The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (40 page)

The impact hurled him flat again, with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. As he gasped for breath, trying to fight it off, the shadow seemed to spread, crushing him under a smothering mass of darkness.

It was like being blanketed with a quilt weighted with lead, all suffocating weight and give. Groaning with the effort, Adam shifted its bulk with a massive effort and somehow managed to curl onto his side. The weight of darkness promptly redistributed, pressing in on him hungrily now from three sides instead of one.

The blood was pounding in his ears, his vision starting to blur, and he knew he did not have much time. He could feel his strength waning-and the evil fingering at the edges of his very soul, as the beast tested at his failing defenses. Seeking desperately beyond it for the source of the attack, he at last became dimly aware of a hostile human presence directing and controlling the dark beast from without.

The awareness gave him focus, so that, working his shoulders to and fro, he managed to bring his hands together long enough to execute a tight gesture of command. With the last air left in his lungs, he cried out the Word that was his to command in the world of the unseen.

The black pressure of the dream exploded into sudden, blazing radiance. The explosion stripped away the shadow and sent Adam hurtling backwards through gulfs of light so bright he had to close his eyes or risk being blinded. The dizzy sensation of free fall finally ended with a disorienting jolt that signaled his soul’s return at last to his body. When he opened his eyes, gasping for breath, he saw around him once more the clean, bare confines of a hospital room.

His chest ached and his heart was racing. He made a move to lift himself on his elbows and moaned aloud as a fierce stab of pain shot down the right side of his body from his abused shoulder. He fell back dizzy and faint. He felt as bruised and breathless as if the struggle he had just survived had been physical rather than psychic.

He drew a deep breath to ground himself more solidly in the physical world, then painfully rolled onto his left side and levered himself to sit up without stressing his injured shoulder. Heart still pounding, he cast a groggy glance around the room at large, stiffening as he spotted an irregular patch of darkness underneath the bedside chair.

It was too dark and solid-looking to be a shadow. Trembling now with exhaustion, Adam sketched a banishing sign in the air and channeled the force of the gesture with a casting motion of his hand, gasping at the pain the movement cost him. But the shadow rippled and curled; writhing like a worm on a griddle, it shriveled up and finally vanished in a puff of thin black smoke.

The psychic residue was like a chill whiff of carrion. Recoiling with a grimace of disgust, Adam gathered up the shreds of his remaining energy to reinstate the protective wards he had set earlier about the bed. By the time he was finished, he was close to passing out. Breathing hard, he lay back on his pillow and tried to clear his mind sufficiently to think. A part of him wanted desperately to go back to sleep, but he knew he didn’t dare succumb. His thoughts were sluggish and oddly disjointed, as if he’d been drugged.

This is not right,
he thought hazily.
Mefenamic acid shouldn’t do this. The first two doses didn’t affect me this way. Could Dr. Lockhart have changed my medication?

Surely not!
another part of him replied indignantly.

But the culprit had to be the medication he had taken just after midnight—not the expected painkiller and anti-inflammatory but a powerful sedative. The yellow capsules had looked the same as the ones he’d taken earlier, but he had not really paid that much attention.

A chill rippled up his spine as he realized he could easily be dead—from some other drug rather than the psychic attack facilitated by his vulnerable state. That he was not dead of a drug only pointed up the supreme arrogance of whomever was responsible for the attack—or perhaps their understandable reluctance to have his death seen as murder. Hence, the psychic attack. It also pointed to an agent of the Lynx in medical circles as well as in law enforcement. Now that Adam knew his danger, he did not intend to sleep again until he was back within the safe confines of Strathmourne.

Groaning at the pain, he rolled over and punched the nurses’ call button. A few moments later, the door opened and the pretty red-haired nurse poked her head around the door frame.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Sinclair?” she said solicitously. “What’s the matter? Can’t you sleep?”

“What time is it?” he asked. “Just five.”

“Then there
is
something you can do for me,” he said with an effort. “I’d like you to help me to a telephone. And as soon as I’ve spoken to my family and arranged transport, I intend to sign myself out.”

* * *

Philippa Sinclair was already awake when she heard the telephone ring somewhere deep in the heart of the house. The sound carried with it the air of a summons. She slipped from her bed and reached for her quilted satin dressing gown. A moment later, the house phone on her bedside table gave a tinkling chime. She sat back down on the edge of the bed and picked it up.

“Yes, Humphrey, what is it?”she asked calmly.

“It’s Sir Adam, milady, ringing from hospital.”

“Indeed?” she said. “Then you’d best put him on at once.”

“Right away, milady.”

There was a brief successions of clicks as Humphrey transferred the call, then Adam’s familiar voice came on the line, shaky and roughened by stress and pain

“Hello, Philippa. Sorry to ring so early. I expect I’ve woken you.”

“No, I was already stirring,” Philippa said. “What’s wrong?”

“I—ah—don’t think I ought to spend any more time in hospital than can possibly be helped,” he said thinly. “I’ve asked Humphrey to come and collect me;”

The words themselves were neutral enough, but the tone carried an ominous note.

“Adam, are you all right?” she asked.

“I am now,” he replied. “Just send Humphrey. Not to worry.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, this early, there won’t be much traffic. Do you want me to come as well?”

“No, I’ll be all right. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

* * *

Humphrey arrived at the hospital shortly after six, bringing a complete change of clothes. By this time, with several cups of coffee in him, Adam had decided he was past the worst of the sedative’s effects, but the effort of dressing, even with Humphrey’s assistance, took far more out of him than he would have wished. After he had dealt with the necessary paperwork to check himself out, he raised no objection to being conveyed to the waiting Bentley in a wheelchair.

He allowed himself to breathe a little easier once he was tucked up in the back seat and they were on their way. But responding to Humphrey’s worried inquiries about the accident set him to thinking again about that aspect of his last twenty-four hours—not the effect, but the cause.

“Humphrey, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really am knackered,” he said, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I’m going to try to catch a nap.”

“Of course, sir.”

But as Humphrey continued to drive them toward home and its greater safety, Adam cast his mind back again to the accident itself. Even McLeod had expressed concern from the start that it had been no accident at all—which Adam, still in shock, had dismissed with only passing consideration. Now Adam thought he knew how it might have been arranged, and by whom.

He remembered the motorcycle coming up fast along his left side—and shooting on ahead just about the time the tire blew. He doubted it could ever be proved, but he was willing to bet that what his tire had “hit” was probably a bullet, fired by that very motorcyclist whose luck in avoiding the accident had struck Adam even as he fought to keep control of the car.

And the timely arrival of his “good Samaritan”—that, too, must have been part of the setup, to make sure that if he survived the crash, he would end up in the right hospital for yet another of the “hit team” to make sure he did
not
survive that.

“I think you’re probably right,” Philippa said, when he had gone over everything again, over breakfast in the morning room. “I must say, it was all very cleverly planned. If you’d been one whit less skilled a driver, things might have turned out quite differently.”

“If I’d been one whit more alert, the whole thing might not have happened at all,” Adam said, scowling as he stirred at a cup of tea left-handed.

“And now you’re being unreasonably hard on yourself,” she replied. “If the ‘hit’
was
set up as you’ve postulated, there wasn’t a great deal you could have done to prevent it. And once you’d survived the crash itself, you handled things quite well, especially given that you were in a state of shock. You obviously sensed something was wrong from fairly early on, or you wouldn’t have balked at having blood drawn.”

“That doesn’t appear to have made much difference,” Adam said sourly, pushing his tea cup away. “They obviously managed to get something else to use for a physical link—probably the bloody sponges left over after my head was sutured. And no, I don’t think Dr. Lockhart could have been in on it.”

Philippa shrugged as if to say,
I wasn’t even going to suggest it,
and Adam continued uneasily. “They also managed to tamper with my medication—which is
really
unsettling, not knowing what I took!”

Philippa smiled thinly. “We can probably find out, if that’s what’s bothering you. You’re obviously past its peak effect, whatever it was, but there ought to be enough still in your system to show up in a drug profile. Would you like me to pull a sample and have Humphrey run it down to Jordanburn?”

He chuckled bitterly and propped his head on his left hand, gently fingering his bandage. “That mightn’t be a bad idea though my guess, from my reaction, is that it was only a sedative of some sort. Nothing I’d notice as I drifted off to sleep—not after the day I’d had—but enough to take the edge off my resistance, especially if it was slow-acting, something that wouldn’t peak until three or four hours after taking it. That’s how
I
would’ve done it.”

He yawned and sighed. “And if my attacker
had
succeeded, my death would have been put down to a cerebral hemorrhage or something of that sort—an extension of injuries sustained in the car crash. Under the circumstances, a little Valium or Librium in the system wouldn’t even have raised an eyebrow.”

“I think I
would
like a drug profile on you, Adam,” Philippa said, setting her napkin aside. “And I think I’d like to see you get to bed for some proper sleep. I also don’t like the idea that the Lodge of the Lynx has samples of your blood. It makes me wonder what they may be holding in reserve—to try a second attack, if the first one failed.”

“They can’t get at me here, Philippa,” he said quietly.

“I know that. But eventually, you’re going to have to go out.”

“That’s true. But I do have obligations.”

“I realize that, too,” Philippa agreed, “but I don’t want to see you taking any unnecessary risks either. Promise me that you’ll lie low for the next few days—at least until you’ve had a chance to mend a little. With the best will in the world,” she added practically, “you can’t very well go chasing down malefactors with your arm in a sling and your ribs creaking every time you breathe.”

“Not a very heroic image, is it?” Adam said, smiling as he flashed on Dr. Lockhart’s “noble brow” comment. “I can’t promise miracles, but I give you my word I won’t do anything that smacks of bravado.”

“That will have to do, I suppose,” Philippa said with a sigh. “If you’ve quite finished with breakfast, you can begin your regimen of common sense by taking yourself off to bed. I’ll be up in a few minutes to draw that blood sample.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

ADAM WOKE
just before five that evening, aching in every muscle but with only a vestige of headache or mental cobwebs. He was still considering whether he had the energy to get up and go downstairs when Humphrey came in with supper on a tray.

“Ah, you’re awake, sir!” Humphrey exclaimed. “Her ladyship said I wasn’t to let you sleep past five. I’ll go and tell her you’re stirring. “

Adam would hardly have called his efforts thus far to constitute “stirring,” but while Humphrey was gone, he did manage a shaky trip to the bathroom, and had settled himself stiffly in an upholstered chair at the table by the window by the time Philippa came In.

“So,
how are you feeling?” she asked, as she watched him begin investigating what was under the napkin covering his supper tray.

“Like a truck hit me,” he replied with a grin. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long.”

“You needed it,” she said crisply. “And I want you back to bed fairly quickly, as soon as you’ve had a chance to get some food in you.”

She put a small amber plastic vial of yellow capsules beside his tray.

“That’s what you were
meant
to be taking and what I’d still recommend,” she said. “What you
got,
in the pills you took around midnight, was a dose of Valium roughly equivalent to pre-op medication for major surgery, but in a time-release form that would’ve hit you about four hours later. Anyway, the lab says that’s
all
it was. You were very lucky, or your would-be assassin was being very cautious.”

Glancing at the familiar pharmacy label on the vial, from Royal Edinburgh Hospital, Adam pried off the cap one-handed and dumped out two of the capsules, which he took with orange juice from his tray. “Supper” was actually scrambled eggs, grilled tomatoes, and mushrooms, with toast and scones to accompany. He glanced up at Philippa as he picked up his fork awkwardly in his left hand.

“So,
catch me up on what else has been happening while I slept the day away,” he said, tucking in.

“Well. Noel and Peregrine have both called and been by. They’ll be back tomorrow, after Sunday brunch. They found
this
in the rubble down at Dunfermline last night.”

From a pocket of her mauve cardigan she took a small bundle wrapped first in one of her silk scarves and then in two layers of handkerchief. Adam noticed she was wearing her scarab ring. As she peeled back the layers of wrappings, he put down his fork. Nestled in the folds of fabric was a blackened metal disk about two inches across.

“Don’t try to touch it,” she said, as he leaned closer to see it better. “It’s contained now, of course, but there’s still a great deal of residual energy. You can play with it tomorrow. I thought it was silver, at first, but it actually appears to be iron or steel sandwiched between two layers of silver. Noel and I checked it with a magnet, and it’s definitely ferrous—which agrees with what Donald Cochrane found up at Balmoral.”

“Did he find one of these up
there?”
Adam said.

“Well, what was left of one,” Philippa replied. “What’s important is that we now have a Lynx medallion in our possession—and a definite link between the Balmoral lightning strike and the two at Calton Hill and Dunfermline. I’d say that Balmoral was probably a trial run, to see if they really
could
control the lightning—which, obviously, they can. Eat your supper now, dear, before it gets cold.”

As she wrapped up the remains of the medallion, Adam automatically resumed eating, though his mind was racing furiously over the implications. After a few minutes, Philippa switched on the portable TV to catch the evening news.’ International coverage was mostly devoted to the worsening situation in the Persian Gulf, but Scottish news devoted several minutes of air time to an update on what was being referred to as “the Dunfermline disaster.”

There were several short interviews, ranging from the moderate to the extreme. A spokesman for the police in Dunfermline stated that since no chemical traces of explosives had been found in the wreckage, the incident was being treated as a natural disaster. A local environmentalist professed his belief that the accident had been caused by natural forces, but went further to suggest that perhaps it was time the country took stronger measures to clean up the environment before the natural world was thrown completely off balance.

The last interview was with an off-duty police inspector by the name of Napier, who was invited to comment on the apparent similarities between this incident and the one that had taken place at Calton Hill in Edinburgh a week before. His response, to Adam’s way of thinking; was far more invidious, than the others for being couched in terms that uninitiated people would consider reasonable.

“I can’t say that I was ever much of a believer in divine retribution,” Napier said with a sardonic curl of his lip, “but even I can’t overlook the fact that these two recent lightning strikes both seem to have been directed specifically at members of the Order of Freemasonry. If I were a religious man, I’d be tempted to say they must have done something to earn the wrath of God. Maybe we ought to be asking ourselves what they’ve been up to, and start taking a serious look into their so-called secret affairs.”

His statement was the final item on the news agenda. Adam’s fatigue had shifted increasingly to indignation as he watched, and he was scowling as Philippa switched off the TV.

“So
far as the Masons are concerned, that was just about as damning a statement as anyone could possibly have made,” he said flatly, pushing his tray away.

Philippa nodded. “You’d almost think someone
wanted
to set a latter-day witch-hunt in motion. I wonder,” she continued thoughtfully, “If Noel is in any way acquainted with this Napier fellow.”

“I think I’ll give him a call,” Adam said. “Aside from checking in to reassure him that I’m all right, I think I’ll ask him to see what he can dig up about the rather unpleasant Inspector Napier.”

He spoke briefly with both McLeod and Peregrine before going back to bed. His sleep that night was dreamless, but it was not entirely easy. All through the night, he was aware of a feral presence prowling restlessly about the perimeters of the estate, repeatedly testing his defenses as it tried to find a way inside. But he had spoken no more than the truth to Philippa when he assured her that nothing could get at him here. Strathmourne was well-guarded against unwelcome astral intruders.

Sunday dawned frosty and bright. Adam awoke to the sound of distant church bells, physically even stiffer than the day before, but with his mental faculties largely restored. A long, hot shower did much to ease the aches; and dressing properly for Sunday ‘brunch with Philippa and Mrs. Talbot, in grey flannels and a navy blazer instead of a dressing gown, further improved his spirits, even though it took a great deal of physical effort and he had to have help from Humphrey. His sling of canvas and nylon webbing did little to enhance the sartorial image, but its support considerably eased the strain on his injured shoulder, so he wore it. He looked in on Gillian after brunch, and spent half an hour sitting by her bedside while her mother read to her, thinking about the shattered soul trapped in the frail, wasting body and hoping that physical proximity might spark some new inspiration for her treatment.

Peregrine arrived just on two o’clock and McLeod shortly thereafter, the latter bringing with him the folder on the Balmoral incident. Humphrey showed the two into the library, where Adam had already ensconced himself in his favorite fireside chair, legs stretched out on a footstool. Philippa remained upstairs, to conduct one of her daily sessions of touch-therapy with Gillian.

“I gather Philippa’s told you that Donald hit pay-dirt,” McLeod said, opening the file on his lap and shuffling through several stapled documents, obviously looking for one in particular. “He’s a cool one, though. Not a word about that whole origami episode, and nary a false step on this—though I know he must be bursting to ask me more about it. When the dust has settled, we’ll want to think seriously about whether he ought to be enlightened a bit, and see how he reacts.”

He found what he was looking for, turned back a page, and handed it across to Adam as Peregrine looked on silently.

“This is what’s important,” McLeod said. “Most of the rest of this is just the official reports—the eyewitness accounts of the incident, the forensics reports compiled by the bomb squad investigators, and the statements submitted by various insurance adjusters involved in assessing the overall damage to the building. There are photos, too, but they don’t tell you much. I brought it all along so that you’d have the complete file at your disposal, if you want to read it later, but Donald hits it on the head, I think.”

I don’t know if this is significant,
Donald had handwritten in his personal report to McLeod,
but when I was climbing around in the debris at the base of the tower, very near “ground zero,
“
where the lightning must have hit, I noticed something metallic wedged between two of the stones at that corner. Part of it had melted and run down the lower stone. It looked like it might have been melted pewter or silver. I tried to pry out what was left with my penknife, but it was fused into the crack. I did notice, however, that whatever it was, it was strongly magnetized. (It attracted my knife blade, which is NOT magnetized.) It occurred to me to wonder whether that might have been what attracted the lightning strike.

“He couldn’t get a sample?” Adam asked, looking up.

“No, he said it was practically welded to the stone—which is what one might expect, after being struck by lightning. Also, he had a couple of soldiers with him, showing him over the site, and he didn’t want to have to answer any difficult questions.”

“No, he was perfectly right,’” Adam agreed. “And Philippa tells me that the Dunfermline medallion also tests strongly magnetic.”

McLeod nodded, but Peregrine had been looking increasingly troubled.

“Adam, this doesn’t make sense. I can’t argue with the evidence—but why Balmoral? It doesn’t fit in with the pattern.”

“No, the pattern comes later,” Adam replied. “Philippa suggested last night—and I think she may be right—that the Balmoral strike was probably a trial run, to see if they could do it. Or maybe it was a demonstration of authority—a test of strength, if you like. When it succeeded, those responsible knew they were ready to proceed to their next objective.”

“Aye, the systematic assassination of various Freemasons,” McLeod said bitterly.

“Yes, but I can’t help wondering whether there isn’t some darker purpose beyond that,” Adam replied. “If you merely want to kill people, you don’t go to all the trouble and, no doubt, psychic expense to blast them with elemental lightning—though I’m sure that, in moments of exasperation, most people have been guilty of wishing lightning would strike an annoying adversary. Guns and bombs and such are far more efficient.

“However, the fact that our adversaries
are
going to such considerable trouble and expense places their ultimate motive far beyond a mere grudge against Freemasons. And it makes it all the more important to discover who they are and what their ultimate aim is, before it’s too late. Fortunately, we now have one of their medallions—and that may be the break we’ve been looking for. Peregrine, do you have any further plans for this afternoon?”

Peregrine sat forward eagerly. “Not a thing. I’d cleared the decks, in case you needed me.”

“Good. Then I need you to go out and get me some maps,” Adam said. “I want ordnance survey maps—the biggest and most detailed you can find, covering the whole of Scotland.”

Peregrine whistled low under his breath. “I know the ones you mean, but I’ll probably have to go all the way into Edinburgh for a full set, especially on a Sunday.”

“Then you’d better get started, before the shops close. Off you go, then.”

Once the artist had departed, Adam sighed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, returning his attention to McLeod.

“Now, what about this Inspector Napier, who seems so eager to cause trouble for your fellow Masons?”

McLeod snorted. “Good question. I don’t know what’s put a bee in that man’s bonnet, but I made a point of catching the late news last night, after you’d called. The man’s entitled to his opinion, of course, but people of his professional standing generally have the discretion to keep opinions like that to themselves”

“Aye, there are few things he could have said that would have been more damaging,” Adam said. “Which makes one wonder if it wasn’t a
deliberate
indiscretion, calculated to fuel the fire. What have you found out about him?”

McLeod shrugged. “Nothing particularly striking, I’m afraid. I stopped by the office this morning and pulled his file. His psychological profile paints him as a bit of a plodder. You know the type—someone who gets by on hard work rather than brilliance. But he has his share of ambition. His records show that he’s spent his last ten years with the department plodding his way methodically up the ladder of advancement till we find him where he is today.”