The Adept (31 page)

“Aye. But leave the doors unlocked, and be ready to hit the release on your seat belts. If I
do
put this beast in the water, I’d rather just worry about explaining it to the Chief. I don’t want to feel guilty that I’ve drowned the two of you as well.”

Peregrine shut up at that, as the peril of their next few minutes became clearer. Time seemed to stand still, drawn out longer still by the shrill keening of the wind, the crash of the surf on the concrete ramp. After a moment, McLeod restarted the engine and turned on the wipers, letting the engine idle, to keep it warm. Through the rain-spattered windscreen, they could make out the blurred amber dots of the ferry’s maritime running lights, moving slowly from behind the end of the pier.

McLeod switched on the headlights as the ship edged closer, illuminating heavy turbulence churned up by the ferry’s stern engines as her master fought to line her up with the concrete ramp. She eased in very close, her horn hooting as her forward loading ramp started coming down. As soon as it was past the horizontal, its edges awash, McLeod popped the car into gear, holding it with one foot on the brake until just the right moment.

“Here we go,” he muttered—and set the Volvo in motion down the concrete incline.

His timing was impeccable, as was the ferry captain’s. Just as a giant swell receded, bringing the ferry’s steel ramp into grating contact with the concrete, the big car bumped jerkily over the meeting point and carried on, up onto the car deck. In perfect coordination, the steel ramp rose behind them in a backwash of brine. The incoming swells lifted the ferry up and away from the ramp and out into the channel, heading north and east toward Kyle of Lochalsh.

As soon as the Volvo was stationary, McLeod engaged the emergency brake and killed the engine. No one said anything for several seconds.

“How—how long does this crossing normally take?” Peregrine finally asked, when he could breathe easily again.

“Normally?” McLeod let out a snort and gave a wry
smile. “About five or ten minutes. Tonight—your guess is as good as mine.”

In the silence that descended, punctuated by the whine of the wind and the crash of the waves outside, Adam sighed and glanced at his watch.

“It’s after six,” he said quietly. Then, “What’s it going to be like at the other end?”

“Worse,” McLeod replied. “The pier’s more exposed, and I seem to recall that the ramp is steeper. If it really looks bad, we may have to go ashore on foot and find other transport.”

“I’d rather not do that, though,” he went on, scowling. “I think I can construe all of this as legitimate police business, after the fact, but commandeering a vehicle could be dicey. Besides, you never know what you’ll get. This old bus isn’t the high-performance vehicle I’d prefer for a run like we need to make, but at least I’ve gotten to know her on the way here. She’ll get us to Urquhart in good time—if we can get her off the ferry.”

This pronouncement produced an even deeper silence than the one before. The ferry ploughed through the waves like a pregnant sea cow, engines laboring at full throttle. Rain and spume beat against the car windows as the deck pitched and rolled, the salt smearing under the wiper blades. The opposite shore was only dimly visible as an opaque black mass, a shade darker than the lowering sky. The water on all sides showed sharp white peaks like gnashing teeth.

Minutes crawled by. The mainland shore loomed closer. The ferry’s forward floodlights cut pale, watery swathes through the tossing spindrift, revealing a sudden, blurred glimpse of the pier-heads of Kyle of Lochalsh.

The ferry wallowed like a mired pig as the captain brought her in under the lee of the land, trying to align her with the floodlit loading ramp. Some of the waves were breaking nearly to the top of the ramp. A warning hoot from the ferry’s Klaxon drew their attention away from the shoreline.

“That’s our cue,” Adam said thinly. “Time to get ready to disembark—if we can.”

The wind was keening like a banshee. McLeod started the Volvo’s engine and crept the car closer to the raised ramp that closed off that end of the car deck as MacDonald brought the ferry in close under half speed. Battered by incoming waves, the vessel fishtailed clumsily into the water gap between the pier-heads. Rumbling rustily, the exit ramp began to fold downward.

There was a jolt like a minor earthquake as the ferry’s flat keel struck the submerged concrete of the sloping ramp. Smoke billowed up from the ferry’s exhaust funnels as her diesel engines labored to bring her back into alignment. The end of the ferry ramp moved to within several feet of the concrete, then surged away again on a heavy swell.

“He’s going to have to do better than
that,”
McLeod muttered.

Adam only nodded, suddenly gone very quiet.

Three more times the ferry approached the concrete landing ramp, only once lined up squarely and coming closer than about two feet. As the captain lined up for yet another approach, McLeod was shaking his head.

“I was afraid of this,” he said. “He isn’t getting in close enough.”

“Can
we
even get off the ship?” Peregrine asked. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I don’t think
I
could jump across that gap.”

“Maybe not,” Adam said thoughtfully. “But I wonder if Noel could jump the
car
across.”

As he glanced sidelong at McLeod, the police inspector stared at him.

“Jump
the car?” Adam nodded.

“Didn’t you ever jump a car off a ramp, when they put you through that anti-terrorist driving course?”

“As a matter of fact, I did—several times. But this is—”

Calculating, he looked out at the wave-swept ramp, at the water separating it from the end of the ferry ramp, at the distance between the end of the ramp and the car—then out the Volvo’s back window.

“It might just work,” he said thoughtfully. “If I were to back up to the other ramp, it would probably give me
enough of a run forward. Traction might be a problem, though, on these steel decks.”

“I saw some sand in those fire buckets, up by the stair to the pilot’s bridge,” Adam said. “We could spread that under the wheels.”

McLeod turned to look him full in the face. In the back seat, Peregrine was practically holding his breath, hardly able to believe they were actually discussing it seriously.

“You really want me to try it, don’t you?” McLeod said. “Adam, I wasn’t joking before, about putting the car in the drink. And that wasn’t even with jumping involved. What’ll I tell the Chief, if I screw up?”

“You’ll tell him you screwed up,” Adam said, “but at least you’ll have tried. And meanwhile, as you pointed out before, we can always commandeer another car. But we’re wasting time right now.”

“Right now,” Peregrine pointed out, as the engines changed their pitch and the ship lurched, “the question may be academic. I think the captain has given up.”

His elders turned their attention forward once more. As Peregrine had noted, the ferry was falling away from the loading ramp, turning to head for the pier, and the front ramp was going back up.

“You’d better come with me,” McLeod said to Adam, putting the car in Park and setting the handbrake. “I may need your particular persuasive ability. Mr. Lovat, I’ll ask you to stay with the car again.”

Hunching down against the driving rain, McLeod and Adam made a mad dash across the car deck and up the outside stair to the pilot’s bridge, where the figures of MacDonald and his mate were silhouetted by the cabin lights.

Chapter Twenty

“YE WANT
tae do
what?
”
MacDonald gasped, staring at the two intruders on his bridge as if they had just announced their intention to walk on water. Behind him, hands frozen on the ship’s throttles, the mate also was staring.

“I know it’s taking a bit of a risk,” McLeod conceded, “but I told you, lives are at stake. The worst that can happen is that I’ll grossly underestimate and end up in ten or fifteen feet of water.”

“Aye, an’ what if ye cannae get oot? I dinnae want anybody drowning on account o’ me!”

“Captain, we don’t expect to drown,” Adam said reasonably. “In fact, we don’t even expect to get very wet, if you do your proper part.”

“My proper part? I’ve
done
as good as I
can
, man! In this sea, I dinnae think anybody could hae got her in closer.”

“We hadn’t decided to try the jump, when you did it before,” McLeod said. “Just repeat that performance—bring her in that close—just three attempts—and I’ll either go or give it up.”

MacDonald looked him up and down appraisingly, cast a similar glance over Adam, then returned his gaze to McLeod.

“Ye swear ye’ll gie it up, after three tries?” he said.

“After three tries,” McLeod agreed.

“And if we even get to attempt the jump,” Adam added, reaching into an inside pocket, “I’ll send each of you a £100 bonus. Here’s my card. I assure you, I’m good for it.”

MacDonald took the card and eyed it tentatively.

“
Sir Adam Sinclair, Bart
.,” he read. “
Fellow of the Royal College of
—ye’re a doctor?”

“I am.”

“A psychiatrist, it says here?”

Adam nodded.

“An’ he’s no’ crazy?” MacDonald asked, gesturing toward McLeod.

“No, only a little desperate. And while you’re dithering, lives are still at risk. Now, do you want the bonus or not?”

At MacDonald’s glance at his mate; the other man only shrugged and nodded. Tight-lipped, MacDonald turned back to McLeod.

“Three tries, then—an’ I sure hope ye know what ye’re doin’. Flash yer headlamps when ye’re ready for me tae bring her in.”

As they clattered down the outside stair again, hunched down against the rain, McLeod glanced back over his shoulder at Adam.

“Thanks, Adam. I could’ve just ordered them to try it again, but your offer certainly sweetened the deal. If we don’t make it now, it won’t be because our chaps didn’t give it their best shot.”

“Nothing like a little extra incentive,” Adam replied.

They retrieved the buckets of sand on their way back to the car, Peregrine joining Adam to help spread it while McLeod backed the car to the very rear of the car deck, back bumper nearly touching the raised rear ramp.

“Same drill as before,” McLeod told them, as they piled back into the car. “Be prepared to bail out, though, if I botch it.”

“You aren’t going to botch it,” Adam said confidently, as they watched the front ramp starting down again. “It’s merely a matter of timing.”

McLeod said nothing. After flashing the headlights in signal, he set his left foot hard on the brake and shifted into Low. With his right foot he revved the engine, eyes fixed on the end of the ramp and the shrinking expanse of water between it and the wave-washed target of the landing ramp, as the ferry slowly moved into position for an approach.

The first attempt was no good. A swell caught the ferry and slewed it sideways just at the critical moment, so that a comer of the steel ramp struck the concrete instead of making square contact. The impact echoed through the ship’s steel, and the engines roared as they fought to bring her steady. The retreating swell carried the ferry out the same way, wallowing and pitching on the angry waves, so that it took several minutes to line up for the next approach.

Peregrine braced himself against the back of the seat behind Adam and peered anxiously ahead. Just visible in the rain and the glare of the lights up on the pier, they could see several slickered figures moving along the top of the concrete ramp.

“I hope those chaps have enough sense to get out of the way,” Peregrine murmured.

“
If
we go,” McLeod retorted.

“We’ll go,” Adam replied confidently.

Ponderously the ferry began her second approach. She started out a little too far to the left, but a gust of wind brought her directly in line, heading right for the concrete ramp.

“Hang on, this may be it,” McLeod warned, as the distance closed.

Time seemed to slow almost to a standstill. Slowly the gap narrowed from ten feet to eight feet to six, and still was closing. If everything stayed steady—

With a hoarsely whispered, “Now!” McLeod released the brake and punched the accelerator. The big car shot forward, fish-tailing a little on the slick deck, even with the sand under the tires, but moving fast—hitting the end of the ramp as it came within about a yard of the concrete. The car went briefly airborne, then made contact with the front end, in a shriek of metal bumper scraping concrete, and a gigantic splash as the rear end hit about six inches of water, fortunately receding with the swell that also was carrying the ferry away again.

“Hang on!” McLeod shouted. “We’re not home yet!”

Fighting the wheel to keep the car straight—and from sliding back down the ramp and into the sea—he bore down on the accelerator. Spume spun off the rear wheels as the Volvo fought for traction—the exhausts were underwater, blowing smoke furiously—but after a heart-stopping moment of foundering, the tires gripped the concrete and the car shot up the ramp with a roar, seawater streaming from its undercarriage.

Slickered figures scattered, an array of blue-flashing emergency vehicles becoming visible as the Volvo crested the top of the slope. McLeod had a wolfish grin on his face as he jammed on the brakes and brought the car sharply to a standstill, and he gestured back toward the ferry in his rear-view mirror as he glanced at Adam.

“Grab that big torch and send him V for Victory, Adam!” he said triumphantly, paying no heed to the several figures now converging on the car from the direction of the flashing blue lights.

As Adam cheerfully complied, flashing three short flashes and a long one out his window in the direction of the ferry, his salute was answered almost immediately by the ferry’s Klaxon—three short hoots and a long one that reverberated all the way to the diaphragm.

All three of them were laughing as Adam repeated the signal and was answered again. The broad-shouldered figure in’ fireman’s gear who came splashing toward them, his torch aimed at the driver’s window, was not laughing.

“Just what d’ye think ye’re doin’, mister?” he sputtered, leaning down angrily to peer into McLeod’s window. “I dinnae like yer humor! Another few inches tae th’ right, an’ ye would’ve had me for a hood ornament!”

Still chuckling, McLeod rolled down his window and showed the man his ID.

“Sorry. We aren’t laughing at you. It’s sheer, quaking relief at having made it off that bloody ferry! Didn’t mean to give you such a scare. We’ve got a rather urgent police matter on our hands.”

“Weel, then, that’s different,” the man said, his anger deflating into grudging respect. “An’ I haftae say, I havenae seen driving like that ‘cept in the films. I didnae even think the boat was running.”

“It wasn’t,” McLeod said, “but we persuaded the captain it was his civic duty to get us across. What’s the road condition between here and Fort Augustus?”

The man snorted, garrulous good nature returning, in the face of their common dilemma.

“Now, that I couldnae tell ye. We’ve enough tae worry about, right here. This storm is really queer-like. I’ve never seen anything like it. Nae warnin’ frae the weather service—an’ it’s rippin’ roofs off buildings, an’ knockin’ doon power lines—we lost the phones hours ago.”

Behind him, the disarray gave mute testimony to his words. Off to their left, the wind had lifted the roof off a small concession kiosk, hurling one twisted roof panel through the front window of a nearby shop. Broken glass and sodden newspapers littered the surrounding pavement, and men were trying to board up the windows of a nearby cottage whose windows also had fallen victim to the storm. The pungent smell of gas proclaimed a ruptured main somewhere. Rescue workers in fluorescent armbands were laboring to clear away the debris that lay between them and the source of the problem.

McLeod nodded sympathetically. “I don’t envy you your job. Have you got a radio?”

The fireman paused to wipe the rain off his face before answering.

“Aye, but I cannae promise that ye’ll get through. There’s weird electrical stuff going on, with the thunder an’ lightning an’ all. But ye’re welcome tae try.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said McLeod. “If we can raise Fort Augustus, maybe somebody there can put me in touch with the police.”

“We’ll do our best,” said the fireman. “Best move yer car first, though. There’s a petrol station over there.” He pointed off behind him. “It’s closed, but ye can pull up under the overhang tae give yerselves a bit of shelter. I’ll meet ye over by the track.”

While McLeod was away, Peregrine remembered the hamper they had been given by Margaret MacLeod, and dragged it up onto the backseat beside him.

“How about a sandwich, while we’re waiting, Adam?” he asked, starting to rummage in it. “We may not get a chance to eat, later on.”

Adam, studying their map with the aid of a small penlight, merely shook his head.

“Nothing for me, thanks. This kind of work is best undertaken on an empty stomach.”

“It is?” Peregrine put down the sandwich he had been about to unwrap and looked at Adam quizzically. “Why is that?”

Adam turned his head partway toward Peregrine and smiled. “Do you want a medical explanation or an esoteric one?”

“Oh. You mean, there’s more than one?” Peregrine asked.

Adam chuckled good-naturedly and half turned in his seat to rest his arm along the back.

“The reasons are akin, actually. Physiologically speaking, the digestive process draws blood away from the brain—which means that mental functions are going to be less than optimum after eating. That’s why one often feels like taking a nap after a good meal.”

Peregrine nodded. “That makes sense. And the esoteric explanation?”

“Taking in food is a grounding process—which is why it’s recommended that one have something to eat and drink after meditation or any other psychic procedure. Remember how I fed you, that first night you showed up on my doorstep?”

“Yes.”

“But if one is about to work on the higher planes, it follows that one would not want to be grounded,” Adam went on. “One wants the brain to function at peak efficiency. So one fasts—or at least goes light on food. We could have something to drink, if it’s nonalcoholic.”

Peregrine produced a thermos flask from the hamper and opened it, sniffing at the mouth.

“Tea,” he announced, as the aroma filled the car and confirmed his opinion. “Is that all right?”

“That’s fine,” Adam replied.

They sipped at steaming cups of it while they waited for McLeod to return. It was sweet and strong, and warmed cold fingers as well as insides, as they cupped their hands around it. After a few minutes, Adam set his on the dash and twisted around to glance at Peregrine.

“Hand me that phone out of Noel’s bag, would you? I doubt I’ll be able to get through, but we just might be able to enlist some additional backup for what’s waiting at Urquhart.”

Wide-eyed, Peregrine passed the phone, forward, watching as Adam lowered his window slightly, extended the phone’s antenna through the opening, and punched in a series of numbers. He could hear the static, even in the backseat, and had begun to lose interest by the time Adam tried the fourth or fifth call.

“A-ha,” Adam murmured. “This one’s ringing. And what do you want to bet I’ll get the answering machine?”

His expression, as the line picked up, confirmed the prediction. Thus Peregrine was startled to hear Adam leaving a most cryptic message.

“This is Adam, at—six thirty-seven pm on the thirty-first,” he said, glancing at his watch. “In an hour or so, Noel and I are going to be hunting rather nasty game. If you get this message in time, I want you to go to the club and join us. Alert the others, if you can; I’m’ calling from a cellular phone, and can’t raise anyone else. This is most important. That is all.”

As he turned off the phone and shoved the antenna back into the receiver, Peregrine gaped at him.

“How many others of you are there?” he breathed.

Adam’s smile, as he cranked his window back up, was enigmatic.

“Enough to give the Opposition pause, when need be,” he said.

McLeod’s return precluded further questions.

As the inspector got back into the car, pausing to shake the worst of the rain from his slicker, Peregrine poured him a cup of tea. McLeod gulped the first few swallows gratefully, setting it aside then, while he polished his rain-spattered glasses with a dry handkerchief.

“I tried to raise the others, while you were gone,” Adam informed him, passing the phone back to Peregrine. “No luck, except for Lindsay’s machine. I left a message, but I doubt it will be picked up in time to do any good.”