Authors: Peter Flannery
‘
Fucking typical
,’ Steve
fumed to himself. Typical of Paul to think that a bunch of flowers and Sally’s
favourite Disney character could make up for ruining their lives. ‘Just leave
them in the hall,’ Steve had said ungraciously. ‘Close the door when you
leave.’
And with that he had climbed into
the BMW and driven away. Had he paused to read the note that came with the
flowers he might have been less harsh in his manner; more puzzled perhaps but
certainly less rude. But he did not read the note; he had only assumed that the
flowers were from Paul.
But they were not.
If Steve had bothered to read the
note he would have seen that the flowers were, in fact, from him.
And that was that. Steve had
spent the rest of the day talking to bank managers, lawyers and his accountant
trying to see if there was any way out of the hole that had swallowed them.
There was not. It all came down to money. When you had it your options were
limitless, when you did not those options dwindled to zero. Now it was all
about damage control. Retaining the house, salvaging as much of their lives as
possible but this too came down to money. Steve had to find a way of earning
money and earning it fast, and he could think of no way quicker than three
thousand pounds a day for the next five days…
Steve pressed the tears from the
corners of his eyes and tried to get comfortable in his seat. He pulled the
blanket up over his chest and closed his eyes, searching once more for the
oblivion of sleep. For another thirty minutes he fidgeted and wrestled with his
blanket, his body mirroring the churning anxiety within him. And even when his
breathing finally grew deep and regular his blanket refused to lie across his
body and the frown of worry refused to leave his face.
And as sleep finally brought
relief to Steve, Psimon opened his eyes. He looked across at his sleeping
companion, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Then he reached across and
pulled the blanket up around Steve’s shoulders.
He envied Steve the refuge of
sleep as he waited in frightened anticipation for what he knew was soon to
come… for the next confession to begin. He waited for the pain and fear of the
latest victim to become so great that it burst, unbidden, into his mind. He
closed his eyes once more. He was tired and the distant sound of the aircraft’s
engines had a soothing, soporific quality to it but still the repose of slumber
eluded him.
There would be precious little
sleep for those condemned to die.
Chapter 11
Thursday March
3rd
Missing
There is growing concern for
the welfare of psychiatrist Dr Patrick Denning who disappeared last night after
giving a public reading of his new book ‘Silencing the Voices’. A police
spokesman has said that it is too early to conclude that anything untoward has
happened to Dr Denning and they are continuing in their attempts to ascertain
his whereabouts. There is as yet no evidence to link this disappearance with
the abduction and murder of Dr Marcus Bryant, the psychologist whose body was
found earlier this week.
The main terminal of Orlando International Airport was
lofty and bright. The facetted glass ceiling allowed the early morning Florida
sun to flood in, bathing the homogenous airport facilities in a flattering
light. Psimon and Steve sat in the food court, just across from the Krispy
Kreme Doughnuts counter, while they waited for their connecting flight to Fort
Lauderdale.
‘How can you eat those for
breakfast?’ asked Steve nodding towards Psimon’s second blueberry doughnut.
Psimon said nothing as he licked
the powdered sugar from his lips but his eyes flicked to the empty McDonald’s
packaging that lay beside Steve’s coffee cup. Both men felt tired and somewhat
crumpled after the long transatlantic flight but the coffee was finally
starting to take effect and the brightness of the day made it easier to
function.
Steve drained the last of his
coffee. ‘Shouldn’t we be making a move?’ he said.
‘We’ve got a few minutes,’ said
Psimon.
‘Not many,’ said Steve looking at
his watch. ‘We still have to get over to the airside terminal.’
But Psimon was not really
listening. He was staring past Steve towards the south side of the terminal
where people were coming through from the check-in desks.
‘Come on,’ said Steve pushing
back his chair. ‘We’re going to miss our flight…’ He reached down to grab his
bag but when he straightened up Psimon was no longer in his seat.
Steve felt a moment’s alarm at
Psimon’s sudden disappearance but he soon spotted him striding away across the
terminal. With an exasperated sigh he shouldered his bag and started after
Psimon. He had just about caught up with him when Psimon called out to a
middle-aged man in a smart, blue suit.
‘Captain Kern,’ said Psimon in a
tone of friendly deference. ‘I thought it was you…’ He held out his hand to the
somewhat baffled looking man.
‘Christ, not again!’ Steve said
to himself swerving away from Psimon and trying to appear casual as he hovered
nearby.
Captain Kern turned a puzzled
stare on Psimon.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’ he began,
shifting his bag as he automatically reached for Psimon’s outstretched hand.
‘King’s Bay, last June,’ said
Psimon. ‘I never got chance to thank you for smoothing things out with
Commander Tully.’
Captain Kern looked none the
wiser for this information, although he smiled stiffly as he tried to place the
young man in front of him.
‘I hope he didn’t hold you to
that promise,’ Psimon went on in a knowing tone. ‘I don’t think Stephanie would
appreciate having him down at the lake for a whole weekend.’
Captain Kern’s smile looked more
strained than ever.
‘Well,’ said Psimon. ‘Best not
keep New London waiting.’
At this Captain Kern’s eyes
narrowed in suspicion and, a few metres away, Steve’s ears pricked up.
‘Thanks again Captain,’ said
Psimon, bringing his other hand up to clasp Kern’s. And there it was again that
fleeting spike of intensity as Psimon’s eyes pinioned the older man.
Captain Kern was clearly mystified
but even as his lips parted to formulate a question Psimon let go of his hand
and began to move away.
‘Goodbye Captain…’ he called over
his shoulder. ‘Say hello to Commander Tully for me…’
And with that Psimon walked away
heading for the AGT station and the train that would transfer them to the
airside terminal.
Steve lingered for a few seconds,
watching as Kern turned to follow Psimon with his eyes. He could see the
indecision on Kern’s face. Would he let this strange encounter pass? Would he
call Psimon back? Would he call airport security to find out how this young man
knew he was flying up to New London?
‘
Naval Submarine Base New
London, Connecticut
’ thought Steve, the submarine capitol of the world. ‘
What
the hell was Psimon playing at?
’
Finally Captain Kern turned away
from Psimon and, with his brows still knitted together in thought, he continued
on his way.
Steve let out a sigh of relief
and hurried to catch up with Psimon.
‘Don’t tell me…’ said Steve
falling in beside Psimon on the AGT platform.
‘Never seen him before in my
life,’ said Psimon with a sideways smile as the train pulled up in front of
them.
Steve gave Psimon a withering
look as the doors slid open and they stepped onto the train.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Steve
taking a seat beside Psimon. ‘Two naval captains on opposite sides of the
Atlantic. That’s not a coincidence… Just what are you playing at?’
For a moment Psimon looked at
Steve as if he were a stranger who was not entitled to know such things. Steve
was surprised at the hardness in his eyes. Then his expression softened.
‘Just a little trick I learned
from the Trojans,’ said Psimon and the smile came back to his eyes as he turned
to look out of the window.
Steve raised his eyes to heaven
wondering just what he had got himself involved in.
The flight to Fort Lauderdale was
just a short hop of an hour but it gave Steve a chance to pose a few questions.
And this time he would not settle for stony silence. These questions concerned
their security… ‘I need you to get me out,’ Psimon had said.
Steve would have his answers.
‘So what makes you think we might
have trouble leaving the country?’ Steve asked quietly when they were airborne.
‘Just a feeling,’ replied Psimon.
‘Yeah, well your feelings are
starting to give me the creeps.’
Psimon offered a wry smile.
‘Welcome to my world,’ he said.
Steve gave a gentle snort. He
could not believe that he was starting to believe this whole psychic thing.
‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘If there’s some reason why we might have trouble getting
out I need to know.’
Psimon nodded his understanding
and began.
‘The James Randi Educational
Foundation is a world renowned institution that actively challenges claims of a
pseudo-scientific or supernatural nature; anything that can not be demonstrated
to be true.’
‘Spoon bending mediums,’
interjected Steve.
‘Exactly,’ said Psimon.
‘But some of them are pretty
convincing,’ argued Steve. ‘There’s this guy in America, John something… He’s a
medium… gets pretty close to the truth a lot of the time.’
Psimon raised an eyebrow at
Steve’s familiarity with daytime television programmes.
‘And do you believe he can talk
to the dead relatives of people in the audience?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ said Steve.
‘And that’s the point,’ said
Psimon. ‘If he were able to demonstrate his ability in a reliable way; if he
were able to prove that he really can talk to the dead then it wouldn’t be a
matter of belief, it would be a matter of fact.’
Steve nodded and Psimon went on.
‘The same goes for bending
spoons, reading people’s minds, prophesying the future.’
‘They call it precognition,’ said
Steve with a glint in his eye.
‘Quite,’ said Psimon with a
smile. ‘But the same thing applies to all of them.’
‘Namely?’
‘That it’s not possible to
demonstrate they are real.’
‘Not to sceptics, you mean,’
challenged Steve.
‘Not objectively,’ clarified
Psimon. ‘Not to people with an open mind.’
‘Would people with an open mind
not be prepared to accept that it
might
be true?’ asked Steve.
‘Yes,’ admitted Psimon. ‘But
having an open mind also means being prepared to accept that it is
not
true.’
‘So none of these claims are
actually true,’ stated Steve.
‘That’s right,’ said Psimon.
‘Because they can’t be proven
objectively?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So…?’ urged Steve hoping that
all this was heading somewhere.
‘So why do governments around the
world spend serious money on paranormal research?’
Steve just looked at Psimon.
‘The Americans, the Russians, the
Chinese, even the Europeans. They all believe there might be something in it.
Or at least, they cannot afford to dismiss it out of hand.’
Steve felt a chill run down his
spine. Even during his military reconnaissance training they were taught never
to look directly at the subject. There was this enduring notion that the target
might somehow feel the eyes of the enemy upon them.
‘Imagine someone who could break
the White House’s ‘lost leaf’ code system,’ Psimon went on. ‘Or someone who
could bring down an F-22 Raptor using nothing but the power of thought.’
For the first time in his life
Steve was starting to appreciate the ramifications of a true psychic existing
in the world. ‘So what are you saying?’ he asked.
‘I’m saying that the ‘powers that
be’ cannot afford to ignore the possibility that someone somewhere, with
genuine psychic abilities, might one day exist.’
Steve’s eyes narrowed.
‘I’m saying that they are working
to find them. And that they keep at least half an eye on the kind of places
where someone might just turn up.’
‘You’re saying that the Randi
Foundation is being watched?’ asked Steve, finding the idea somewhat less than
credible.
Psimon nodded.
‘So, what…’ asked Steve. ‘Is the
place bugged? Do they have a man inside?’
‘Let’s just say one of the JREF
staff members has been… ‘approached’.’
‘Christ,’ said Steve. ‘I feel
like I’m in an episode of the X-Files!’
Psimon’s smile did nothing to
undermine the seriousness in his gaze.
‘Okay… Let’s say I buy into your
conspiracy theory,’ said Steve, although his expression suggested otherwise.
‘Who exactly would be watching? …the police? …the FBI? …the media?’
‘Let’s just call them an agency,’
replied Psimon.
Steve raised a hand to his
forehead. ‘Please don’t tell me you want me to protect you from the fucking
CIA,’ he said in a hushed tone. Despite what people might like to believe the
CIA were not the bumbling incompetents that they were often portrayed to be in
the media. If the CIA did not want them to leave the country then that would be
that… end of story.
‘No,’ said Psimon, much to
Steve’s relief. ‘Let’s call them a private surveillance agency that happens to
have certain government organisations on their books.’
‘So what kind of resources might
they have?’ asked Steve going through the automatic procedure of gathering
intelligence.
‘Cars…’ said Psimon. ‘Cell
phones… standard surveillance equipment…’
Steve’s anxiety was steadily
diminishing.
‘Some latitude with the law
enforcement authorities…’
Steve’s anxiety stepped up a
notch.
‘And helicopters…’ added Psimon
as if it were an afterthought.
‘Helicopters?’ repeated Steve.
‘Well
a
helicopter,’
amended Psimon. ‘But I thought I should mention it as it might make it
difficult for us to get back to the airport without being followed.’
‘Damn right!’ snapped Steve.
He could not believe that Psimon
had not told him all this before they left the UK. Being away from Christine and
Sally for a few days was one thing but being held in America as some kind of
threat to national security was something else entirely. Steve took a deep
breath and tried to get things in perspective.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘These guys are
not linked to the police.’
‘Not officially,’ said Psimon.
‘And they’re not CIA or FBI?’’
‘No,’ Psimon reassured him. ‘Not
directly,’ he added.
Steve gave him a severe glance
before sitting back in his seat.
‘So we’re talking about some kind
of freelance security firm carrying out a passive surveillance operation.’
‘Precisely,’ said Psimon.
‘And what are they waiting for?’
asked Steve.
‘Why, for someone to succeed in
the challenge,’ said Psimon as if it were obvious.
‘What challenge?’ asked Steve.
‘The million-dollar challenge,’
said Psimon. ‘A standing prize to anyone who can demonstrate genuine psychic
ability.’
‘And how many people have tried?’
asked Steve.
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Psimon.
‘A couple of hundred maybe.’
‘And they all failed.’
‘Every one.’
‘And you think you can succeed?’
asked Steve.
‘Well if I can’t,’ replied
Psimon. ‘I won’t need you to get me out of the country, will I?’
Much to Steve’s relief their
arrival at Fort Lauderdale airport had been pleasantly uneventful. Now they
stood at the Avis car rental counter just across from the terminal building.
The woman behind the counter
looked up from her computer screen.
‘And how long will you be needing
the vehicle for?’ she asked.
‘Oh, just the da…’ began Psimon.
‘A week,’ interjected Steve.
‘We’re heading up to Cape Canaveral later today,’ he added, giving Psimon a
‘let me do the talking’ look.
Psimon raised an amused eyebrow
and stepped back to let Steve complete the booking.
‘Thanks,’ said Steve, a few
minutes later, when the woman handed him a paper wallet containing all the
details of the rental.
‘You’re welcome sir,’ she said
sunnily. ‘Have a nice day.’
Steve started to turn away. ‘Oh,’
he said suddenly. ‘Do you have a road map… something listing parking lots in
the city?’
‘It’s all in the GPS unit, sir,’
said the woman.
‘I prefer the old-fashioned paper
kind,’ insisted Steve.
The woman smiled politely and
pointed to a series of shelves at the far end of the counter. ‘The green one
should have everything you need.’
‘Thank you,’ said Steve.
Steve helped himself to one of
the maps, opened it briefly and gave a small nod of satisfaction. ‘Let’s go,’
he said to Psimon heading out to the forecourt where a metallic-blue Chevy
Cobalt was waiting for them. ‘Where to now?’ he asked, adjusting the seat and
mirror to his satisfaction. ‘Are we going straight there?’ He was a little
surprised to feel a flutter of excitement in his belly.
‘No,’ replied Psimon. ‘We still
have a few hours to kill. I’ve booked us a room so that we can freshen up and
relax for a while.’
‘Where abouts?’ asked Steve
switching on the GPS unit and working his way through the menu.
‘I thought you preferred the
paper kind.’
‘Just tell me where we’re staying
psyche-boy.’
Psimon smiled and gave Steve the
name.
‘Not exactly the Royal Palms, is
it?’ said Steve as he grabbed his travel bag from the back seat of the car.
The Bridge hostel was a small
complex of apartments used mainly by yacht crews from the innumerable craft
moored up in Fort Lauderdale.
‘It’s clean and comfortable,’
said Psimon as they climbed the short flight of steps to the upper floor of the
pink coloured building. Their apartment was basic but more than adequate for
their means, two bedrooms with a shared bathroom and a small kitchen-dining
area.
Steve took a shower first while
Psimon grabbed the chance to lie down on a proper bed for a while. He lay on
the comfortable mattress and closed his eyes. Here in the bright Florida
sunlight he could almost convince himself that he was safe. But he knew that he
was not. Distance was no bar to the evil that stalked him. Still, the
temptation to forget the James Randi Foundation and stay in the US for as long
as possible was incredibly strong. And yet he knew he could not do it… knew he
would not do it. If he was to die soon then the world should at least know that
he had existed, that someone like him had existed. No, he would go back… he
would just close his eyes for a while…
Psimon started from sleep.
‘It’s all yours,’ said Steve,
tousling his hair with a towel and bending over the street map that was laid
out on the breakfast bar.
Psimon felt a strange kind of
disorientation as he picked up the towel from the end of his bed and made his
way through the apartment towards the bathroom.
Steve now had his elbows on the
map and was tracing a route with his finger. ‘Yep,’ he said pensively. ‘That
will do nicely.’
He tapped the map with his
fingertips and walked over to his jacket. He did not appear to notice the
distracted expression on Psimon’s face or the stiffness with which he held
himself.
‘Here are the keys to the
apartment,’ he said, laying them down on the counter. ‘Lock the door when I go
out and don’t open it for anyone but me.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked
Psimon in a voice that seemed to echo in his ears. To Psimon the room was
growing suddenly darker as someone on the other side of the world was waking up
from a deeply troubled sleep. And with consciousness came the fear; fear so
great that it eclipsed everything, even the brilliance of the midday Florida
sun.
‘To rent a car,’ said Steve as he
opened the door to the apartment.
‘But we already have a car.’
Psimon began to tremble.
‘You concentrate on the
million-dollar challenge,’ said Steve checking his wallet for the money he
would need. ‘Leave the escape and evasion to me.’
He tucked his wallet back into
his pocket and grabbed the handle of the door.
‘You look wrecked,’ he told
Psimon. ‘Get yourself a shower, I won’t be long.’
And with that he shut the door
and left.
Psimon just stood there, unable
to move as the fear crept like a foul smell into his world. ‘Steve…’ he
breathed in the barely audible voice of a frightened little boy. ‘Steve…’ he
said again as the tears rolled down his cheeks.
But Steve was gone…
Psimon was on his own.
Chapter 12
He was naked.
He was cold.
He was terrified.
The psychiatrist tried to get up
but found that he could not. His hands were tied behind his back and his feet
too were bound. A wire gag had been drawn tight across his mouth forcing him to
breathe through his nose in short, shallow gasps, and the presence of a soggy,
unidentifiable mass in his mouth made him want to retch. He was lying on his
side on bare flagstones that felt cold, dank and tacky against his skin. Beside
him lay a copy of his book, ‘Silencing the Voices’. The front cover was
missing.
Struggling up through the cloying
mire of unnatural sleep he tried to focus his eyes on his gloomy surroundings.
He appeared to be in some kind of church or chapel.
There were church pews, the aisle
between them leading to a studded wooden door with a black cross carved into
it. With painful torpidity he craned his neck round to look behind him… an
altar, a heavy marble altar… a large unlit candle at either end. In the wall
behind the altar a stained glass window, the fractured panes of colour rendered
dull and lifeless by the meagre light of distant street lamps. And there, on
the bare stone walls, hung a large wooden crucifix. But something was wrong.
The crucifix looked wrong…
The psychiatrist stared at the
crucifix but his strained vision and groggy mind could not make sense of it.
All he knew was that this symbol of love and deliverance brought him no
comfort, no comfort at all. He was still staring at the crucifix when a door
opened. Not the large main door but a small postern door to the side of the altar.
The psychiatrist twisted round,
his mind igniting with hope and fear in equal measure.
Hope vanished, the fear remained…
A man had entered… a large,
broad-shouldered man, dressed like a church acolyte in a black cassock and
white, lace-trimmed cotta. He approached the altar, head bowed, one hand
shielding the small flame of the taper that he carried close to his chest. He
reached the central aisle, turned to face the altar and genuflected, his
trailing foot coming within inches of the terrified psychiatrist. He rose and,
stepping up to the altar, he lit the right-hand candle. Then he genuflected
once more before crossing the altar to light the candle on the left. He blew
out his small waxed taper and placed it on a wooden table to the side of the
altar. Then, from the table he lifted a small silver bell and gave it a little
shake; the bright, tinkling refrain sounding strangely obscene in the grim
confines of the chapel.
The psychiatrist was shaking
uncontrollably, arching himself round, trying to keep the sinister acolyte in
view.
The acolyte came to stand beside
the prone figure of the psychiatrist who cowered at his feet, too frightened
even to look up at his captor. Then suddenly the acolyte bent down and grabbed
the psychiatrist by the arms, hauling him from the floor to stand awkwardly
before the altar.
The psychiatrist cried out in
pain as the cord around his wrists bit into the flesh, tearing the skin. He
felt blood running down his hand, dripping from his fingertips. But he felt
something else too. He felt the cord slip in the wetness, felt his swollen hand
squeezing through the lubricated grip of the ligature.
From the corner of his eye the
psychiatrist saw the acolyte make the sign of the cross.
‘Amen,’ said the acolyte in a
deep guttural voice.
There was a short pause in which
the psychiatrist tried to free his hand without drawing attention to it.
‘And also with you,’ said the
acolyte as if in answer to the blessing from an absent priest.
With a small mutinous jerk the
psychiatrist’s hand came free. He flicked a fearful glance to his side as he
tried to work some feeling back into his numb fingers. Then, knowing he had
only one chance he clenched his fingers and formed a bloody fist.
Beside him the acolyte bowed his
head and closed his eyes
‘I confess to almighty God, and
to you, my brothers and sisters…’ he began.
The psychiatrist held his breath,
tried to adjust his balance.