my boy - that can only mean one of two things. Either I look fabulous now, or I looked old and decrepit back then." He indicated a chair.

"Come on, Bruce, sit. We shan't be disturbed." Both men sat. "I'm intrigued to know why you've contacted me after all these years," Ryan rubbed at his good eye. "You refused to say on the phone, so why are you here?" he gestured, spreading both hands.

"Doctor Ryan, people just call me Miller these days, I'll tell you why later." He coughed into his fist. "I keep dreaming that I'm drowning."