She checked left and right, and was just able to make out Nev and Gary through the filter of bracken and branches. Without the moon they were all but invisible, even from as close as twenty feet. All she could see of Nev -- and that because the boot polish had refused to take to the slice of healed tissue -- the scar that cut an extra wide smile across his face all the way up to his temple. To Kristy he looked uncomfortably like the Cheshire Cat, and even managed to disappear when he turned his head away to contemplate the wall rising in front of them.
They all knew, and only too well, about Jason's mauling by the dogs. Nev had assured her he could handle them easily enough when the time came, and all she could do, she knew, was trust him. That didn't lie any easier than the memories of the Dobermans going to work on Jason, but she was in no fit state to argue.
The grass was wet beneath her fingers, the night's humidity drawing out the dew. The air smelled of summer, and Kristy thought she had never smelled anything so rich or fine in a long, long time. Rubbing the sleepiness out of her eyes, she wondered if the real reasons behind the summer's sudden blossoming were no more mysterious than where they were and what they were doing, and thought that maybe they were the reasons after all.
An owl hooted somewhere above, a lonely sound that drew five sets of eyes Kristy's way; at least two pairs accusing her of crying out for attention. That rankled. She had to tell herself to let it slide.
Like Nev, Kristy turned her attention to the wall looming up out of the darkness before them. Squinting through the unhealthy dark, her eyes conjured their own trace memories of Havendene and began picking out and painting in outlines of the massive hall, towering even above the security wall. In her mind, the windows were shielded by thick net curtains. Behind the gauze, as if through a bank of fog, chandeliers burned. She was painfully aware of the spotlights bathing the front steps and stone lions of the hall in yellow light. That meant spending precious time looking for the back way in, and for that they were going to have to rely on Jason's series of photographs and Kristy's vague memories.
Jason had said the stable doors were barred from the inside, so logic said that was where they wanted to be. Even then, she reasoned, the other doors would be alarmed.
They couldn't break in without alerting everyone inside, within earshot, and, most likely, everyone in the nearest Police station. Worry about that when you get there, she told herself. She glanced over at the two faces she didn't know. Blacked up, she couldn't tell one from the other, though she remembered their names, Iain and Shaun, and that they were both Scottish, guessed from their strong accents; Iain's quite definitely Glaswegian in origin, Shaun’s less rough and more obviously from the East coast for its smoother edges. They hadn’t exchanged conversation outside of the few pleasantries when Robin introduced them, and even a simpleton could see neither of them looked too pleased at prospect of having Kristy with them once they were over the wall. A liability, she had heard one of them mutter on the way over.
Well stuff you, Kristy thought defiantly. And hanging round here’s not going to help anyone. . .
“Why aren't we going in?” she whispered to Robin, not bothering to mask her exasperation. Robin held a finger to her lips. There was a harsh chuckle from someone. Nev? As if to some silent signal the five of them were scuttling forward, leaving Kristy five steps back and looking at their backs as they ran at the wall. Gary fairly danced up the pitted surface of the wall and was already folding himself double over the top. He stuck a hand out for one of the others to pass him the rucksack full of tools, hauled it up and over and dropped it with a clatter of saws, nails, chisels and hammers over onto the grass at the other side.
The second sack he handled with a much greater respect, hooking it over an overhanging branch while he swung his legs up and over, dropping out of sight.
Nev perched awkwardly on the ledge and leaned down to offer Kristy a hand, which she took gratefully. Her feet scrambled, the toe-caps of her boots scuffing against the wall as they peddled the air looking desperately for some sort of purchase. Then she was up and hanging in space. Nev hauled her legs round and over the wall, and then let her go. She dropped the nine feet to the grass, landing awkwardly but with her knees bent sufficiently to absorb some of the bone jarring impact. She felt the suddenness of the landing jolt around her waist.
Nev snagged the second sack from its dangling perch and passed it down to Gary.
Kristy rubbed her sweat-damp hands on the front of her camouflage jacket. Well kid, now you're here there isn't any going back.
Nev dropped comfortably to the ground beside her. Again, she was struck by his similarity to Todd Devlin; the way he uncoiled, moving with deceptively loose-jointed grace. They even shared the same beguiling smile. The only readily apparent difference, the side of the criminal fence they walked – and Kristy's first impression of Devlin had marked him as a man who would be equally at home on both sides – so maybe they weren't even that different after all, just two men championing her cause who, on another day, might equally be responsible for casting the shadows for her to jump at when things started going bump in the night.
“Come on,” Nev whispered, tugging at her sleeve.
Robin and the others were creeping forward, keeping their heads down, moving through the shadows towards Havendene; the massive bulk of the old hall towering over the quartet, old stone, leering gargoyles and glass.
Nev tugged at her sleeve again, then crouched and scrambled away, his actions readily translating into: Come on if you're coming, girl, otherwise go home and leave it to the big boys.
She hawked and spat into the dirt beside her, and followed.
They skirted the boat house pagoda, hugging the contours of the slope and taking an almost identical path to the one rapidly trodden by Jason a few days earlier. Every step of the way Kristy found herself expecting to hear that first gruff bark to signal the arrival of Richards’ dogs.
If before, picking their way through the undergrowth on the way to the perimeter wall, they were quiet, crossing the wide open strip of killing ground between the skirt of trees and the wall of the stable they were church mice.
The surface of the picture lake rippled with the tension of the moonless shadow, shifting with the weight of the slight breeze.
Kristy covered the distance running low and fast, a litany of Please God, don't let anyone be home's tripping off her tongue. Even the night could not hide the mishmash of styles clustered in close to make the horseshoe of outbuildings. Nev darted around her flank and disappeared in through the mouth of the horseshoe. She heard him grunt and curse, and guessed he had found the stable door barred. Coming around the corner, she saw him hammering his fists against the cold brick of the wall in frustration. A shadow that could all too easily have been blood trickled between his knuckles. The windows on both sides were shuttered, not giving away any of their secrets.
Huge industrial bins lined the kitchen wall. Kristy swallowed a deep breath, crouched low and scrambled forward beneath the height of the windows. She reached the short flight of steps leading up to the kitchen door. Saw the sliver of light creeping out from under the door. Listened hard, straining to pick out any obvious sounds of movement inside, and was answered by the quiet and unpredictable sighing of the night winds through the circle of trees surrounding Havendene. No sounds coming from inside, or at least none she could distinguish from the breeze, and that was good enough for now.
Kristy drew two deep breaths.
She was glad Robin had insisted on her wearing the camouflage jacket. With it on it was still chilly, but – and thank Christ for that – it wasn't so cold her teeth were chattering like penguins scudding about on an ice floe. She smiled, remembering Jason’s confusion as to which furry little beasties lived at which pole, and for the life of her couldn't think which pole it was penguins did their scudding at these days.
“Must be contagious,” she muttered under her breath, and looked back to check on the others. They were all preoccup
ied with their own individual tasks; Iain going to work on the stable door with a crow bar, Shaun acting as surgeon's mate to Nev and Gary who were trying out a variety of tools on the barred windows, Robin Stone playing lookout back at the horseshoe's mouth.
The kitchen door was a half-dozen-stair climb away, sheltered by a narrow-roofed porch that ran two feet either side of the door itself and was braced against the wall with weather-stained timber struts.
She crept up the six steps, and leaned out on tip-toes, having to hang on to the timber strut and crane her neck in order to peer in through the window. The kitchen was surprisingly modern. Stainless steel drainers and naturally wooden work surfaces. There was an abundance of cupboard space, units lining all but one wall, two rows deep, a refrigerator and industrial dishwasher the other. As best as she could tell, there was only the one door out of the kitchen area, and that was pulled to so she couldn't see where it led.
Behind her, Robin hissed: “What the hell do you think you're doing?” It had to be Robin, because besides Kristy she was the only other female in the group, and the voice most definitely belonged to a full-time member of the fairer sex.
Kristy rocked back from the window and turned to face the young student. She had her hands planted on her hips and a pout on her lips any self respecting Bimbo would have killed for. Reaching out a hand and groping blindly behind her back for a moment, Kristy found the handle, tried the door and felt it give. She flashed a grin and whispered: “Keep an eye out, but if I'm not back in two minutes get the hell out of here, okay?” Then eased the door open and, moving backwards carefully, stepped through and continued to back off.
“Don't you. . . Oh, you fucking, fucking moron-” the look on Robin's face was one of utter disbelief, as if the last thing she had expected was Kristy suddenly striking out on own when they had come this far together; that she could betray them by leaving them high and dry like this.
She couldn't let herself think about it that way.
She had to think about it as doing what was necessary. Right here and right now getting inside was necessary. Getting at Brent Richards. She knew she had no real choice in the matter because inside, in her heart, there was a sliver of ice with Jason Kelso’s name carved deep into it, and that sliver was working like a slow poison in her blood, killing her softly.
The next moment in time was broken down into fragments, like a mirror shattering under the blow of a hammer; dissonant thoughts fractured to such an extent it was impossible ever imagining them living comfortably in the same mind; a sense of endlessness, of time hanging in the balance, and the paradox of that endlessness ending far too soon, with the kitchen door closing and turning her back on Robin Stone. She coasted through the actual motions as if she were dreaming, buoyed by nothing outside the clutches of dread. Her heart was beating hard against her breastbone, and that was the only reason she knew that she was still alive, because of it there, beating its rhythmic reminder.
Then she was alone, and she was inside, barely moving while time was moving all too quickly again.
She didn't give herself the time to think she might be making a mistake.
Difficult as it was to do so, Kristy forced herself into motion.
Nervous perspiration beaded her forehead. She could feel her armpits, uncomfortably clammy and already beginning to cling to her blouse.
“Come on, Kris! Think girl! Think!”
She couldn't kid herself it was a simple case of life’s a bitch and then, if you’re lucky, you die. No matter how she felt about it, there was a chance -- and no matter how slim that chance actually was – there was a chance that Judith Kenyon was in here, somewhere – and Frank Rogan for that matter – and needing help. The last real proof anyone had of Judith Kenyon's whereabouts was a not-so-high quality Polaroid taken by Frank Rogan on the lawn outside of Havendene.
And now both of them are missing. . .
That was enough to get her to the door.
She had to tread softly, and still three paces from the door, offered another silent thank you to God, this one for the fact that the floor was stone and not linoleum. On stone, at least, her Doc Martin's weren't about to squeak like a budgerigar chorus. She opened the door.
It all looked very different from this perspective, although she knew she had to be moving in roughly the right direction. The offices would be down and off to the right, along with the library if her memory was anything to go by; the restaurant, gymnasiums and sauna's off to the left of the main staircase; the guest rooms upstairs. She wanted the offices, and one in particular.
At the kitchen's threshold the stone flooring gave way to Romanesque ceramic tiles. Kristy eased the door closed behind herself and walked cautiously along the whitewashed hall, pausing to listen and check the line of three closed doors. Heard nothing untoward, and moved on.
Not surprisingly, it was not completely dark. Dimmed auxiliary lights relieved some, if not all, of the darkest recesses and in the process created their fair share of stark shadows. Candle effect torches burned in sconces two deep as the passageway opened out into the high-vaulted foyer where a massive crystal chandelier cast out the darkness. The toc-toc-toc of footsteps echoed down from the floor above. Kristy stepped back into the slice of shadow thrown over the passageway by the angle of the grand chandelier, and holding her breath, she listened to them move away to wherever they were heading.
Edging back out into the open, she cast an anxious glance upwards, half-suspecting that her ears had deliberately lied and whoever it was she had heard moving about upstairs was still there and hovering on the landing. Of course, no one was leaning over the balcony looking for her; nevertheless she felt her heartbeat quicken and quickened her pace accordingly.
Kristy crossed the lobby at a trot, a concession to the urge that wanted her out of there as quickly as possible: nothing, she knew, attracts the eye like sudden movement. So she loped across the lobby as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be doing, every step of the way expecting to hear someone cry out an alert or sound an alarm. Ducking right, she headed for the corridor lined either side with offices.
This area, at least was familiar ground. Richards’ office was the second door down and on the left, its huge picture window offering an unobstructed view of the grounds that took in a sweep as diverse as the wrought iron gate arch and the lake-bound pagoda.
She checked her watch. It was almost 4:00 am.
Kristy had ridden her luck this far. She didn't want to push it any further than it was prepared to go. The door was open. She realised then, feeling the handle turn as easily as it did, that she hadn’t so much as considered the possibility of it being anything other than open. She chalked another one up for luck, and went on though, again closing the door behind her.
She didn't risk turning on the main overhead light, but trusted lady luck to hold out on collecting her overdue debts long enough for her to get away with the anglepoise on Richards’ desk. The room was austere and uninviting, more soulless than she remembered it being in her last visit. The desk was clear, pens neatly aligned on the leather blotter, the blotting paper spotlessly clean. A heavy brass inkstand. A telephone. Shelves of medical textbooks, case studies and research papers. The beaten-leather swivel chair pushed back from the big desk, its back to the window, outside of which night had claimed the lake and lawns. A long black leather sofa against one wall. A fax machine and filing cabinet stood beside a second, smaller computer desk. Photographs. Richards and President Clinton shaking hands at a function. Richards and the actor Tom Cruise, taken at a luncheon. Richards posing at a press launch for his last book, Psyche. All of the pictures seemed at least ten years old, most closer to twenty.
The whole office gave off a uniquely palpable air. Having been immersed in it for less than thirty seconds, Kristy neatly pigeon-holed the atmosphere she picked up as one of waiting. It jarred heavily with her own sense of urgency.
Quickly, she began opening desk drawers at random. Found a des
k diary, a jotter, a tray of paperclips and boxes of cheap biros. She tried the filing cabinet, found thick ring binders wedged into the drawers and a sheaf of manila folders. She pulled out a handful, carried them back to the desk and flipped through them, reading off the magi-marker stencilled titles. One folder, marked up with the legend N.E.S.T ., stood out among the confidential client case files. She flipped the folder open, shaking her head as she ran her finger down the index listings:
-- EMOTION, MOOD & MEMORY TRIGGERS,
-- NEURO-TRANSMITTERS,
-- PROTEIN CONSTRUCTION,
-- BIOFEEDBACK,
-- PAIN RECEPTORS,
-- THE FRANKENSTEIN SYNDROME,
-- NEUROSIS EFFECT,
Until it arrived at:
-- JUDITH KENYON PHENOMENON.
She read the top paragraph of the sheet to herself before slipping the file inside her camouflage jacket. It made Shelley's own worst case scenario read like a bedtime story.
She checked her watch again. 4:02.
There's time yet, she told herself, deliberately contradicting the growing sense of vulnerability that had her blood running cold. She scanned the room a second time, looking for anything she might have missed.
A lockable CD box sat beside the computer terminal, none of the labels on the disks inside legible through the tinted lid. She searched the desktop for a key, but like Richards’ other desks, it was remarkably free of clutter. She needed a cigarette, never mind that she didn't smoke.
Kristy thought about breaking into the box. One option would be smashing the lid, but that idea let her down on two fronts. One, too noisy. And two, not enough time to go sifting through the debris trying to make sense of what she found. Her only other idea was picking the lock. Again there was the time factor, along with the double-negative, she had no idea how to go about picking even an elementary lock, like the one stopping her getting into the CD box.
Sufferer's Song Page 34
