by China, Max
Miller knew the key to stopping them was Carlos, but Kale had warned him off. With the Resurrectionists less than a few hours away, he telephoned Kale.
"Donovan, it's Miller. I need your help with something. Remember I told you about that business I had in Scotland? Well…"
When he'd finished explaining everything, Kale was silent for only a moment.
"This is what I suggest: The Vatican," he said, "it's the only place she'll truly be safe, and from what I can gather, they'll welcome her back with open arms, the Resurrectionists wouldn't dare to follow her there."
"That's great, Donovan, but we need to move quickly."
"Scotland, you say? Whereabouts?"
"Not far from Edinburgh." Miller replied.
"I can have my plane there within two hours. There's a private airfield about twenty miles out. Can you get her there?"
Miller covered the receiver. "Is there another car here?"
She nodded.
"I don't know how this is going to work, Donovan, but yes, give me the postcode, and we'll get there."
"I'll have it sent to you by text. Two hours. See you there." Kale hung up.
"Come on, Sister; let's get you packed and ready." He followed her along the passageway to the lobby, where a suitcase sat waiting for her.
"You weren't ever planning to wait for them, were you?" he said, studying her face. Tiny creases at the corners of her eyes gave her away. I should have known! "How did they find you?"
"Oh, I knew they would, eventually. My ability to resist those who pry was somehow doubled by the stone, but the closer someone gets, the harder it is to stay concealed." Her fingers sought from habit to roll a missing object. "And he is close."
"Who?"
"The tall man. The seer. I feel him." She donned her cape and gloves, pulling the hood up and lowering the veil over her face. "Miller, we must go now. He'll kill you if he finds you here. He wants only me and the stone."
"Now where's this car?" he said.
The tall man stopped the elderly red Citroen, opened the driver's door and then half getting out, stood holding it ajar. With one foot on the road and the other still in the vehicle, he turned and looked south. The stone. It's no longer here. He'd gone ahead to try to obtain it for himself. With it, his would be the ultimate power. There would be no need for The Sister. With it, he would be able to read the future in addition to reading the past. Miller is with her. He got back into the car, considering his next move.
Bumping up the lane in an old, battleship-grey army jeep, they rounded the first bend. The sun cast a red glow across the lane onto the wild flowers. A car is coming! No, it isn't moving. It was stationary and empty.
"I don't think I can get round it," Miller said. "I'll see if I can move it."
"Be careful," she said, laying a gloved hand on his forearm. "He is near."
With no one else in sight, Miller got out and looked into the abandoned vehicle. The door was unlocked. No keys. He remembered a gap they'd passed in the bushes further up, on their way in earlier, a passing point.
"Sister, you're going to have to drive the jeep, push this French banger backwards. I'll steer it."
The hedgerow quivered and then suddenly parted as a man clambered through the foliage. "Move away from the car, Miller." He held a pistol.
"You!" Miller exclaimed, recognising him as one of the men who'd tried to kill him a year ago. The tall man.
He brushed along between the vegetation and the side of the car, keeping the gun levelled on him.
"Move away down the passenger side and get in," he commanded.
The gap between them was six feet. You'll never do it.
"Don't even think about it," the other man sneered. "You, Sister, out! I know you no longer have the stone. Where is it? Tell me!" he said, aiming the pistol. "Or I'll kill him."
He knows where it is. Her thoughts came from Miller's head.
The seer looked from one to the other. What sort of trick is this?
Her eyes flickered behind her veil. Miller saw himself through her eyes.
The gun swept round to aim at her. "Last warning. Where is the stone?"
A shadow formed. Taekkyon! His mind emptied in the blink of an eye. He took two steps, ducking under the pistol arm as it swung to follow him. His hand coming around from below, he gripped the seer's wrist, knee against calf, folding the leg backwards, at the same time forcing the gun hand away from him. Miller stepped up onto the lowered thigh using it as a springboard and drove his knee straight up into his adversary's face. The gun went off. Birds scattered from nearby trees. The Sister fell to the ground.
Oh, no – she's been shot! Fearful, he rushed to her stricken form. Dropping to his knees beside her, he cried her name. She didn't move. One leg was folded half beneath the upper calf of the other; he unfastened the silken cape looking for a wound, and finding none, pressed his ear against her chest, listening for a heartbeat.
"What are you doing, man?" She pushed his head away. "I fainted, that's all! I can't bear violence."
With no time for ceremony, he yanked her to her feet and then crouched by the unconscious man, searching his pockets for the car keys. Finding them, he threw the gun over the hedge. "Quick, get in the car."
The car screamed in reverse gear as he swung it into the passing point. Backwards, forwards, back again, turning enough to face forwards, he then drove as quickly as the car's suspension would allow them to go. Shadows gathered about him.
"I thought you'd laid them to rest," he said, grinning.
"So did I," she said, a hint of a smile on her lips.
Miller dropped her off an hour later, at the airfield. One of Kale's bodyguards met them in the car park, and they followed him to where a private jet awaited her. After helping her aboard with her luggage, Miller embraced her.
"Will I ever see you again, Sister?" he asked.
She rested her forefinger on his chest, right above his tattoo. "Si Dios quiere," she said, and even though her hand was gloved, and he was wearing a jumper and shirt, her touch burned into him.
"I'll see you again, Sister," he whispered and walked back down the steps onto the concrete taxiway.
She watched his back as he descended, smiled enigmatically and turning, entered the plane.
A female flight attendant introduced herself and showed her inside.
Kale emerged from the cockpit and took over, asking, "Isn't your daughter coming with you?"
"Rosetta is making her own way."
Sister smiled as Kale's face darkened. "But they're after her too!"
"I know," she sighed. "But you know how it is with the young . . ."
"When did she leave?"
She knew there was a time for truth and a time for lies; there was only one option. "An hour ago."
"Excuse me," Kale turned on his heel. "I'll be back in a moment."
Taking a seat, she looked out of the aircraft's window. Head down, Miller crossed the strip, on his way back to the car park. She blew a kiss after him.
The distant figure of Miller stopped abruptly and turned. The jet shone in the late evening sunshine, its whole length illuminated, radiating a beam, so bright everything else paled against it. It looks like Ryan's pencil! Shielding his eyes, he squinted, looking for her at the window. Something in his perception changed, and he saw his tiny figure standing out alone, by the runway. The link forged all those years ago, no longer denied, still in existence.
He googled the telephone number of the nearest taxi firms while he waited. Only when the plane was airborne did he call a cab. His finger poised above the keypad to make his next call, he hesitated. If she'd wanted the police involved, she would have told you.
Selecting Tanner from his contacts menu, he telephoned him.
"John, it's Miller . . . Look I'm sorry about the last few days…" He held his mobile away from his ear, while Tanner turned the air blue with a tirade.
"Stella's on the train with Kathy, heading for King's Cross, I don
't know which train they caught, but they should be back in two or three hours, I would have thought. Any luck with finding Boyle, by the way?"
"Don't you read the papers? We're in the middle of the biggest manhunt this country has seen for years," Tanner said. "Where are you?"
"It's a bit of a story, John, but if Boyle is still at large, it might be an idea to get the girls picked up from the station when they arrive, make sure they're safe. I'll call Stella and find out how far away they are and let you know."
"Between you and me, I think he's long gone, but let me know what time and I'll get someone to meet them."
"Thanks, John, I'll call you back."
Taking a deep breath, he phoned Stella.
"Hi, Stella, it's me. Is everything okay?"
"Jesus, Miller, what was that all about. I couldn't get anything out of Rosetta, what is it about you? I'm beginning to believe you when you say you're dangerous to know!"
"I haven't got time to explain it now. The main thing is that you and Kathy are okay. How much longer before you arrive in London? Tanner is going to send someone to meet you, but listen, do me a favour. Don't say anything about what happened with The Sister."
"How can I say anything? I can hardly remember a thing," she laughed, nervously.
The taxi arrived.
Deciding to catch the train home in the morning, he checked into the nearest hotel to the railway station as he could.
Moments later, his phone rang. Carla.
"Miller, where are you?"
"I'm in a little room at a hotel in Edinburgh—"
"I called you straight away. Guess what? No, don't bother. I've just discovered Michael Simpson posted some documents into an email account he'd set up under an alias. I'll explain everything later, but I now know who killed him, and why."
"I thought we were clear—"
She interrupted, "Yes, but you'll never believe what I found out."
"Oh, Carla, please just tell me."
"It's Kale - he's the leader of the Resurrectionists . . ."
For a moment, he didn't answer. Despite everything else that came before, he'd not seen that coming.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, "Carla, give me a minute, I'll call you back." He disconnected her.
His mind raced. When Vera had touched him, and he'd seen those things: the neon sign, the garish cross over the church glowing high on the mountain.
It all became clear.
The Sister had her reasons for throwing a blanket over his senses, and he realised that she'd known her destiny all along and used him to do what she couldn't do directly herself.
He'd unwittingly helped her to get inside; now she would at last finish the task that fate had set her long ago.
Miller wondered if he'd ever see her again, and then he smiled.
Calling Carla back, he laid his cards on the table. "Listen, you're going to have to drop the investigation—"
"Miller, are you kidding me? No way!"
"Will you just hear me out? You have a great story, and we both know that, but to leak it now benefits no one, puts lives in danger and spoils whatever chances there might be of a better one, and besides, what's happened about Carlos?"
"Trail's gone cold, I haven't enough for a story really. I have some more on his background, but I don't do half a job."
"That's exactly what I'm saying…"
"Okay, okay, I'll drop it for now. I was thinking about writing a book about Boyle."
"Boyle? There's a story there, but you can't finish that one either."
"Oh, I think I can…" she said.
Rosetta stepped off the train into the cool night air and made her way towards the seafront.
The buildings in the side street leading towards it were derelict, boarded up; most of them had been that way for years. Only the dregs of society, drug addicts, winos and the down-on-their luck used them now. It was almost midnight.
It was safer on the streets during the day, while most of them slept off the effects of the night before. After dark, it was a place best avoided.
Two rough sleepers sat facing each other, with their backs against the red brick wall of a porch. At the bottom of the stone steps leading up to it, was a black iron gate with three-foot railings each side of it. It was a visible deterrent to invasion, which although not unassailable, made them feel safer.
One was Irish, the other Czechoslovakian. They took turns guarding their snug in the daytime. They hadn't left it unattended since a couple of Romanian gipsies laid claim to it. It hadn't been easy to get it back. One would go off to forage for money, drink and food, while the other stayed behind. The arrangement worked well.
When they spoke, it was quietly, to avoid drawing attention to themselves. They finished the last of the drink; it was the trigger - knowing there was no more - to descend into oblivion. It beckoned the Czech first, as always, and the conversation dwindled to almost nothing.
It was the same every night.
"She's not coming . . . is she?" the Irishman said, out of the blue.
The Czech's head tipped back as he drained the last drops from the purple tin in his hand; he rolled his eyes in his companion's direction without moving his head.
He spoke from the corner of his mouth, as he swallowed. "Who's not—" His chest heaved, interrupted by a choking spasm. His lips pressed tightly together to prevent the loss of any precious liquid, his eyes bulged as he struggled to regain control of the reflex. Finally swallowing, he coughed a piece of phlegm and spat it over the wall. "— not coming?"
The Irishman shook his head in dismay. "Did your mother not tell you never to speak wit' your mouth full?"
The advice was lost on the Czech as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, eyes red and streaming. "I don' remember my mother!" he said, with a hoarse voice.
"Shame on you, Czech."
"An' shame to you!"
The sound of footsteps in the narrow street silenced them. The only light was the moon. Knocked out on a nightly basis, the council had given up replacing the streetlights years ago. Boarded up buildings lined both sides of the street, but the security measure didn't prevent the former hotel opposite being used as a drug den. A large corner of corrugated iron sheet covering a ground floor window pushed out. A pair of feet appeared, followed by legs and the rest of the body, which eased down to the pavement beneath. The owner of the footsteps they'd heard held the sheet open, before climbing in himself. There was always someone coming or going.
They never bothered the two men; they didn't have anything they needed.
"She hasn't been since last year," the Irishman said.
The Czech slipped further down against the wall, so that his back was almost on the floor, while his head remained upright, leaning against it. From the side, he was almost L shaped. His neck would ache in the morning, but he was too far gone to move. He closed his eyes, mumbling, "Crazy Irish . . . lemme sleep."
"Things were different when she was around. I didn't need this shit when she was around." He looked at the half-empty bottle with disdain. Turning it to catch the moonlight, it revealed the tiniest smear of liquid still inside.
He licked his lips and almost sensually pushed his tongue into the bottle's smooth neck, tipping it up, waiting patiently for last of the moisture to dribble over his taste buds. It warmed his mouth, and he slumped back against the wall, eyes slowly drifting out of focus.
The gate creaked. Heart pounding, he sat up rubbing his eyes as he looked warily down the steps.
The figure of a woman, dressed in a light grey cape, came towards him, her pale face and rosé coloured hair coming alive in the silvery light.
She looked younger than the last time he'd seen her.
"Czech, wake up; she's here. Our Lady is resurrectified!"
She smiled enigmatically. "Hello, Paddy."
Hollow crumpling sounds came from the thin metal sheets as they pushed back from the window behind her, she looked over as a gangly youth slid out
, looking around furtively before going on his way.
The smile was still on her lips, but her face couldn't mask the sadness she felt at the plight of those around her.
Paddy was on his feet, wiping his hands against his clothes, smoothing his hair. "What is it, what's wrong?"
She turned to face him. "It's okay, Paddy. I was just thinking . . . that's all."
Every year at Easter, no matter what, her mother had returned to Brighton. She'd have loved to have helped them all, but she recalled her words. You can't grow seeds in a barren land; they won't take. A question formed in her head . . . But what if you bring fertile soil with you?
She rolled the stone between her thumb and forefinger. Manipulating it into her palm, she closed her grip on it. The impressions it contained had long since passed into her, but the energy it possessed amazed her, firing her body and soul.
She thought about her mother again, but she was shut down to her. Rosetta couldn't connect.
"When the time comes," her mother had said, "and the Resurrectionists come for you; seek out Miller. He'll know what to do."
She puzzled over the advice. Why not you, Mum? It was the one area they hadn't covered in the plan. A thought seeded in her mind, designed to seek out the light when the time came, germinated. If she uses the wavelengths, the tall man, he will know.
Chapter 156
Monday August 27th
The improvement in Kathy had occurred almost overnight. The hospital had released her on the proviso she stayed with her sister, and Miller had insisted Stella took six weeks off work to help with her rehabilitation. He'd kept in regular touch with her throughout, and during her absence; she'd volunteered - if time permitted - to create a new website for him. On Saturday afternoon, she'd telephoned to say she would be in on Monday. Desperate for the change in direction an enhanced presence on the internet could bring, he hadn't argued. Quite apart from that, he needed her back.
