The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (26 page)

“Leave that!” a hoarse voice grated almost at his ear, as a hand shoved the drawer shut. “That’s for Adam to deal with.”

Peregrine started up to discover that McLeod had raised his head and was peering over at him through eyes that were bloodshot but fully aware. Cochrane, too, had roused at the sound of the inspector’s voice, standing slightly away from the door.

“Sir!” he exclaimed, though he kept his voice down. “Thank God you’ve come round! What the hell is going on?”

McLeod winced visibly, like a man with a bad hangover.

“Ask me again when my head stops pounding like a bass drum,” he muttered. He swayed slightly where he sat and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Cochrane said uneasily.

McLeod’s gaze returned to the desk drawer he had just closed.

“Aye,” he rasped. “You can take that thing and stow it away in the office safe until Adam Sinclair has a chance to take a look at it. Then you can maybe see if you can find me a couple of aspirin and a glass of water. And not a word of this to anybody!”

Peregrine managed to catch Cochrane’s eye. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay with him.”

With a nod, Cochrane gingerly wrapped up the lynx charm again, stuffed it into an envelope and sealed it, scribbling McLeod’s name on the outside, and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him. Left alone with McLeod, Peregrine said heavily, “Am I wrong, or was somebody out to kill you?”

McLeod had his eyes closed again. Without opening them, he said, “You’re not wrong. Whoever sent the little lynx meant business. Call it the equivalent of a psychic letter-bomb.”

Peregrine grimaced, a part of him quite amazed that he accepted this explanation without question, another part already thinking what to do next.

“Adam’s supposed to be coming in on the lunchtime flight from Heathrow. That’s—” he glanced down at his watch, “about thirty minutes from now. Do you want me to go meet him and bring him here?”

“No. If whoever set this saw you come in here, you might well be followed back out,” McLeod said. “It’ll be less conspicuous if Donald goes. Just give him Adam’s flight details, and leave it to him to do the rest.”

Chapter Nineteen

FOR ADAM,
in London, arranging a bed for Gillian Talbot at Jordanburn had been the easy part. Arranging transport was slightly more complicated, given the guidelines laid down by the National Health Board, which stipulated that non-emergency transfers required a week’s notice. After filling out the required ambulance request form, Adam telephoned the Ambulance Service itself to inquire about the possibility of setting up an earlier date of transfer. By dint of patience and persuasion, he succeeded at last in securing the necessary vehicle and staff for the following Monday.

“Actually, a four-day delay is probably no bad thing,” Philippa remarked, as she and Adam made their way by taxi to Heathrow at mid-morning on Friday. “The last thing we want at this point is for anyone to connect Gillian with us before we’ve had time to set up a few basic defenses. This way, if anyone in Edinburgh
should
be watching your movements, there won’t be much for him to see.”

Their flight left London on schedule and touched down at Edinburgh-Turnhouse shortly before one o’clock. Earlier that morning before leaving the Caledonian Club, Adam had put in a call to Humphrey, leaving instructions to meet them at the airport with the Bentley, in honor of his mother’s arrival. Therefore he was not surprised, as he and Philippa came out the jetway, to spot Humphrey’s familiar figure among the cluster of people waiting in the arrivals area. Only belatedly did he realize that the dour, sandy-haired constable standing next to Humphrey was part of the welcoming committee.

“Interesting,” Philippa said, also making the connection. “Either I’ve unwittingly violated some obscure immigration law, or—”

“Or something’s happened,” Adam said. “That’s Noel’s assistant. Let’s go.”

With Adam in the lead, mother and son wove their way hurriedly through the other passengers emerging in the arrivals area. By then Humphrey and the young policeman had spotted them in turn and were converging toward them with “every appearance of haste.

“Mr. Cochrane,” Adam said, as Humphrey exchanged a worried nod of greeting with Philippa. “Should your presence give me cause for concern?”

After a slightly uncertain glance at Philippa, Cochrane turned his full attention on Adam and just missed a salute.

“I don’t want to alarm you, sir, but Inspector McLeod’s met with a—a sort of an accident. He and a Mr. Peregrine Lovat said I should come and fetch you.”

Dropping his voice, he related how McLeod had suffered an alarming collapse after receiving an origami figure in the mail.

“Seeing as how you weren’t available at the time, sir, he had me call Mr. Lovat,” Cochrane continued. “Mr. Lovat was able to make the inspector a bit easier, but he’s still in a good bit of distress. Both he and Mr. Lovat asked me to tell you that they urgently need your help. My car’s out front. I could take you to the station direct from here, if you think you might be able to manage it.”

For Adam, the shock of hearing that McLeod had come under what obviously was some form of psychic attack was tempered in some degree by the surprising revelation that Peregrine had been directly involved in McLeod’s defense. However, the crowded environs of an airport concourse were not the place for soliciting further information on that account. His gaze flickered sideways to connect with his mother’s.

“Don’t hesitate on my account,” Philippa said. “Humphrey and I are old hands at sorting out things like luggage. Shall we simply meet you at home or arrange to join you somewhere?”

“I don’t know how long this is likely to take,” Adam said honestly, “so you’d better go on home to Strathmourne and wait for me there. I’ll telephone you later and let you know how things are faring. Humphrey, did you happen to bring my medical bag?”

“Yes, sir. It’s in the boot of the Bentley.”

“Good,” said Adam. “Is the Bentley out front?”

“In the limo bay, sir. Shall I go fetch the bag for you?”

“If you would, please.”

“My car’s right behind it, sir,” Cochrane said. “This way.”

As soon as they were clear of the airport, Cochrane switched on his blue lights and siren and applied his foot to the accelerator. The loud bray of the siren made conversation difficult, but by dint of careful questioning, Adam was able to piece together a reasonably good idea of McLeod’s condition. While Cochrane went on to tell him what had happened following Peregrine’s arrival—on the scene, Adam opened his medical bag on the floor in front of him and loaded a hypo from it, keeping what he did well below windowsill level so he would not alarm civilians.

“This will ease the nausea you’ve described and help him to relax,” he said, at Cochrane’s questioning look, as he slipped the plastic sleeve back over the needle and pocketed the syringe with a disposable alcohol swab. “Sometimes it’s used in treating migraines.” When his hand came out of his pocket, he had slid on his sapphire ring.

A few blocks short of the station, Cochrane switched off the lights and siren, coasting into the station parking lot without fanfare. As they rolled to a halt in one of the spaces reserved for police use, Adam caught a glimpse of a familiar green Morris Minor with wooden sides standing at the curb in front of the building, parked on a double yellow line. A white piece of paper was flapping in the wind under one windshield wiper. As Adam pulled a wry face, Cochrane caught the look and grinned.

“Oh, that’s not a real citation, sir,” he said with smug pride. “Or rather, it’s a real one, but it’s blank. I had a word with the traffic warden before I left for the airport. I’ll collect it before Mr. Lovat leaves, so I can give it back.”

“Sharp thinking, Mr. Cochrane,” Adam exclaimed, wedging his medical bag partway under the seat. “Mr. Lovat owes you a favor.”

“Well, he would if it had been at all difficult, sir,” Cochrane said with a droll smile. “Fortunately, the traffic warden in question happens to be my fiancée.”

They entered the building by way of a side door and rode up to McLeod’s office level in one of the service lifts. “The inspector said it would be a good idea not to come through the main lobby,” Cochrane explained as they stepped out of the lift into an empty corridor. “This way now, sir.”

They reached McLeod’s office without encountering anyone else head-on. Even so, Adam had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. Aware that there wasn’t much he could do about that, he kept his back to the general office while Cochrane knocked at the door. An instant later, it was opened by Peregrine, looking pale but militant behind his spectacles. As soon as he caught sight of Adam, his face cleared.

“Thank God!” he exclaimed in a fervent undertone, standing aside so that they could enter.

McLeod was leaning back in his chair with a wet paper towel pressed across his eyes, hair rumpled and tie askew. As the newcomers entered, he took the paper towel away and put on his glasses, giving Adam a ghastly grin.

“Welcome back,” he said huskily. “I would’ve come to you, instead of making you come to me, but right now my legs are about as trusty as a pair of rubber bands.”

“So I’m told,” Adam said, coming to reach for McLeod’s wrist to check his pulse. “By all accounts, you’re lucky to be here at all. Where’s the item that’s caused all the trouble?”

Upon learning that the origami animal had been stowed away in the office safe, Adam sent Cochrane off to fetch it. McLeod’s pulse was steady enough, but noticeably quicker than usual, and his face was taut with pain.

“I don’t suppose you need me to tell you that this was the work of the Lynx,” McLeod said, as Adam pulled the extra chair closer and sat down.

“No, the method itself bears their signature.”

As he removed McLeod’s spectacles and set them aside so he could look at the bloodshot eyes, McLeod drew a labored breath.

“After that conversation we had on Monday, I can guess what you must be thinking,” he said, as Adam covered first one of his eyes, then the other, and reached into a breast pocket for a pen-light. “But I swear I haven’t consciously done anything to give myself away.”

“I know you better than that,” Adam said with the flicker of a smile. “Now relax and let me finish looking you over.”

He shone the narrow beam briefly into each of McLeod’s eyes, and McLeod flinched and turned away with a mutter.

“Sorry,” Adam murmured. “I’ve brought some medication with me that should take the edge off the pain, but first I need to ask you one or two questions. First of all, has anyone actively handled that origami charm but you?”

“No.” McLeod sounded positive.

“That’s good,” said Adam. “I’m going to want to take it apart to see what’s inside. I’ll need something to use as forceps that won’t conduct—wood or plastic.”

“How about a couple of pencils?” Peregrine offered.

“No, the graphite could be a conductor. Has he got any plastic cutlery in his desk drawer, I wonder?”

McLeod shook his head before Peregrine could look, though his face increasingly was showing signs of pain only barely held in check.

“How about toothpicks?” Adam asked. “Noel, have you got any toothpicks?”

“No, but maybe something better,” McLeod said, setting his teeth against his pain. “How about a set of chopsticks?”

“Chopsticks? Ideal. Where are they?”

“Had a Chinese take-away for lunch on Wednesday,” McLeod explained, gesturing toward his pencil jar. “They put in two sets of chopsticks. The spare set’s in there.”

Reaching over to the pencil jar, Adam slid the chopsticks out of their paper wrapper. They were made of wood, with tapering tips.

“Yes, these ought to do nicely,” he decided. “When Mr. Cochrane returns with the specimen, we’ll perform the required vivisection. Peregrine, let’s get his jacket off now, and roll up a sleeve so I can give him a hypo.”

As Peregrine helped him oft with his coat and unbuttoned the cuff of one shirtsleeve, McLeod eyed the syringe Adam took from his coat pocket.

“What is it?” he murmured.

“Something to relax you and help with the nausea,” Adam said, pushing up the sleeve and briskly swabbing a spot at the back of the bicep. “You should get some relief almost immediately.”

“It won’t knock me out, will it?” McLeod muttered, hardly noticing as the needle went in.

Adam shook his head and gave him the injection. “No, I’ll do that,” he said. “This is going to work best if you’ll let me put you to sleep for a little while.”

“That’s fine,” McLeod said around a yawn, already starting to relax under the influence of the drug. “Be careful, though, if you’re going to mess with that lynx thing. Whoosh, that’s good stuff!”

Adam smiled and slipped the spent syringe back in his pocket, then laid his fingers along McLeod’s pulse again, his free hand pressing briefly across McLeod’s forehead. “You just let me do the worrying now, my friend. Time to take a good, deep breath and go to sleep. That’s right . . . Let go of the pain. Now lean forward and pillow your head on your arm.”

When he had gotten McLeod settled, Adam turned at last to give Peregrine his full attention.

“Well, then. Cochrane’s given me a partial account of what you’ve been doing here,” he said gravely, “but obviously he hadn’t a clue what was really going on. Fortunately, Noel’s been laying some groundwork with him for some time. Farther down the line, he might be a likely recruit. Before he gets back, though, perhaps you ought to tell me
your
side of things, in your own words. Incidentally, you did very well; you bought Noel some valuable time.”

Without knowing why, Peregrine found himself flushing like a guilty schoolboy under the impact of Adam’s penetrating gaze. The praise was heady, but Peregrine’s own uncertainty blunted its edge.

“I’m not sure I can explain it clearly,” he said. “I tried to think what you would have done . . .”

Somewhat haltingly, he described focusing his inner Sight to discern what was afflicting McLeod—the dirty grey tendrils like a crown of thorns—and how he had pulled off the tendrils with his hands and watched them shrivel and dissipate.

“I have to confess something else, though,” he added, when he had finished his brief narrative. “I—ended up making use of Michael Brodie’s ring.”

He hung his head guiltily, and Adam asked, “Why should that trouble you?”

He was watching Peregrine’s face very closely. Without meeting Adam’s eyes, the young artist said in a small voice, “I told you I wouldn’t wear it without your permission.”

“So you did,” Adam agreed. “But that was
your
rule, not mine.”

Peregrine’s hazel eyes flashed him a startled glance.

“True virtue,” Adam said gently, “is not a matter of making rules and then sticking to them at all cost. On the contrary, it’s a matter of weighing up a situation and judging the issues correctly. Remember the directive of the
I Ching: ‘The superior man discriminates between high and low.’
In this instance, you acted rightly in setting aside a lesser good in favor of a greater one.”

Peregrine’s troubled brow cleared. “Then you’re not disappointed in me?”

“Disappointed?” If the young artist hadn’t been looking so solemn, Adam might have been tempted to laugh out loud. “Hardly that,” he assured Peregrine with a smile. “Surprised, perhaps—but then, you’ve been almost a continual source of surprise to Noel and me ever since Melrose. And I mean that to be taken as a compliment.”