You’re mine. I’m coming for you.
It was Soran, the Gatekeeper, crossing over from the fourth dimension, reaching out into the relative safety of the Otherworld.
“Commander, come here quickly. We’ve got a pulse!” exclaimed the nurse who was monitoring Dec’s progress. They had all but given up hope, as despite all their valiant efforts to bring Dec back to life after he had flatlined, they had given him up for dead.
He was gone. Dec’s official time of death was about to be noted as 5:02 in the morning.
And then now, out of the blue, Dec suddenly had a heartbeat and a pulse.
“Heart rate sixty-four beats per minute. BP ninety-five over fifty-eight,” said the nurse, staring at the monitor in total disbelief. In her fourteen years as a senior charge nurse she’d never seen a recovery such as this.
“He . . . he . . . he was dead,” she stammered in shock.
Syzchowski rushed back into the ward. All in the room looked down in amazement at Dec, transfixed, as a pink color returned to his previously blue cyanotic lips, and as if they were all imagining the miracle that was occurring in front of them, the serene look on Dec’s face, a look reminiscent of if he had just won the lottery, positively radiated from his previously lifeless corporeal body.
In fact, he had just won the lottery of life: he’d somehow come back into this mortal world after being clinically dead for five minutes and thirty-one seconds.
I’ve said it before, thought the Commander. This lad’s got someone rooting for him. By all rights he should have been dead after his first cardiac arrest.
Thank you, Lord, for bringing him back to us again . . . for the third time.
“Okay Cait, it’s over to you,” said O’Donnell.
The two of them were sitting just inside the door of an out-of-the-way, slightly run-down café around the corner from the Stazione Acquicella Centrale, having what was now becoming an almost regular midmorning event for the two of them—coffee and a Sicilian pastry. If they could divorce themselves from the dominance of the investigation in their relationship, they would realize that the two of them actually looked forward to their frequent catch-ups. They seemed to understand each other, and intuitively had a handle on what made the other tick.
Cait stared out the window at the insanity of the traffic driving past, a constant stream of small dinky-toy cars that all looked the same except for the color. Nearly every vehicle wore the scars of the Italian-only “touch and stop” parking method, with scratched bumpers and mudguards where their drivers had squeezed into impossibly small spaces. Cait looked into the distance, her attention caught by a series of missing red terra-cotta tiles from the roof of the tumbledown house across the other side of the road.
“What a crap area this is down here,” said Cait idly. “Certainly not high on the tourist agenda, I imagine.”
Cait cupped her coffee in both hands, enjoying the wafting aroma of the strong, bitter brew and took a sip, her mind wandering.
If Tony wasn’t so damn focused, I think I could actually like him, she mused, glancing over in his direction. But still, there’s just something about him that’s really dangerous . . .
“And people actually live in that shithole over there? I mean, there’s laundry hanging on the balcony, so obviously it’s inhabited.” Cait stopped and nibbled a corner off her cannoli before continuing.
“I mean Tony, that place is almost Third World. You don’t see much worse in Asia.”
O’Donnell figured that this was as good a place as any to start looking for Tariq’s hideaway, as the Catania railway station which was at the end of the street was conveniently opposite the main cemetery, which Cait had seen in her premonition.
And it was time to get down to business.
Ignoring Cait’s ramblings, O’Donnell said, “So Cait, can you just go over what exactly we’re looking for again?”
“Jesus, don’t you ever listen? Tariq’s holed up in a tumbledown house near the cemetery.”
“Well, if he is actually where you say he is . . .”
“Tony, I told you before, don’t doubt me.” Cait was on the warpath and in no mood to play games. Basically, she couldn’t give a rat’s arse if O’Donnell believed her or not. She just knew she was right.
“I know he’s around here. I can feel it. It’s like I’ve got a divining rod in my head. He’s down there . . . somewhere.” Cait looked back across the road, nodding her head slightly as she pointed at the red tiled rooftops that were slightly down the hill below them, immediately behind the derelict chain-link fence with unkempt weeds twisted through it that ran along the edge of the road.
“Well, we need to find the house in your premonition before Tariq splits and the lead goes cold,” said O’Donnell.
“What, you’re actually giving me some credence for a change?” replied Cait sarcastically.
“Okay, one last time before we start the search,” he answered, Cait’s last comment passing over his head like water off a duck’s back.
“Tariq’s in a run-down house with plaster peeling off the walls facing the street, and I think you mentioned graffiti on the outside. Correct?” said O’Donnell in an almost monotone reply, as if he was a telemarketer reading off a set script. “It’s got green shutters that are hanging loose over the windows. And there was a number on the front door. Number eight from memory.”
Ice didn’t really need to confirm the description again. He was just testing Cait to see if her recollection was the same as before. He still had his doubts about Cait’s psychic powers, but it was the only lead he had so he was prepared to run with it, even if it was a bit out there.
I mean, it’s just all New Age hocus-pocus, isn’t it? he thought to himself. She can’t be for real.
“Tony, I just told you a minute ago. Don’t doubt me, or I’m warning you, I’ll walk.”
Christ! There she goes again. Was I that obvious?
“Yes, you were,” said Cait, a scalding tone to her voice.
“What?” A quizzical look appeared on Ice’s face, his head turning slightly to one side, eyebrows raised.
“That obvious,” replied Cait.
O’Donnell opened his mouth to reply, then thought otherwise and tried to hide his surprise by draining his already empty coffee cup.
“There’s more, Tony. I haven’t told you this yet.”
“What, I’m on the drip-feed?”
“You might say that.”
“Ah, huh . . .” O’Donnell raised his stare up from the last of the pastry that he had been moving around his plate with his fork, playing with the morsel as he was gathering his thoughts, his interest on high alert. He paused momentarily before continuing, wondering what the hell Cait was going to come up with now. She was such an enigma to him that it wouldn’t have surprised him if she told him the moon was actually made from green cheese.
“So yeah, shoot. Tell me what you’ve got. Then we gotta go.” Ice was getting antsy.
“Well, it’s Dec actually. He had a vision of Tariq . . .”
“God, your whole bloody family’s psychic,” interjected O’Donnell. “First you, then your mother, and now your brother. I suppose you’re going to tell me next that your father’s a wizard.”
Cait giggled.
“No Tony, Dad’s normal. He’s just an ignorant bloke, like you.”
“Thank goodness for that. Cait, this is all sounding like a plot in a supernatural novel. Well, for me it is. I’m a nuts-and-bolts kinda guy, okay, so pardon me if I have a hint of skepticism here.”
Cait, G and Jools had been at Dec’s bedside two days ago when he finally came out of his coma and spoke his first few lucid words. He was now back in the HDU, and according to Commander Syzchowski his prognosis for a recovery was improving by the day. After three cardiac arrests and then his flatlining, Syzchowski was reticent to let Dec leave the ICU again until he was totally convinced that he had turned the corner and was on the mend, so Cait, G and Jools all had their finger
s and toes crossed that he wouldn’t have any further relapses now that he had been moved to the HDU.
But there was still one major complication.
When Dec regained consciousness, he was blind. Not just shades of gray. Total blackness. He couldn’t see a thing and had no responsiveness to light at all. It was a one-in-a-million setback after such a traumatic injury, but it appeared Dec had drawn the short straw.
“Maybe Dec’s blindness is due to a blood clot pressing on his optic nerve, maybe it was caused by the five minutes and thirty-one seconds when he was clinically dead and his cardiovascular system stopped supplying blood to his brain,” said the Commander, saying it as he saw it.
“Unfortunately there are a myriad of possibilities, but at this stage there’s nothing specific we can pin his blindness down to. So far, all the medical tests have proved to be inconclusive, apart from some slightly elevated intracranial pressure.
“So as much as I don’t want to sound trite, it’s now a case of wait and see.”
With a tear of worry and concern rolling down Jools’s cheek, diametrically contrasting with a smile of joy and elation for the fact that her son had actually survived and was recovering, Jools asked Syzchowski, “I remember treating a young patient who went blind after extended anesthesia, and it was put down to an occlusion of the blood supply to the retinal artery, with a subsequent drop in oxygen saturation to the eyes. Does this sound like Dec?”
Jools lingered a moment to catch her thoughts before continuing.
“And is there any treatment? My patient unfortunately never regained his sight.”
A wry smile passed over Syzchowski’s face. He was impressed once again with Jools’s medical knowledge.
“Jools, recent research has shown that large doses of corticosteroids have had a positive effect on visual acuity in cases like you just described, which we now have Dec on.”
The Commander paused to catch his breath, as he was also reticent to give a personal opinion, in case it got their hopes up too much. But not this time.
“Personally? I feel that because of the suddenness of his total blindness it’s more likely to be the result of a clot putting pressure on the optic nerve. Either way, we’re treating both possibilities as real.”
“So disregarding Dec’s blindness, how’s his mental state?” said G. “I know my son well, and allowing for the fact that he’s just come out of an induced coma, he seems quite coherent.”
“Mentally, he appears to be emerging from the effects of the coma as to be expected. There seems to be no early signs of brain damage.”
“And what about his hallucinations?” continued G.
“Dad,” Cait interjected, ignoring Syzchowski because she knew he wouldn’t understand. “He was having a vision. He wasn’t hallucinating. Trust me, I should know.”
“Well, you’ve got a point there, I suppose.” G looked over at his nodding wife. “You’ve certainly got the runs on the board in that regard.”
“Cait’s right, G,” said Jools. “I overheard Dec and Cait talking. He was totally lucid. What he described was what he was actually seeing in his head.”
“Tony, just get a grip will you, and get off that doubting Thomas high horse that you’re currently clinging to,” said Cait, slightly pissed off with the fact that he kept reverting back to his skeptical ways.
“Whether you believe it or not, there’s another dimension out there. I can see it, I’ve been there, and although you obviously have no fucking idea what I’m talking about, it’s going to help us track down Tariq.”
As usual, O’Donnell was taken aback by Cait’s vitriolic and acerbic tongue.
“Okay, so tell me what your brother told you.”
For once, O’Donnell was actually trying to be serious, vision or no vision. Ice realized that it was going to be far easier to go with the flow on this one than buck the system and argue the facts. It was obvious that Cait had no intention of letting this slip by unnoticed.
Cait, on the other hand, realized it was all going to be way too difficult to explain about Dec’s blindness and his apparent miraculous entry into Cait and Jools’s mystical world of visions and insight, so instead she simply repeated what Dec told her about his premonition.
“Well, Dec clearly saw Tariq. He didn’t obviously know who Tariq was, apart from the fact that he was the person who blew him up. It’s weird, because Dec’s always been like Dad—you know, never really into the alternative side of things. Except when I saved his life in Laos, but that’s another story.
“Something happened to him when he died and then came back, because Dec started having visions of the bomber,” Cait continued. “He picked up on Tariq. Dec told me he clearly saw the inside of the room where he’s holed up.”
“You’re kidding,” said O’Donnell. “Now you’ve got my attention.”
“Well, apparently Tariq’s in a tiny room, and it’s in Catania. It’s bare, stripped. He’s closed in by four dirty walls. He’s got an uninspiring view of the small street below through a broken pane of glass in a single window. Torn lace curtains, bed in one corner, solitary chair by the door, some type of chest along the other wall, bare floorboards. It’s a shithole, but he thinks he’s safe. Dec even said he saw the street name. Via Silvester, or something like that.”
“I’ll Google map it. See what I come up with,” said Ice, an excited inflection in his voice.
Just maybe she’s for real. If I can locate the . . .
“Bingo! I’ve got it. Via Silvestri. It’s about a kilometer over there.” O’Donnell pointed out the window, over the rooftops of the houses directly in front of the café.
“There’s more,” said Cait.
“Yeah?” O’Donnell started to feel a familiar tingle running up his spine that happened when he sensed he was onto something. It never let him down.
“He’s not alone. There are some others with him.”
“How many?”
“Dec didn’t know. One, two maybe? But he said he saw a gun on the table. They’re armed.”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Cait. “That’s the house I saw in my vision.”
O’Donnell had guided them through a maze of interconnecting cobblestone backstreets and small, dirty alleyways, past derelict and unkempt two-story houses, directly to 8 Via Silvestri—the ramshackle graffitied house with a broken green shutter and torn lace curtains hiding behind a cracked window on the second floor, just as Cait and Dec had prophesized.
Ice was warming to their combined vision.
Maybe she’s right? Weird, but true.
Trying to blend in and look like two tourists who were enjoying their time lost, exploring the backstreets as they wound their way toward a main road, Cait and O’Donnell casually strolled down Via Silvestri, stopping every now and then to comment on a house. When they arrived outside number eight, Ice took a step back to look at the building. His experienced eyes took in the lack of any signs of obvious habitation, the heavy wooden front door that was slightly ajar, the accumulated fresh candy wrappers that looked slightly out of place directly under the top floor window. Someone had been carelessly discarding their rubbish.
An easy giveaway.
“Look at that crap piece of real estate,” Cait said, indicating number eight, giving O’Donnell an excuse to stop immediately out the front.
“You know, once that may have been a really nice house. Now it’s a shitheap.”
O’Donnell took the hint and casually stepped toward number eight.
And that’s when he saw it. A momentary glimpse of movement behind the lace curtains; a shadow that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
It’s him. He’s in there.
A thousand reconnaissance and enter missions in foreign war zones had taught Ice to be aware of the subtle signs. Like being point on patrol, searching for a potential ambush, if he was still in the SAS he would have hand signaled his men with a held-up clenched fist, and then pointed up at the window.
Danger,
enemy.
Instead, he subtly turned and continued strolling down the street, speaking softly to Cait to give her a heads-up on what he just saw.
“Hey signore . . . signore, you give me euro?” begged the young street urchin sitting in the gutter on the side of the narrow street, holding out a grubby hand as Cait and O’Donnell strolled past.
Cait pulled out a one-euro coin as she walked past and dropped it into his outstretched palm, hesitating for a few seconds before she walked on. O’Donnell totally ignored the child, not even bothering to look down.
Turning left at Via Contarini, O’Donnell quickly glanced back down Via Silvestri as he disappeared around the corner.
The street was empty. Even the urchin was nowhere to be seen.
“Okay Cait, I think you’re right. There was definitely someone upstairs, and they certainly didn’t want to be seen. I saw a fleeting movement behind the curtains. And the front door was slightly open. I’m going in,” said O’Donnell, speaking to Cait as if he was in the SAS again and they were on a covert mission behind enemy lines with her providing support as one of his troopers.
“We’ll walk casually up the street, no rush, just a couple of tourists. Then when we get close to number eight I want you to pretend that you’re taking a call on your mobile. I’ll tell you when. You got that?”
“Yep, sounds pretty simple to me,” replied Cait.
“When you’re supposedly speaking in the phone, pace up and down a bit so you can keep an eye on the street. And don’t keep looking up at the house. Just have it in your peripheral vision. I’m going to get bored with you talking on the phone and wander off, then I’ll sneak into the house through the open front door.”
Ice paused to let what he had just said sink in.
“If you see anyone, and I mean anyone, enter the street while I’m inside the house, you have to immediately ring me. That’s important. I’ll have my phone on silent, but it’ll still vibrate so I’ll get the call.”
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 66
