Death of an Adept

Chapter Twenty-Eight

WHEN Adam returned later that evening, Philippa found occasion to draw her son aside and tell him of her conversation with his bride; and later still, when Ximena came to his bed, their lovemaking could leave no doubt in her mind how much he had come to cherish her love.

Yet even at the height of their passion, a part of him remained detached and on guard, haunted by grave forebodings regarding Raeburn's intentions. The Lynx-Master would strike again; that much Adam knew. And now he was striking closer to home.

But where and when and why the next attack might come remained unanswered questions, as did the question of how to stop Raeburn. Astral scanning had commenced as soon as Raeburn's involvement was confirmed; yet despite Herculean efforts by all the members of the Hunting Lodge, no trace of a pattern had yet emerged that might enable them to predict their adversary's next move. Given Raeburn's skill at cloaking his activities, they had little choice but to wait until he surfaced again - and hope that it would not be too late to thwart his ultimate plan.

Meanwhile, Adam did his best to maintain some semblance of normalcy, if primarily for Ximena's sake, keeping his professional schedule as best he could and savoring the time the two of them were able to share while sorting out last-minute details relating to the wedding, which was now less than two weeks away. But these small romantic concerns, which might otherwise have been a pleasure to contemplate, seemed only to heighten by contrast the ominous darkness hanging over them, and to increase his sense of vulnerability.

Tuesday came amid wintry gales of alternating sun and snow. After teaching rounds in the morning, Adam watched these unpredictable fluctuations in the weather from his office window, conscious, as never before, of his own limitations and the potential danger to those around him. The reason, he came to see, was because he had never before had so much to lose. He was still pondering this sobering revelation over a mug of tea long gone cold when the telephone rang. He picked it up on the first ring.

"There's been a new development," McLeod said, his normally gruff voice sounding flintier than usual. "You might want to come down to my office to hear the details in person."

His tone left Adam in no doubt that the "development" was one of significance. He glanced at his watch.

"I've got a patient in ten minutes," he told his Second, "but I could arrange to join you in about two hours' time. Or is it more urgent than that?"

"That'll do," McLeod said. "See you then."

Adam found it difficult to keep his mind on his work for the next hour. The session with his patient went reasonably well, thanks to a determined effort of concentration on his part, but he was more relieved than usual to bring it to a close. He gave his progress notes to his secretary to be typed up and filed, then headed back to his office to retrieve his overcoat. Knotting a cashmere scarf around his neck, he set out for the stairs leading down to the lobby and the front door.

He was overtaken on the next landing by a younger man in a lab coat over surgical scrubs, with full, dark hair and a smoothly handsome face that Adam had seen once or twice before. As the two of them exchanged vague nods of acknowledgement in passing, a glimpse of the name Mallory on the other man's name tag enabled Adam to place him as one of the newer members of the Department of Anaesthesia. Staff gossip held Mallory to be very much a ladies' man, but less flattering rumors hinted that Mallory's interest in his female co-workers might be motivated more by personal vanity than by any impulse of gallantry.

First to reach the lobby, Mallory made his way over to the desk, where his appearance was greeted with flattering enthusiasm by the pretty young receptionist. Bypassing the two of them on his way to the outer door, Adam couldn't avoid overhearing snatches of flirtatious conversation. Mallory's compliments had a false ring to them that gave Adam a twinge of misgiving on the receptionist's behalf as the door closed behind him, but as he braced himself against the sudden blast of cold outside, a host of more pressing concerns replaced any further thought about the hospital's newest Lothario.

He took a taxi across town to police headquarters rather than driving. McLeod was in the outer office, reviewing details of a house break-in with one of the younger detectives in his division, but as soon as he caught sight of Adam, he cut the conversation short and came over to meet him. Following the inspector into his private office, Adam waited until McLeod had closed the door before asking in a lowered voice, "Now then, what's up?"

The question caught McLeod on his way to the desk, which was shoved against one wall. Gesturing an invitation for Adam to take an adjoining seat, he lowered himself into his office chair and leaned back with his elbows propped on the chair-arms.

"You remember that young Druid from Stornoway I told you about?" he queried softly. "The one I interviewed when Peregrine and Harry and I went up to view the scene at Callanish?"

Adam experienced a qualm of foreboding. "McFarlane? The one who later phoned you up about 'a disturbance in the Force'?"

"That's him," McLeod agreed heavily. "I've never been able to connect that feeling of his to anything we knew was going on at the time, but now it appears there was a connection. It looks very much as if he's been kidnapped."

Adam controlled a start. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "When did this happen?"

"Last night, apparently some time between five and ten," McLeod said. "His girlfriend came home from work to find their flat had been trashed, and no sign of McFarlane. Chisholm was off duty when the call came in, and didn't find out about it till this morning. When he saw that the latest production update still had McFarlane listed as missing and unaccounted for, he decided the situation rated a phone call to me."

He took a file folder out of a desk drawer and handed it to Adam. "Here are copies of the preliminary incident reports, along with a photo of McFarlane, courtesy of his girlfriend. I had Chisholm fax 'em to me so we could look them over. His men are still trying to piece the evidence together, but it seems pretty obvious that the lad didn't leave the flat of his own free will.

"The Stornoway police are postulating some kind of drug involvement as a possible motive, but I don't buy that for a minute," McLeod went on, as Adam glanced at the photo. "McFarlane may not figure as a pillar of the establishment, but if he takes his vocation as a shaman as seriously as I think he does, the last thing he'd do is upset his body's natural equilibrium through substance abuse, let alone mess around with the people who peddle the stuff."

"I'm inclined to go along with your assessment," Adam said thoughtfully. "You know, two weeks ago, if anyone had asked me, I would have categorized McFarlane's involvement in the Callanish incident as largely coincidental. Now I'm not so sure. I wonder whether there may not be a hidden connection there, something that we've somehow overlooked. And if we find that connection," he finished grimly, "I wonder if it might not lead us straight back to Raeburn."

McLeod soberly nodded his agreement. "If Raeburn is at the back of this, I don't hold out much hope for this boy's chances. That's why I wanted to confer with you. He may well be the replacement for whatever Raeburn had planned for Peregrine.

"Chisholm's already said he'd welcome any assistance I could spare him. What say I ring Harry Nimmo, and see if he can force a gap in his schedule to fly me up to Stornoway in the next day or two, to look over the evidence for myself?"

"With one minor adjustment, I'd say that's an excellent idea," Adam agreed. "Under the circumstances, I think Peregrine and I ought to come along as well."

"Can you spare the time?" McLeod asked.

"I'll make the time," Adam replied. "If I don't, and this goes the direction it could go, given what's already happened to Taliere, lolo McFarlane may not have any time."

The flight up to Lewis was attended by blustery squalls, but with Harry at the controls, the little Cessna touched down at Stornoway more or less on schedule. Hugh Chisholm was on hand to meet the plane, as arranged, and eyed Adam with some interest as he shook McLeod's hand in greeting.

"Morning, Inspector," he said to McLeod. "Sorry to impose on you a second time, but things seem to be getting murkier than ever."

"I agree," McLeod replied. "That's why I've taken the liberty of bringing along Dr. Sinclair here, by way of reinforcements. Adam, this is Detective Sergeant Hugh Chisholm. Dr. Sinclair is a psychiatric consultant with expertise in cult behavior - one of the regulars we call upon from time to time to assist in police investigations. If anybody can shed some light on what's been going on around here, he's the one."

Chisholm accepted this explanation without demur, offering Adam a strong handshake, then greeting Harry and Peregrine. During the ensuing drive across town to the flat McFarlane had shared with a young woman called Rhiannon Cummins, the sergeant brought them up to date on how the case was progressing - or failing to progress.

"Some of my colleagues are postulating some kind of drug deal gone wrong, but I don't buy that for a minute," Chisholm confided with a scowl. "I think it's far more likely that this has something to do with that bunch of crazies who defaced the Callanish Ring. After all, our missing laddie was the one who called the police. What if one of the perpetrators took offense at his action?"

It was clear from his tone that he was merely thinking out loud. Sitting in the back seat, Adam offered no comment. Chisholm' s guesses merely served to remind him how far they still had to go to reach the heart of the matter.

McFarlane' s erstwhile residence turned out to be one of a row of stone cottages clumped together at the side of the road, half a mile beyond the outskirts of Stornoway itself. The property to the left had a For Sale sign hanging out in front, and looked unoccupied.

Once the party had alighted from the car, Chisholm led the way up to the front door and knocked. A moment later it was opened by a freckled young woman with red hair plaited in a long braid over one shoulder. Her face was pale under its freckles, and her eyes were red from crying.

"Sergeant Chisholm," she murmured, anxiously searching his face. "Have you found him? Is he dead?"

"There's been no new information, Miss Cummins. I'm sorry," Chisholm replied. "May we come in? These gentlemen have just flown in from Edinburgh. They're here at my request to help out with this case."

She gave a grudging nod and stepped back to allow the party to enter, eyeing McLeod half in recognition.

"Were you at Callanish?" she asked.

"That's right," McLeod replied. "Detective Chief Inspector McLeod. I gave Mr. McFarlane my card."

He introduced Adam and the others. Smoothly taking his cue from McLeod, Adam said, "With your permission, we'd like to take a look around the premises. I know this must seem like a further imposition, but I assure you that we're only doing our best to help."

Rhiannon looked taken aback. "When I phoned the station this morning, they told me it was all right for me to start tidying up."

"And it is," Adam said reassuringly. "The kinds of clues we'll be looking for are the ones most likely to turn up in odd places."

"Oh. All right, then," she said, clearly nonplussed. "I'd better warn you, though, the place is in an awful state."

Beckoning, she led them through to the sitting room. Prior to the break-in, it had been brightly decorated with art posters and Indian print hangings, its shelves, tables, and window ledges cluttered with a typical assortment of New Age accoutrements: crystals and candles, books, house plants, and amateur bits of sculpture done in pottery and bronze. Some of the hangings had been either pulled down or torn down, and many of the ornaments were now lying smashed on the floor. A black plastic bin-bag stood open in the middle of the carpet, half-full of sad, leftover debris.

Elsewhere there were other less obvious signs of the room being set to rights. A stag's head, one antler now slightly askew, had been reverently gathered up and placed on the mantelpiece until it could be returned to its place of honor on the wall above the hearth. Clusters of dried rowan berries had been tacked over the window and the door, and a hint of incense hung on the air - evidence that Rhiannon had at least made an attempt to ritually purify the room of any baneful influences left behind by the intruders.

At any other time, Adam would have heartily approved of these measures. Now, ironically, he could only hope that Rhiannon had not inadvertently dispelled the very resonances that might have supplied them with the clues they were looking for. Catching McLeod's eye from across the room, he could tell that the inspector was thinking much the same thing. But they were still committed to trying their luck, in the hope that they were not too late.

McLeod undertook to distract Rhiannon and Chisholm, drawing them aside on the pretext of checking over various points in her written statement. Knowing he could depend on his Second to keep their attention diverted, Adam channelled his own energies into boosting the performance of the other two members of the party, keeping a particular eye on Harry. Peregrine drew off to one side, sketchbook at the ready, his hazel-green eyes taking on the telltale dreaminess that invariably betokened a shift in perception. Harry, for his part, made a wandering tour of the room, pausing every few steps to pick up objects at random.

But several minutes of this activity only left the barrister looking mildly frustrated. Peregrine, likewise, had made only a few token passes with his pencil. Abandoning his efforts, he drew himself up with a shake of his head and moved closer beside Adam.

"It's no use," he muttered regretfully. "I'm not getting anything. Any signs that might have been here yesterday have been all but - "

Before he could finish, they were interrupted by a sudden gasp from Rhiannon. Breaking away from McLeod, she darted across the room and pounced on a leather thong protruding from under an overturned futon. The thong had some kind of medallion attached to it. When the medallion caught the light, Adam saw that it was a Druidic lunula of beaten, polished brass.

"No," she whispered, tears standing out in her eyes. "Now I know something terrible has happened to him. This is lolo's!" she informed them, as she displayed the lunula on her palm. "He's always worn it! I've never seen him take it off - "

Her voice broke. While Chisholm and McLeod attempted to calm her, Adam came over for a closer look at the lunula. It was finely made, overlaid with hair-thin traceries of runic inscription.

"May I?" he asked.

When Rhiannon nodded, too tearful to speak, he lifted the lunula by its leather thong and carried it over to the window. Beckoning Harry and Peregrine over to join him, he murmured softly, "Gentlemen, our luck may be on the mend. Harry, would you mind handling this? Not until Peregrine and I block you from Chisholm and the girl," he added, shifting Harry to stand between them.

"I'll give it my best shot," Harry murmured. "I don't see how it could possibly be worse than working with that god-dammed Hand."

"Probably not," Adam agreed, glancing back at McLeod, who had re-engaged Chisholm and Rhiannon in conversation. "Do try not to react too dramatically."

Nodding, his back to the others, Harry braced himself against the window frame and held out his hand, drawing a deep breath as he did so. Adam tapped him lightly on the wrist in posthypnotic cue, and Harry's eyes closed, even as his hand closed on the lunula which Adam laid in his palm.

After a delay of no more than a heartbeat, Harry stiffened and then began to twitch. His respiration changed, becoming shallow and gasping as he swayed slightly forward, almost dropping the lunula.

Adam and Peregrine braced him before he could stumble.

"Steady," Adam cautioned in a calm undertone. "You're in no real danger. Just relax and let these impressions wash over you as if they were no more than a breath of air."

Harry recovered his balance. Satisfied that the counsellor was back in control, Adam dropped his voice still lower.

"Think of this moment as a time capsule," he instructed. "Put these impressions you've just experienced into the capsule and shut the lid. That's where they're going to stay for the time being. When you decide to open the capsule again, you'll find these impressions are as fresh and detailed as they were when you first captured them."

Harry signified his understanding with a nod. Satisfied that the counsellor would be able to reserve his impressions for retrieval at a more convenient moment, Adam guided him back from trance, taking the lunula and passing it to Peregrine to return to Rhiannon.

"This is very handsome workmanship," Peregrine said with a smile, as he handed it back to the girl. "Thank you for letting us look at it. Did lolo make it himself?"

Rhiannon nodded, wiping away a fresh surge of tears, scarcely heeding the compliment.

"He knew something like this was going to happen," she said brokenly. "He's been having bad dreams ever since the start of the year - nightmares, even. He had a terrible one the night before he - " She had to stop and swallow before adding, in a shaky voice, "When he woke up, he was white as a sheet."

This disclosure made Adam prick up his ears. Coming over to join them, he said quietly, "Tell me more about the nightmare, if you can. Do you know what it was about?"

Snuffling noisily, Rhiannon shook her head.

"No. He wouldn't tell me. He might have written it down in his dream journal, though."

"lolo kept a dream journal?"

Nodding, Rhiannon paused to pull a tissue from her pocket and blow her nose. "We Druids believe that dreams are messages sent to us by the spirit world. The shaman always takes them seriously."

Adam hardly needed such an explanation, but Rhiannon was not to know that.

"I see," he said. "Do you think we might take a look at this journal?"

Rhiannon frowned dubiously. "I don't know. It's very personal, lolo never even let me read it."

"I can appreciate that," Adam said, "and normally I wouldn't make such a request. But what's in that journal might help us find out who kidnapped him and why. It's possible that he met someone or saw something that has a bearing on his kidnapping, and found its way into his dreams. They might contain clues that will help us."

Rhiannon stared at him for a long moment, deliberating, then said, "All right. I'll go and fetch it."

She left the room and came back a moment later with a small black-marbled hard-backed notebook. This she presented solemnly to Adam.

Crossing over to the settee, he sat down and placed the book carefully in front of him on the coffee table. The others gathered round, watching over his shoulder as he opened the book and began paging through its contents.

The earliest entries went several months back into the previous year. It required only the briefest of scans to determine that the dreams which followed the Callanish incident were conspicuously different from those which had preceded it. The imagery at that point became suddenly turbulent and strange, dominated by motifs of storm and darkness. The final entry was even more striking: a blank page with a string of letters scrawled across the middle of it in untidy block capitals.

Adam turned to McLeod, lifting the open page in his direction and indicating the inscription.

"What do you make of that?" he asked.

McLeod adjusted his aviator spectacles and leaned down.

"S-O-U-L-something-S - is that a G? - S-T-R-I-G," he read aloud.

"That one fuzzy character between the L and the S doesn't come all the way down to the line," Harry chipped in. "Could it maybe be an apostrophe?''

Peregrine frowned. "Soul's gstrig," he pronounced. "Assuming that's right, what's it supposed to mean?"

Adam was shaking his head. "I have no idea. It could be a mythological reference. It could be a place name. It could be something drawn from lolo's personal dream lexicon. Whatever it means, he clearly considered it important enough to stand on its own. And that suggests we ought to take it seriously."

He turned to Rhiannon. "I'd really like to study this journal more closely. As a psychiatrist, I find dream analysis a useful tool - and it i?ally could give us some clues. May I take it away with me? It's just possible that lolo had some premonition that might be linked to his kidnapping. I can't promise anything, but I'd like to try."

Having come so far already, Rhiannon did not raise any further objections now.

"All right," she sighed. "If it will help you find lolo, it'll be worth it."

"Is this all right by you?" Adam asked Chisholm.

The Stornoway detective shrugged. "Our forensics boys are all finished here. If they didn't see fit to classify that book as evidence, I don't see why I should take exception. No, this is obviously your speciality. Best let you get on with it."