Authors: Max China
"Okay, Miller, it all sounds very intriguing, except I'm not convinced."
"Have you ever experienced coincidence?"
"Well of course I have."
"Have you ever wondered why certain events are apparently linked by a series of coincidences?"
"I can't say I have ever had first hand experience of anything like that."
"Well I have."
"What - real first hand experience or just another story you heard from someone else? What you just told me wasn't your experience. It belonged to someone else!"
"So if I tell you something first hand, direct from my experience. Would you believe it then?"
"I'd believe that
you
believed it."
"There's none so blind—" he retorted.
"You think I don't want to see? Do you think I should just
accept
what you say as gospel without question?" Her mood changed; he'd touched a nerve.
"Stella, you read my file and accepted
that
as gospel."
"Hey—," she said angrily. "Why do you keep bringing that up?"
He scratched his head. He'd not mentioned it before, but he hadn't intended to make her angry.
"What more do you want from me?" she said hotly, "another apology?"
"Okay, Stella, where's
your
file, so I can have a good look at you?"
"So now you're trying to make me feel guilty about it? Well, I don't have one…" Miller reached out unexpectedly and grabbed her hand too quickly for her to resist. He held it tight. Heat flowed between them. It came from him.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.
"I've just read your file."
Her mouth was half-open, "You're kidding me, aren't you?" She wasn't sure she should believe him; her eyes were round with incredulity. "Are you saying you can read people? I don't believe you!"
Suddenly she felt immensely tired. It washed over her as if she'd worked too hard, for too long without a break. "I wish you'd told me you were going to do that."
"Well then, now you know how it feels."
"I still can't believe you did that!"
"I didn't, I just told you that I did."
Stella frowned, "Stop playing games with me, Miller, I
have
to know the truth. Can you honestly read people, can you tell the future?"
He hesitated and then said, "Sometimes . . . it's a bit of a story. I didn't used to be able to do anything much at all. Lately, it seems that I can." Pausing, he searched for the right words. "I always had good intuition - I could tell if someone was lying to me and all that." He thought about the shadows that had dogged him most of his life. He'd gone from fear to apprehension, at some point knowing they looked out for him, whispering in the night, influencing his dreams.
How can I tell her I have to sleep with the light on to get a decent night's sleep?
"I suppose the truth is, if I can do it at all, it only works when it matters," he said, and then after a moments reflection, added, "Lately, there have been lots of times when it really seems to matter."
"So did it matter so much just now that you felt you needed to grab my hand?"
"I just had this overwhelming need to convince you, but I don't know why."
She didn't look convinced.
"I can't say any more than that really. If the truth were told, mostly it's intuition. Reading reactions, tiny changes of expression, it isn't anything special."
"You say it's nothing special!" She shook her head in amazement. "It is exactly what Ryan referred to in his notes. He thought you had a greater ability to survive because you may have been psychic, or that each subsequent survival made you psychic. I didn't believe it when I read it, but now I think he might have been onto something," she said, her mood turning dark. "So all the time, when I knew you before, you might have been able to help me, and you never said anything?"
"I didn't understand it as much as I do now, and anyway, if you needed my help to find your sister - why didn't you just ask?"
Stella was astounded. "So you can?"
Miller deflected her with a serious look. "Do you know what I'm going to say to Ryan, when I see him in the great hereafter?"
"Of course I don't!"
"I'm going to tell him to make sure he keeps my file locked away from you!"
Her face softened. Almost smiling, she raised the middle finger of her right hand and screwed it around in the air.
Chapter 137
"I don't want to go to his funeral, I hate anything like that."
"So do I, but if you don't go, you'll regret it."
"Do you think he'll mind if I don't?" Stella said, avoiding his gaze.
"I'm sure he wouldn't mind a bit," Miller lifted her chin, "but to not go . . . when you could have . . ."
She turned to face him. "Is what?"
"Running away, and I think he'd mind that."
Afterwards, at the wake in Ryan's favourite gastro-pub, they stood together, shoulder to shoulder with dignitaries from the world of psychiatry, ex-colleagues, associates - most of his friends were also doctors. A few former patients were there. Ryan's solicitor, who was also his friend, announced that it was Ryan's dearest wish that they should all come together for food, drink and merriment and to that end, he'd left one thousand pounds. There was a good, lively atmosphere generally, however, a diminutive and dapper grey-suited elderly man with silver hair and a light Scottish brogue approached them, his face suitably solemn. "Are you from the medical world?" Miller didn't quite catch what the man said and asked him to repeat it. He got his wires crossed and thought that the man was asking if he was with a newspaper called 'Medical World'.
The man walked away, still solemn, but bemused.
Stella came out from hiding behind Miller's back; eyes filled with mirth. "I don't know how you managed to keep a straight face, I was wetting myself!"
He grinned at her, happy that she was happy and then confided, "I had my hand in my pocket, pinching myself."
The man had circulated and latched on to another hapless victim, a woman who looked just as confused as Miller had; she searched the room for an escape route. Catching Miller's eye, she made her excuses, pointing in his direction, and then made a beeline for him, grinning from ear to ear as she came over.
They had a quick exchange about the man. "The trouble was that he was so softly spoken, and with his accent, I couldn't understand a word he was on about . . ." The three of them all joined in laughing.
"It's strange, but I'm getting the feeling that I know you. Have we met before?" he said.
She introduced herself, "Jackie Solomons . . . I was a patient of his . . ."
He shook her hand, "Miller… I was, too."
Stella shrugged her shoulders, feeling somewhat left out and extended her hand. "My name's Stella. I just
worked
for him."
The entrance door opened, and a veiled woman stepped in. Framed in the shaft of light she closed the door behind. Dressed in funereal black, her presence was striking. Wisps of rosé tinged hair protruded from beneath the hooded cape she wore. A few people stared at her, before returning to their conversations.
"Who's that?" Stella said, transfixed by her appearance.
Jackie answered, "That's The Sister . . . Oh, my God - I haven't seen her for years. I once caught Ryan visiting her . . ." She told them the whole story. "And she had this jet-black stone, plopped it into the palm of my hand and . . . well—"
Miller coughed discreetly, his eyes flashing theatrical caution at Jackie as The Sister approached from behind.
"Talking about me are you? Only nice things I hope," she said, her smile barely perceptible.
"You didn't say you were coming to the funeral," Miller said.
"I tend not to announce my movements in advance, what with the church pursuing me, and all."
Miller was sure that she winked at him from beneath the veil. Surprised she should mention such a thing aloud, he found himself double-checking he hadn't just heard it in his head, but she was closed to him.
"It's a long way to come for a funeral."
"Aye, it is. I have unfinished business to look after. You know some things have to happen, for other things to happen." She touched her nose, her eyes bright, alive and knowing, clearly visible, despite her dark veil.
Apart from The Sister, none of them seemed to notice the petite, blonde woman in her late fifties, who stood by the bar next to them, listening to every word they said.
Penny, intrigued by all that she'd just heard, put together a picture in her head of The Sister and Ryan.
That medium, turning up dressed in black like his widow…
She seethed, and for a second looked directly at the woman in black. Calm, the green eyes captured her miniature image and held her there. Unable to maintain eye contact, an idea bloomed. She suddenly knew exactly what to do.
On arriving home, Penny decided she would report her to the church. She hadn't any idea why they were looking for her, but it was about time they clamped down on seedy seaside fortune-tellers. Knowing the local priest wouldn't be interested, she switched on her computer and googled to whom she should report the woman's whereabouts.
Two thirds of the way down the screen, an interesting thread came up.
The Church of the Resurrectionists of Monte Cristo, known among its members as 'The Church'. A shadowy organisation . . . links to corrupt political leaders . . . one of its bodyguards . . . wanted for the recent assassination of an African Bishop . . .
She thought awhile before digging deeper.
Monte Cristo, Mountain of Christ, second comings . . .
Although she realised this was not the church that was looking for The Sister - if she told them about the stone and the fortuneteller's alleged abilities . . . The Resurrectionists might just want to find her, too.
Chapter 138
Penny contacted the 'Resurrectionists', and after an exchange of emails - the last one had requested her telephone number - she awaited the arrival of a man who had assured her that he was a very distinguished member of 'The Church'.
Unbeknown to Ryan, when he'd written asking for the return of her keys, she'd had them copied and kept the duplicate set. The original alarm was key-operated and had been for years. If she knew Ryan at all, he wouldn't have wanted to spend money upgrading the system. Always keen to make a good impression on any man, Penny had dolled herself up for the visit. When the doorbell rang, she had no misgivings about letting the man in. She found herself quite excited at the prospect of time alone with him, he seemed friendly enough, but there was a distinct air of danger about him. Penny toyed with the idea of holding out on the information and using it as a bargaining chip . . . W
ho knows what might happen?
The Churchman didn't take long in getting to the bottom of the story; she told him about the file she'd seen . . .
Twenty minutes later, the swarthy looking man returned to his hire car and placed a set of keys on the passenger seat. Within an hour, he was in possession of the file.
Penny had started a sequence of events she could not have foreseen when she contacted the Resurrectionists. The files they'd stolen illuminated a trail for them to follow. One by one, they would pick off their targets.
In
Ireland, a black Fiat drove between the pillars of a run down dry-stone wall into the front driveway area and bumped into a large pothole. The tall man in the passenger seat hit his head on the inside lining of the roof with a dull thunk, he shot a look of displeasure at the driver.
Brenda Flynn looked out of her window as the car parked.
It's late for visitors . . .
Brenda had had two or three of these visits over the years since Vera disappeared, emissaries of
Rome looking for her.
You'd a thought they'd a given up by now…
When the two men arrived at her door, she was already waiting the other side. Opening it at the first knock, the unexpected visitors drove her backwards, inside.
The shorter, swarthy-looking beady-eyed man held onto her while the tall, thin man looked around, moving down the hallway.
"I don't have anything worth taking," Brenda informed them coolly. "But you're welcome to look, why don't you!"
"Your niece, where is she?" The swarthy man demanded.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
"Just tell us where she is and we'll be gone."
"Vera? I haven't seen her in years," Brenda glared at them defiantly. "And even if I had, I'd not be telling you!"
"Which one is her room?"
"What do you want to know that for?" Brenda asked, genuinely bemused.