by Maynard Sims
Once they had left the office, Simon walked across to the small cabinet in the corner of the office and poured himself a large single malt. He took a mouthful and savored the flavor. He brought the drink back to his desk and sat down heavily in the chair, reaching across for the phone.
“Trudy, get Sir Nigel Foxton for me.” He put the phone down. A few seconds later it began to ring.
He sipped another mouthful of whiskey and reached for the handset. Sometimes he hated this job.
Chapter Forty
The Barbican, London, England
Department 18 kept a number of apartments in the Barbican Centre. They were owned discreetly under a holding company, but they were used by operatives on active duty while in the capital. Some of them were occupied pretty much permanently by retired or resting personnel.
Carter was using one while he worked on the apartment building investigation. Before he was hospitalized, the plan had been to visit Jane and perhaps take her to dinner and a show. So much for plans, he thought.
There was no doubt he felt weak as he left the hospital. A taxi took him to the Barbican and as he paid the driver he looked around at the normality of the scene.
The building was looking a little tired from the outside, even a bit dated, and the road was permanently busy with traffic. As Carter stood there a few moments he watched cars, taxis, and motorbikes rushing to wherever they were headed, oblivious to anyone else’s business, dealing with the issues of the day.
Carter let himself into the building, checked his box for mail and took the elevator to his floor. Inside his apartment, everything was how he had left it. He dumped the clothes from the hospital in the laundry, ate a quick toasted cheese sandwich from the meager rations in the refrigerator and drank lashings of hot coffee.
The apartment had a small balcony, and he took more coffee with him while he smoked and thought. Had Jane really left him, or was she suffering guilt over her husband and especially her children? Carter wasn’t sure. Paula was certain, and sometimes it took a stranger to see the truth between people more clearly than they did themselves.
Before Jane had visited him in hospital, Carter had no doubts they were set for life, or as good as could be at any rate. Now he thought he still knew how she felt but needed her to tell him. He thought about calling her but judged that would only make matters worse. She knew where he was.
He took a shower—very hot, then very cold—the contrasting temperatures soothing and invigorating. As he dried himself, he began to think about his next move with work. He realized a report into the apartment building investigation would have been written, but he needed to write one as well. Partly to ensure the full facts were reported and partly as an exorcism of what had happened.
He spent the next hour working at his laptop, a Word document gradually forming into a six-page report detailing all the events, when and where they happened and whom they affected. Whenever a death occurred during a department investigation, an independent team would look everything over in minute detail, ensuring compliance with regulations and that nothing criminal had taken place.
That was another reason Carter wanted to give a comprehensive report, to cover his back. He knew he had a reputation as a maverick, and it was not just Crozier who disliked him. Though Crozier was the main thorn in his side.
If he rang Jane, there was every chance the call would be picked up by David. He couldn’t risk a text for the same reason. It was then that he noticed the e-mail icon flashing. He had mail in the inbox.
Making sure he had his report saved, he closed Word and went into Outlook. Among the various messages about people adding him on Facebook and confirmations of CD orders on Amazon, was a message from Jane.
He took the laptop onto the balcony, lit a cigarette, and opened the message.
Darling Rob,
Seeing you in hospital like that broke my heart. You looked so frail and helpless I just wanted to fling my arms around you and hug you and kiss you and tell you everything will be all right. Just like I do when Gemma or Amy hurt themselves.
I know I didn’t do that. And I know that what I did do hurt you even more than your injuries. Please understand why I had to do it.
I can’t hurt the girls any more than I have already. They are so confused about why Mummy and Daddy don’t live together with them, and why they argue all the time.
You will probably say I am running away and perhaps I am. I know now that I ran away before when I denied my powers, but I couldn’t handle my feelings then and I am struggling now.
I do love you, Rob. If you want to know if I love you more than David, the answer is I don’t love him at all any more. But if you ask me if I love you more than the girls…well I know you too well to think you would even ask me that question.
I can’t be with you right now. That doesn’t mean I am with David.
You and I will be together. We are a couple.
A couple of what…??
I love you, J.
BUT DO NOT REPLY AND DELETE
THIS MESSAGE!
Carter read the message twice more, searching for meanings that weren’t there. What Jane said was clear enough. He smoked three more cigarettes. He had guessed Jane would equate her turmoil of emotions with the time she suppressed her psychic gifts. She hated not being in control of her feelings and found comfort only in denial.
He e-mailed his report as an attachment to Crozier, ending the brief note with a “see you soon.”
He didn’t reply to Jane. Again, he didn’t know who would read it, but he knew she wouldn’t expect a response. He considered for a moment seeing if she was online on MSN Messenger but decided against it as too public.
He locked the door to the balcony, stored the laptop, and washed up the mug and plate he had used.
Crozier would see him soon.
Chapter Forty-one
Freedom is strangely ephemeral. It is something like breathing; one only becomes acutely aware of its importance when one is choking.
—William E. Simon
The grounds of Faircroft Manor, Hertfordshire, England
Karolina felt as if she had been running for hours, and now she was hopelessly lost. It had all seemed so easy when Alice had been explaining the route, even to the point of sketching a map for her, but that had been rendered useless when the rain started to fall from an overcast sky, making the ink run on the paper, smearing the lines and turning the landmarks into incomprehensible blue smudges. Now she was wet and cold. Her feet were blistered and her hands were bleeding from where she had tripped on a hidden root and gone sprawling headfirst down a leaf-strewn incline.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being tracked through the woods. She had heard nothing and seen nothing to confirm the feeling, but it was there just the same, gnawing away at her, making her jump at shadows. She had no wristwatch, so she had no idea how long she’d been out here, but judging from the way the light was starting to fade away, it must be getting close to evening. Alice had told her to head west, but with the thick gray rain clouds covering the sun, it was impossible to get her bearings. She pressed on.
Thirty or so minutes later, she pushed through a stand of silver birch trees and found herself in a clearing. In the center of the clearing was a dilapidated shack. Built from wood with a cedar-shingled roof, it would at least provide some shelter from the increasingly heavy downpour.
She ran down a small slope to the shack and pushed at the door, which opened with a scream of rusting hinges and released a foul smell of something like mildew, rot, and decay. She threw a hand across her mouth and stepped inside. One step in and something crunched and rolled under her foot. She withdrew her foot quickly, staring down in disgust at the crushed dead body of a rat, its throat torn out, the fur around the wound black, matted with congealed blood.
She took a breath to steady her churning stomach and ventured farther into the gloom.
Gradually, as her eyes became accustomed to the dim illuminat
ion, she took stock of her surroundings. To her surprise, the place was still furnished. The first room she came to had a couch and two armchairs, although birds and animals had obviously been using them as nests and beds as the upholstery was ripped and torn and covered in droppings. There were a few pictures still on the walls; hunting scenes—red-jacketed men and black-jacketed women galloping over the countryside. Against one wall stood a bookcase with a few books, curled from the damp, lining its shelves. Her English wasn’t good enough to read the titles, but judging from the dust jackets, they looked like popular novels.
A noise from the back of the shack made her freeze in her perusal of the bookcase. Something was moving about back there. She looked around the room for something to use as a weapon, and in the sooty, disused fireplace she spotted a long poker. She picked it up and weighed it in her hand. Wrought iron and heavy, with a thick pointed tip. She raised it, ready to lash out, and moved from the room and along the passage toward the noise.
She found herself in a room that would once have been the kitchen, but it was only the porcelain sink mounted by two brass faucets that betrayed its purpose. There were spaces in the work surfaces that would have housed a stove and refrigerator, but the spaces were thick with dust and debris, so it looked like it had been some time since any culinary miracles had been performed in this room. But at least it was lighter in here as the last of the afternoon sun trickled in through a window above the sink. Treading carefully and silently, she ventured inside.
In the corner of the room, lying on a bed of soiled and dusty newspapers was a threadbare tabby cat, presumably the murderer of the rat at the front door. Oblivious to her presence, it was washing itself, licking its paw and wiping it over its face. She approached it cautiously, lowering the poker in a gesture to suggest to the animal that she meant it no harm. When she was within a yard of it, she crouched down and stretched out her free hand to let the cat sniff it. She murmured soft, soothing words in Polish.
“Touch my cat…harm my Maisie an’ I’ll kill you, I swear it.”
The words, deep and gruff, came from behind her, and Karolina spun around. The sudden movement frightened the cat. It gave a yowl of alarm and skittered past her.
The speaker was an old man with long, stringy white hair and an equally unkempt beard. Bright eyes glittered in a filthy and wind-worn face. He spoke again, revealing a row of gappy, rotten teeth. “I’ve been watching you,” he said. “Who are you an’ what do you want with Maisie and me?”
The words came out in a flurry, so fast Karolina barely understood them, but she caught enough to get a glimmer of understanding.
“No harm,” she said.
“Put it down then. The poker, put it down.” The old man made a gesture with his hand to make his point.
Karolina shook her head, raising the poker slightly.
He grinned. “Fair enough. I don’t blame you. After all, you don’t know me from Adam.” He wandered to the door. “Let’s talk in the other room. At least we can sit down in there.”
Warily she followed him through to the main room, still tightly clutching the poker, ready to lash out if he tried anything.
He swept a space on one of the couch cushions with his hand and pointed to it. “Look, cleaner now. Sit down.”
Karolina shook her head and remained standing.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said and flopped down onto the cushion he had just cleaned, rubbing his arthritic knees. “That’s better. What are you? Slav? Pole?”
Karolina said. “From Poland.”
A faint smile appeared on the old man’s dirty lips. “Good crew, the Poles. My old man flew with some of your people during the war. Always singing their praises he was.” He paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Then, “Jak się nazywasz?” he said in faultless Polish.
“Karolina,” she replied. “Karolina Adamczyk. You speak my language,” she said, then let fly with a torrent of words, explaining her plight from the moment she was abducted and brought to England by Kaminski.
The old man held up his hands. “Whoa, Nelly!” he said. “I’m not fluent. Just the odd phrase my father taught me when I was a boy. I haven’t got a bloody clue what you’re goin’ on about.”
She stopped midflow, confusion clouding her eyes as she realized she wasn’t being understood.
“My name’s Albert,” he said, then tapped his chest and repeated it. “Albert Wellington. Wellington, like the Iron Duke.”
She looked at him blankly, not understanding the association.
“Okay,” he said, wiping his lips on the ragged sleeve of his grubby overcoat. “Looks like we’re going to have to take things a little slower. Oh, sit down, for Christ’s sake.” He flapped his hands. “I’m getting a crick in my neck staring up at you.”
Cautiously she lowered herself onto the arm of one of the chairs, laying the poker down beside her. “Do you…live…here?” she said haltingly.
“If you can call it living, then yes, I do. Me an’ Maisie.”
“The cat?”
“Aye, the cat.”
“Run away,” Karolina said, pointing at the door.
“She’ll be back at dinner time. Dinner time,” he said again, miming eating a meal.
Karolina nodded with relief. “She’s your…your pet,” she said, shuddering at the new meaning the word now had for her.
“She is,” Albert said. “But don’t tell her I said so. She’d be mortified if she knew I thought of her that way. That’s the funny thing about people an’ cats. Too many people who keep cats believe they own them. Even have the cheek to call themselves cat owners. Bloody fools. You don’t own a cat. A cat owns you. It chooses to stay with you, that’s all. An’ that’s the natural order of things…” He stopped himself. “Listen to me waffling. That’s the problem. I don’t see a soul from week to week. Just Maisie to talk to, an’ let me tell you, she’s not much of a conversationalist.”
He could see from the expression in Karolina’s eyes that she hadn’t any idea what he was talking about. He wiped his lips again. “Right, young lady. Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’re doing tramping through the woods on your own, an’ then breaking into my house. In English an’ very slowly. I’ll give you a head start. I know you’ve come from the manor, the big house. I’ve been following you since you left the main grounds. So you can start by telling me why you left the place like the devil was at your heels, an’ where it is you’re making for.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, and smiled broadly when Karolina nodded her understanding. “Brilliant!” he said. “You an’ me are going to get along just fine.”
Chapter Forty-two
Department 18 Headquarters, Whitehall, London, England
“How about we start with you telling us what you know about Jacek Czerwinski? Who is he, and why has John Holly abducted him?” Simon Crozier said.
It was early evening and Harry Bailey and Michael Dylan had reconvened, with Jason Pike, in Crozier’s office.
The three of them sat there, facing Crozier across the obsidian lake of his desk. As usual, there wasn’t a speck of dust or even a thumbprint on the smooth glass surface. Even though he had sat here on many occasions over the years, Harry Bailey still found the surroundings intimidating. Which was, of course, just what Crozier intended. He glanced at Pike, whose face was placid, serene. He was staring back at Crozier, evaluating the man, getting his measure.
“Well?” Crozier prodded after several seconds.
“I thought your first concern would be Daniel Milton,” Pike said, his voice a low rumble, the voice of a volcano biding its time before the eruption. “Had it not been for him laying his life on the line, you wouldn’t know anything about this.”
“On reflection,” Crozier said quietly, “I’m regretting we ever got involved. Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about that now. So how is Milton?”
“Not good,” Pike said. “His back’s broken, and he’ll never walk again. His left arm is broken, as is his colla
r bone, and he’s got a severe concussion, probably due to the fractured skull he suffered at Holly’s hands. The rat bites looked worse than they were, but he’ll still need skin grafts on his legs where the little bastards gnawed down to the bone. He’ll live, but he’ll never be the same again.”
Crozier nodded slowly, then took a breath. “Okay, let’s move on. I go back to my original questions,” Crozier said. “Czerwinski?”
Pike’s eyes narrowed. There was a rebuke there, but it remained unspoken.
“Look, Mr. Pike, I know you’re concerned for your friend, but the fact remains that one of my staff, Miranda Payne, has also been taken by these breathers.”
“Does everyone know about breathers?” Pike said quietly to Dylan who was sitting to his left.
“It’s a name we coined for them. Speak to Martin Impey if you want the historical reasoning behind it.” He was silenced by a fierce look from Simon Crozier.
“For all I know Dr. Payne could well be dead, but we’ll go on the assumption that she’s still alive, and that makes her my prime concern. Giving us this information could lead us to her. Surely you understand that.”
Pike stared hard at him, weighing the decision in his mind. Finally he spoke. “We have to go back to Alice Spur, discuss her, and especially discuss Julia,” he said.
“Who the hell is Julia?” Crozier demanded.
Pike sighed, and spoke slowly as if explaining the obvious to a slow pupil. “She is the daughter of Tomas Czerwinski—Tomas being Jacek’s brother. What Jacek doesn’t know is Tomas and his wife were her adoptive parents.”
Pike waited to see whether he would get a reaction. Crozier kept his face neutral, as did Bailey and Dylan. They’d all seen too much of the paranormal, of life, to jump to the conclusion that Pike was finished.
