She held the needle next to his thigh, allowing him to feel its pinprick. ‘I am going to remove your gag now, and if you do anything more unsettling than whisper, I’m sending you back to sleep ... understand?’
Eldon Carson nodded with uncoordinated vigour.
She snipped away the gauze, and tugged the napkin from his mouth. He gasped and worked his jaws awkwardly. His eyelids flickered and closed tightly, as if he were trying to control his mental faculties as well. Sara assumed he had one hell of a hangover.
Finally, in a hoarse voice, he said, ‘Please ... you must let me go. It’s essential.’
Sara studied him with dispassionate eyes. ‘So you can go and kill someone else?’
‘Yes,’ he said, slurring his speech, and fighting to concentrate on his words.
‘We don’t need another murder in Aberystwyth,’ Sara said.
‘It won’t be in Aberystwyth,’ he replied. ‘Not even in Wales. It’s ... something special. I hadn’t planned it, but I’ve got to respond. Please.’
The man was babbling. Sara placed a finger against her lips and said ‘Shhhh.’
She dragged a cobweb-covered wooden stool from the corner. She wiped it with the crumpled napkin that had been Carson’s gag, and sat, returning the point of the syringe to his leg. ‘We have things to discuss,’ she said.
Carson drew in a wheezing breath, and spoke in a forced rasp. ‘If I answer your questions, will you let me go?’
Sara allowed the needle to press more firmly against his skin. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Please.’
She smiled maliciously. ‘You’ve got very little choice but to humour me.’
Carson sighed and nodded mournfully. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.
‘Everything,’ Sara replied. ‘Just tell me about yourself. Have you always been psychic?’
‘It’s become stronger as I’ve gotten older,’ he whispered, then cleared his throat and spoke as clearly as he could. ‘Even as a kid, I could sometimes see what someone had been through – or what someone else would one day put others through – as if I were watching television.’ He looked at her with intensity, and spoke as if words alone could convince her to bend to his will. ‘That’s why you’ve got to let me go!’
She pressed the needle into him again. Carson grimaced, but continued. ‘In my early teens, I realised how different I was. That was when I went looking for others like me. I met a lot of folks who claimed to be psychic but weren’t ... but there were a few. I learned a lot from them.’
‘Like what?’
‘How to refine my abilities. Not stuff they teach you in high school. One guy – a stage hypnotist – showed me ways to control people’s thoughts. He had more abilities than his audiences ever guessed.’
Carson shook his head reflectively. ‘Despite the people I talked to, though, I never met anyone quite like me. Every psychic has certain gifts – things he can do better than others. I’ve always been sensitive to pain and violence. I can spot people who’ve suffered – and those who might cause suffering.’
The monologue had made him breathless, and he paused, squeezing his eyes shut and re-opening them slowly, as if to control a rush of nausea.
‘How did you support yourself, once you’d left school?’ Sara asked.
‘My father had died by then, and he left me some money,’ Carson replied. He hesitated before adding, ‘And I sold some art.’
‘Art?’
He nodded weakly. ‘I’m a sculptor.’
Sara blinked. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘Metal, wood, paper – I can use anything.’ He grimaced and a released a small chuckle that came out as a series of wheezes. ‘Funny, huh? The killer’s really an artist!’
Sara smiled at the irony. ‘So then, tell me – how did a sensitive artist end up killing people?’
He snorted. ‘In my late teens, I moved down to Atlanta. It’s a big city, and every day on the streets, I couldn’t help seeing who the dangerous people were. Then one day I saw a guy, and I knew he was about to kill someone. I even knew the name of the man he was going to kill. About a month later, it happened again – and this time, I saw the murder, as if I were watching it as it occurred.’
‘Did you kill the guys who were going to do it?’
Carson shook his head.
‘You ran away,’ Sara said.
Carson nodded. ‘I decided to get right out of America. I flipped a coin between England and Australia, then bought a ticket to Heathrow with the last of my inheritance.’
Raising his head slightly off the bench, he looked into her eyes. ‘Have I told you enough yet?’ he asked.
‘I know you’re concerned,’ Sara said, ‘but we’ve got all the time in the world.’
‘No, we haven’t!’ Carson wailed. ‘If you don’t release me, something very bad is going to happen.’
‘Look, Mr Carson,’ Sara said sharply, ‘the fact that you’re not in a cell right now means that I don’t know what to make of you. By all rights I should just turn you over to the police and be done with it.’
She hesitated before adding, ‘Yet something is holding me back.’
‘I know,’ he replied mildly. ‘You won’t turn me in.’
‘Neither will I release you,’ she said, ‘unless I’m convinced that it’s the right thing to do. And for that, I need to know more.’
‘You need to know much more,’ Carson agreed. ‘Much more than I can tell you now. Let me go, and I promise, I’ll come back as soon as I can.’
Sara shook her head decisively. ‘You ended up in Aberystwyth,’ she said in a firm voice. ‘Tell me how.’
He closed his eyes and drew in a wavering breath. ‘I avoided the big cities,’ he said. ‘I figured, the fewer the people I was around, the less the chance I’d experience what I’d felt in Atlanta. So I drifted. And the closer I got to here, the more I felt I was heading towards something important.’
Sara looked at him implacably. ‘You mean murdering people.’
‘No,’ he countered. ‘I mean you. I am destined to change your life.’
She closed her eyes wearily.
‘You are psychic,’ Carson insisted, ‘You just haven’t realised it. Miss Sara, I know exactly what you need, and I’m certain I can give it to you. Now think before you scorn this offer – think about everything you’ve ever wanted to know. I’m probably the only person in the world who can show you these things.’
Sara shrugged. ‘Okay ... so show me.’
‘Believe me, I will. But now, you’ve got to let me go.’
‘No,’ Sara said flatly.
Suddenly, Carson sighed and closed his eyes. He grew very still, and Sara felt a wave of narcotic calm break through her body. Her thoughts became unclear, and the space just beneath her skull felt warm and fuzzy.
‘What are you doing to me?’ she gasped.
‘Let me go now,’ he said. ‘Release the ties.’
Sara’s body began to twitch, as if a current of electricity was passing through her skin. ‘Stop it!’ she commanded. ‘Whatever you’re doing, stop!’
Carson ignored her cry. He clenched his jaw and tightened his eyes, and Sara could feel energy washing from her body. Swiftly, she snatched up the syringe, caught her diminishing breath, and plunged the needle deep into his thigh. He went rigid, and lashed out with his bound legs – then his body relaxed, and his breathing became very shallow.
Sara grasped the workbench for support, and looked into Carson’s slack features. She checked his eyes – they were rolled upwards, towards his forehead.
‘Oculogyric crisis,’ she murmured.
She imagined that his blood pressure had also sunk dangerously low. She injected him with an ampoule of benztropine to counteract these side effects, and knew that he would require another injection when he woke up, which would be in a day or so.
She noticed that she was trembling with shock, and breathing hard.
‘I didn’t want to knock y
ou out again,’ she panted, ‘but if you wanted a test, here it is. Did you say that something bad was going to happen? Well, okay then, let’s see if it does.’
Usually, good driving conditions were enough to put Jamie in a cheerful mood, but today, he felt sombre and listless. He wasn’t certain why he had hurried to make it here, to Penweddig. His only plan was to admit defeat, apologise to Sara, and promise to stay out of her life. He felt like a man, wrongly convicted, rushing into the arms of his gaolers.
How would she react? Coldly, probably – but he knew that Sara would not intend it as an affront. She stifled her emotions whenever they were overwhelmed; it was the only way she could control them. To an outsider, this could make her seem far more composed than she actually was. He had learned this the hard way, during the awful culmination of last winter’s romance. Her tendency to freeze was a trait Jamie unwittingly made worse. When he grew weary of being understanding, he would swing to the other extreme and press the issue.
A thought made him smile grimly: if he understood this so well, then why was he driving to Sara’s house right now? Why visit her to promise to stay out of her life? Why not just stay out of her life?
Because it would have felt wrong. And Jamie Harding was entitled to the odd personality quirk too. He pulled into Sara’s lane, and the holly bushes scraped against his Range Rover’s dark blue paintwork. Jamie sighed and felt a wave of regret that he had ever volunteered for this assignment.
Sara heard the scrape of bushes against metal somewhere down the lane, and felt a shudder of dread. She dashed from the kitchen through the living room, skidding on a small Indian rug that lay in front of the stable door. She fumbled with the door’s skeleton key, twisting it, securing the lock with a smooth click, and hiding the key between two books on the shelf. Gasping for breath, she paused to inspect herself in the mirror. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes had swollen into slits, and her clothes were rumpled as if she had slept in them – which of course she had.
If it’s Ceri, I’ll tell her I’m ill. If it’s anyone else, it’s none of their goddamned business, anyway.
Sara forced herself to walk back into the kitchen calmly, as she heard the thud of a car door closing. Parting the curtains, she peered through the window.
Jamie Harding looked up and smiled hesitantly.
For a brief moment, she stared, stunned. Then she felt a cooling flood of relief.
Jamie tapped twice on the kitchen door, and shoved it open. Sara watched his eyes glint as he took in her dishevelled appearance – other than that, he made no outward sign that anything about her was unusual.
‘Hello,’ he said tentatively.
‘Hi,’ she replied with false cheeriness. ‘Coffee?’
‘That would be nice.’
As he sat down at the table, Sara ground beans and put them in the cafetière.
‘How have you been?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ she said with a wavering smile. Self-consciously, she smoothed her rumpled chambray shirt. ‘You caught me before I’ve had a chance to shower. These are yesterday’s clothes ... I just threw them on when I woke up.’
Suddenly, she squeezed her eyes shut, and clenched her jaw. Unwelcome tears rolled from under her eyelids. She wiped at the savagely, and opened her eye to see Jamie’s expression of feigned normalcy disintegrating. He stood uncertainly.
‘Actually, I’ve been a bit miserable,’ she said, with a choked attempt at a laugh. He moved towards her, and she responded immediately by throwing her arms around him. Her face nuzzled into his chest, and she sobbed. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been hopeless without you.’
He returned her embrace, but held very still, as if trying to sense what was troubling her. As he held her, he made soothing sounds. ‘It’s okay,’ he murmured. ‘Relax, I’m with you now.’
‘Just forget what I said,’ she sobbed, ‘forget everything I’ve done to you. I need you.’
‘Everything’s all right,’ he whispered.
She pulled away from him, and grasped his hand. It wasn’t until that smaller contact that she became aware of her own trembling. ‘Can you stay?’
Sara pulled him through the kitchen, into the narrow living room. She removed his jacket, tossed it on a chair, and manoeuvred him into the love-seat. She joined him, saying nothing, and laid her warm head on his shoulder.
They sat silently for a long moment, and Jamie listened as her breathing returned to a calm, steady rhythm. In a low voice, he said, ‘What’s happened?’
Her moist eyes met his, and she bit her lip. Finally, she sighed and said, ‘I’ve regretted the way you left.’
‘I regret a lot of things,’ Jamie replied softly.
She swallowed. A bitter taste burned in her mouth. ‘For the last few days I’ve felt more alone than I have in a long time,’ she said. ‘Every time I feel that way, I know thing that’s missing is you.’
Jamie opened his mouth but did not speak. Instead, he huffed in wonder and shook his head.
‘What?’
‘I came here to agree to your terms. To say I’ll leave you alone from now on.’
Sara held his arm tightly and tried to smile. ‘If you agree to my terms, I’ll kill you.’
He laughed. She rolled off the love-seat, grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘You go upstairs,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to grab that shower.’
SIXTEEN
Frank Linden Dundas knelt at the side of his bed like a man at prayer, although prayer was the farthest thing from his mind.
Frank had never asked much of life and, until recently, life had allowed him to go about his days untroubled. He had always enjoyed simple things, like morning tea, Marmite on crumpets, and televised sport – especially snooker. Frank had always been law-abiding. He believed in obeying rules, even when he did not agree with them. In his younger days, he had enjoyed target shooting, but after the handgun ban he had surrendered three weapons: a .357 Smith & Wesson 686-Plus; a 9mm Sig Sauer P226, and a .22 Hämmerli 208.
Now, as he slid a long, dusty case from under his bed, he regretted that: his one remaining weapon was this shotgun ... and even though the model had a folding stock, it was going to be hard to conceal.
He steadied his free hand on the mattress and pushed himself up. His other hand was shaking as it dropped the shotgun onto the bed. He unzipped the black vinyl case, and thought about the immensity of what he would do this afternoon.
As the first and last criminal offence that he would ever commit, Frank Linden Dundas had decided to kill Ian Carpenter, a father of two who worked at his local Jobcentre.
‘And why not?’ he mumbled to himself as he placed a satchel of three-inch shells next to the gun. He had lost the only person he had ever loved, he was so broke he couldn’t meet this month’s bills, and now he was in trouble with the law. Frank knew that life as he had known it was over – and if he was going down, Ian Carpenter was going go with him.
Yesterday, while he was waiting for his solicitor, the custody officer had taken his belt and shoelaces. He had had to do it by force; Frank would never co-operate with such an indignity. They had locked him in a cell: grey walls, blue lino floor, thick steel door, metal toilet with no seat. He had been upset; he’d had to take a shit. The bastards had looked at him.
He denied everything, of course.
‘We have the testimony of Mr Carpenter’s neighbour, who saw you do it,’ they had said.
‘It wasn’t me,’ he replied.
‘She recognised your car down the street.’
‘I always park there.’
‘Mr Dundas, we are arresting you for criminal damage, and offences under the Protection Against Harassment Act. You must turn up at the Magistrates’ Court at two p.m. on September fifteenth. Failure to do so will result in a fine or imprisonment, or both. The conditions of your bail are as follows ...’
Frank snorted sardonically. One of the conditions of his bail was that he not interfere in any way with Mr Ian Carpenter.
/>
He tugged the shotgun from its vinyl case.
Sorry, Sergeant, but I’m going to have to violate that particular condition.
Frank had once worked as an electrician, for a small firm of cable engineers that sub-contracted work from a larger communications company. He had installed telephone lines and cable television, and in some weeks he had worked up to seventy hours. During other weeks, he had not worked at all; Frank worked on a zero hours contract. The weekly uncertainty had been nerve-wracking, but he had earned enough to help support himself and his mother, in whose home, at the age of forty-two, he still lived.
Frank had never been good at making friends, and relied on his mother for company and support. When she first developed low-grade lymphoma – a cancer that attacks the lymph glands – he had almost welcomed it, as a chance to grow even closer to her, in her need for his compassion. He had not feared that he might lose her any time soon – the specialists said she might live for another fifteen years.
Sadly, they had not described the decline she could expect in her quality of life. After four years of chemotherapy, she developed shingles, a rash of tiny blisters on her scalp. On bad days, it caused waves of intense agony to surge through her head. Frank turned down work to care for her. Slowly, he watched her personality change with the decreasing health and increasing pain, and felt as if his most prized possession were being stripped away before his eyes.
In its sixth year, the cancer became more truculent, and his mother declined rapidly. As her life began to slip away, it grew increasingly hard for Frank to work, and he turned down every job that came his way. When she died, Frank went to the crematorium alone, and watched the curtain draw closed on electric pulleys, hiding the casket from view before its final journey to the furnace.
Until that moment, Frank had not had time to feel much emotion, dealing as he had with the administrative minutiae of her quiet death. Once his mother’s ashes had been committed to the earth, he felt as if an injustice had been done him for which there was no hope of redress.
Eleanor Dundas left behind the small bungalow she had shared with her son, and a little over five thousand pounds in savings. Frank spent most of the money paying off his debts, and knew that he needed to return to work.
Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1) Page 15
