A nurse dressed in a white smock entered from a door which led off to the right. She paused beside the couch, looking briefly at Mackenzie, then she looked at Morgan. He jabbed a finger towards a trolley which stood beside the couch. The nurse reached for a swab and dipped it into a kidney dish full of clear liquid. She dabbed it carefully onto five places on the top of Mackenzie's head.
'What's that?' asked Lambert, fascinated by the ritual which was taking place before him.
'Conductant,' explained Morgan.
The Inspector nodded abstractedly and continued to watch the preparations. Next, the nurse attached five electrodes to the places where she had applied the swab. She looked at Morgan who swiftly checked his readout. The machine which he stood beside looked, to Lambert, rather like a computer. It had a long length of thin paper running through it and, across this, lay a metal arm which would translate into visual terms, by means of lines, the brain waves received from Mackenzie. Lambert almost laughed. It reminded him of a he detector he had once seen on an American crime film.
Morgan flicked a switch and a red light came on, signalling that the machine was ready for operation. He raised his hand and the nurse and both interns retreated from the room. A second later they joined Lambert and the others in the observation area.
Morgan flicked another switch.
'We'll test the motor impulses first,' he said.
'I thought the machine usually recorded all the waves at once,' said Kirby.
'Most of them do,' Morgan told him. 'This modification, testing each centre of the brain individually, makes it easier to pin down the trouble and it makes things a damn sight easier for me.'
He pressed the green button and the machine whirred into life.
'Here goes,' muttered Morgan.
Lambert didn't know where to look. His eyes flitted back and forth, from Mackenzie to the machine, from machine to Mackenzie. Morgan stood over the readout, a deep furrow creasing his brow. He readjusted his glasses, as if that act would somehow rectify what he was seeing.
'There's no movement at all,' he said, softly. The arm on the paper was immobile, the tiny piece of graphite it held was stationary. Just one continual black line drawn on the paper, unbroken and unwavering. No loops, no zigzags. Nothing.
'There's no brain impulses at all,' said Morgan, scarcely believing what he saw.
'Perhaps the machine is acting up,' said Lambert hopefully.
Morgan shook his head. He turned to the blond intern, Peter Brooks. 'Turn off the lights.' Brooks slapped a switch and, immediately, the examination room was plunged into darkness. Two huge shutters had been put up at the vast plate glass windows which looked into the room and not a single chink of light infiltrated the blackness.
'Christ,' whispered Morgan, watching as the needle swung back and forth with a ferocity which threatened to tear it loose. It drew parabolas, pyramids, all with vast savage strokes.
'Lights,' snapped Morgan and, once more, the examination room was filled with blinding white light.
The needle on the readout stopped swinging and settled back into its unerring parallel course, never deviating from the straight line it drew.
'That's incredible,' muttered Morgan.
'You see what we mean about the light?' said Kirby. 'In bright light he's dormant, but in darkness he goes crazy.'
Morgan stroked his chin thoughtfully. He looked down at the readout and then across at the still form of Mackenzie. He'd never seen anything like this before and the discovery sent a thrill of excitement through him. He told Brooks to turn off the lights once more.
It happened again. The needle swung crazily back and forth across the readout sheet, never settling into a pattern, just looping and tearing up and down.
Lambert looked worriedly at Kirby. He had noticed that Mackenzie had moved his right hand, was flexing the fingers.
'Put the lights back on,' he snapped.
Brooks hesitated.
'No, wait,' said Morgan, fascinated by the course the needle was taking. So intent on watching it was he, that he didn't notice Mackenzie raise his head and look up.
The nurse stifled a scream as she saw the twin red orbs which had once been eyes, staring at her through the darkness.
Lambert now crossed to the light switch, seeing that Mackenzie was straining against the straps. With a loud crack, one of them securing his arms broke and he began tearing at the broad one which covered his chest and pinned him to the couch.
Morgan looked into the examination room, horrified as he watched Mackenzie breaking free.
Lambert pressed the light switch.
Nothing happened.
Frantic, he pressed it again.
Jesus Christ,
he thought,
what's happened to the fucking lights?
Mackenzie was sitting up now, tearing at the strap which was fastened across his thighs. Another few moments and he would be free.
Lambert slapped the switch frenziedly. For a brief second he thought they were going to work. All four powerful banks flashed with brilliant white light and Mackenzie screamed as the brightness scorched his blazing red eyes. But then, one by one, the tubes blew, exploding in a shower of hot glass, their ends glowing red as they died. Smoke rose from them in silvery wisps.
The darkness was total.
With a last desperate surge of strength, Mackenzie tore free of the final strap and swung himself off the couch. The nurse screamed.
Brooks reached for the door which connected the examination room with the observation booth.
'Get some light in there,' screamed Lambert, following him.
The Inspector stood no more than three feet from Mackenzie, staring into those bottomless red eyes, riveted by the obscene thing before him. Then Mackenzie leapt.
Lambert, with a speed born of fear, threw himself to one side and avoided the rush. Mackenzie crashed into a surgical trolley but was up in an instant and grabbing for the policeman once more.
'The shutters,' screamed Lambert, 'open the shutters!'
Mackenzie was upon him, powerful hands grasping for his throat, forcing him back over the couch. Lambert smelt the fetid breath in his face, disgusted as the yellow spittle dripped onto him. He struck out, his fist slamming into Mackenzie's forehead. The grip slackened momentarily and Lambert brought his knee up into the man's stomach.
Brooks, meantime, was struggling to tear down the shutters. A chink of light lanced through the blackness and he almost laughed. Another second and the room would be flooded with light. The intern tore at the catches, pulling one of the shutters wide.
Sunlight flooded the room and Lambert suddenly felt the grip on his throat removed as Mackenzie screamed and raised both hands to shield his eyes. The Inspector rolled clear, searching for something to fight back with. It was scarcely necessary. Mackenzie turned towards the window, his red eyes narrowed against the light but fixed on Brooks who was in the process of tearing down the second shutter.
With a roar, Mackenzie ran at Brooks, launching himself at the intern.
He crashed into his prey with the force of a steam train, hurling him backward.
The nurse screamed as both men hit the window.
The glass exploded outward, huge shards flying into the air as Mackenzie and Brooks crashed through the window. They seemed to hang in the air for a second before plummeting the twelve storeys to the ground below.
Lambert scrambled to his feet, hearing the sickening thump as both men hit the ground. Cool air blew in through the broken window and, being careful to avoid the pieces of shattered glass, the Inspector leaned over the sill.
A hundred feet below him, still locked together, lay the bodies of Mackenzie and Brooks. Around them, a spreading pool of blood was mingling with fragments of smashed glass.
'Oh God,' groaned Lambert, bowing his head.
The second intern comforted the nurse who was sobbing uncontrollably.
Kirby and Morgan walked slowly across to the window and also peered down at the smashed bodies.
No one spoke. What was there to say? Lambert ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply, suddenly aware of the pain in his neck where Mackenzie had attacked him. He touched a fingertip to it and saw a smear of blood when he withdrew it.
Kirby tilted the policeman's head back and looked at the cut.
'Just a graze, Tom,' he said.
Lambert nodded.
'I don't know what to say,' murmured Morgan. 'I've never seen anything like it. No brainwaves.'
Lambert stood up. 'Is that all that bothers you? Two men have just died, for Christ's sake.' He sighed and sat down on the edge of the couch.
'It would appear our problems are over, Tom,' said Kirby, trying to sound cheerful.
Lambert regarded him balefully for a second and thought about saying something, but held it back. Kirby was right. He had to admit that. Now the only problem he had was finding Gordon Reece. It seemed petty in comparison to the problems he'd had these last few days. The nurse had stopped crying and the second intern was helping her out of the room. Morgan watched them go.
The Inspector got to his feet and headed for the door.
'Where are you going, Tom?' asked Kirby.
'Back to work,' snapped Lambert and walked out.
***
Lambert drove back to Medworth alone. He felt as if he needed his own company. He didn't want to talk about what he'd just seen and he drove with both windows open as if the fresh air blowing into the car would cleanse his mind. The smell of damp earth and grass was strong, a welcome contrast to the antiseptic smell of the hospital he had just left. He hated hospitals, always had, ever since he was a child, and what he had just seen had done nothing to change his mind.
The countryside rushed past him as he drove, perhaps a little faster than he needed. He inhaled, held the breath and then let it out slowly, trying to calm himself down. His foot eased off the accelerator and he glanced at the falling needle of the speedometer. Finally, he slowed to about twenty, swung the car into a layby and shut off the engine.
The road was narrow, flanked on either side by tall hedges. To his right lay hillside, green and shimmering in the early morning sunlight. To his left, down the hill, lay Medworth. He could see smoke belching from the foundry on the far side of the town, but from this distance, it looked like nothing more than a grey wisp. Lambert got out of the car, slammed the door and leant on the bonnet, arms folded. He looked out over Medworth.
'Gordon Reece, where are you?' he said aloud, then smiled to himself. The smile dwindled rapidly as he felt the pain from the scratches on his throat. He rubbed them, remembering the power in Mackenzie's hands. If not for Brooks, he wouldn't have had a chance.
Fuck it,
he thought,
Mackenzie had been a powerful bastard.
Lambert thought about the three victims he had claimed. He wondered how they had struggled. He dismissed the thought.
There would be a full autopsy on Mackenzie that afternoon and he had been told, before leaving the hospital, that he would be contacted as soon as the results were ready. Lambert shook his head. Four people had been killed, Mackenzie himself was dead. Their knowledge would do them no good now. He sighed, still unable to believe what he had seen that morning, not wanting to believe what had happened in Medworth during the past week or so.
He suddenly thought of the medallion. Could there be a tie up between it, the transformation of Mackenzie, and the disappearance of Gordon Reece? He climbed back into the car and started the engine.
The medallion.
It was time he took a trip to the antique shop.
***
Howard Trefoile prodded the brown mass of liver and onions before him and plucked up the courage to take a bite. He chewed it slowly. Not too bad, after all. He stirred the brown mass around and continued eating. He would have preferred to have gone out to lunch but that cost money, and the way things had been for the past couple of months he couldn't afford three course meals every day. The business wasn't exactly floundering in the wake of the recession, more like languishing. Things were stable. That, he decided, was the best way to describe them. He comforted himself with the thought that other businesses in the town had gone broke while his still remained on a paying basis.
The antique shop had been left to him by his father when he died, and Howard had run it successfully for the last eight years since that sad event. He and his father had always been very close and it had been more or less preordained that he should take over when his father retired. Unfortunately, cancer had got his father before he could reach retiring age and Howard had been thrown in the deep end, so to speak. But his years of working with his father had stood him in good stead and he found it relatively simple to carry on the business.
His mother had died when he was ten and he could vaguely remember her, but the image wasn't strong enough to cause him pain. He stared across his kitchen table at her photo and sighed quietly. Kitchen. He smiled to himself. It could scarcely be called a kitchen. A small room at the back of the shop which served as dining room, working room, and kitchen. Beyond it lay his tiny sitting room, full of the discarded objects of times gone by. Things which he could never hope to sell in the shop itself, but which he had come to find an affection for. Upstairs was his bedroom and a store room. That was next to the bathroom and toilet.