Owen remained profoundly unconscious. As Gwen made him comfortable, she reflected that this was probably not how Owen would have imagined her helping him into bed. Toshiko switched on a dusty computer by the bedside, and connected up several monitors to Owen’s body. Gwen had no idea what went where, and from Toshiko’s look of concentration it seemed clear that it wasn’t something she had done recently.
Ianto knocked politely at the door, and she beckoned him in. ‘Have you been able to reach Jack?’
He looked apologetic, almost forlorn. ‘No connection at all. The storm has wiped everything out.’ He went over to the computer terminal by the bed. ‘Meanwhile, I’ve done a quick scan of the corpse you brought back. It does appear to contain one of those spinal attachments. But it’s completely burned out.’ He tapped at the keyboard to call up the scan results.
Toshiko took the mouse, and arranged the computer image so that it showed a split screen. One half showed Ianto’s scanned image. In the other, Toshiko displayed a second scan of Owen. Clearly visible below his neck was the stark outline of a new spinal attachment.
‘He’s alive,’ Ianto said simply. It sounded like a plea.
Toshiko sat down on a chair, suddenly weary. ‘He needs a doctor.’
‘But he is our doctor.’ Gwen folded her arms, unable to think what to do. ‘We’ve heard him tell us often enough. Born a doctor, lives every day a doctor.’
‘And he’ll die a doctor,’ concluded Toshiko. Her voice was hard now, more certain. ‘But not today.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘You’re the strong, silent type,’ said Jack. No response. ‘Well, I respect that. But y’know, I can’t see this going anywhere.’ He took another quick look at the face in the mirror. ‘I mean, this is never gonna work out. No matter how good an orthodontist you find.’
Jack surveyed the roadway ahead. He’d parked beneath a shattered streetlamp at the junction of a side street that looked out over the Levall-Mellon development. The street was pedestrianised, but there were no cops stupid enough to patrol in these monsoon conditions. The lamp was shattered because he’d shot it out, along with two others nearby. That way, the light didn’t shine on the falling rain and turn it into a silvery opaque curtain through which he couldn’t see. And he needed to see anyone approaching before they saw him.
Even over the endless drum of rain on the car roof he could hear the tarpaulin coverings around the building were slapping against the metalwork and making the scaffolding ring. The torrent of rain had emptied the city centre utterly. His Torchwood mobile had no signal. The Geiger counter clipped to his belt ticked quietly to itself.
There was no one else to talk to.
‘Don’t get upset. It’s not you, it’s me,’ said Jack. He paused and grinned, and glanced again in the rear-view mirror. ‘No, OK, it’s you.’
The Weevil continued to stare sightlessly past him. It had stopped bleeding now. A red-brown stain had spread over its face and into the headrest. Its mouth was ajar, and drool had dried where it had spilled over its chin. ‘Think about it. I mean, you’re ugly and I’m cute. You’re dressed in Weevil rags, and I’ve got a sense of style. You’re stone cold dead, and I’m…’
His words trailed off. A Mini was making slow progress down the road. It was the first car that Jack had seen for fifteen minutes. It continued past the T-junction and parked outside the Levall-Mellon building, offside to the pavement. From his position, Jack could only see a blurred shape rushing away from the car and into the building.
He sprang from the SUV and pelted across the street, throwing up huge splashes of water as he pounded through puddles on the way. In case this was some contractor or builder making an unexpected return to the site, Jack swiftly inspected the Mini. The passenger seat contained a dead woman. Almost certainly the original driver of the vehicle. The side and rear of her neck had been ripped open, exposing the spinal cord, and blood had spurted all over the driver’s side of the car. The windscreen interior was smeared with blood where the killer had inexpertly wiped it away in order to see out.
The main reception area of the building smelled dank. The boarding and covers that surrounded it were hopelessly insufficient to keep the rainstorm from blowing through the shell of the unfinished building, and a wide expanse of water had pooled across the concrete floor. Four main stairwells led up into the body of the site. Jack tried to remember which one he had pursued Wildman up two days ago. It was the far corner. He hurried across, poked his head around the hole where the doorframe would go, and held his breath to listen. Jack heard the clattering footfall of someone who didn’t know they should be keeping quiet.
He unholstered his gun, and started quietly up into the building. He hugged the breezeblocks that formed the sides of the stairwell. That kept him away from the sharp drop beyond the edge of the steps. It also enabled him to lean against the wall and stare up to where he could hear the footsteps.
The regular slap of shoe on stair had stopped, and now the sound was of feet sliding across concrete. The intruder was walking around, perhaps looking for something.
Looking for Wildman’s briefcase.
He checked the Geiger counter at his belt. Nothing more than background radiation. Maybe he was wrong about the briefcase.
Jack slipped up the remaining stairs as quickly and silently as he could. On what he counted to be the eighth floor, he stepped out into the main floor area and covered the whole area with his gun.
Megan Tegg had the slim face he recognised from the photograph board at the hospital. But she didn’t look cute any more. In the half-light of the room, she looked startled and then angry. Her jaw was smeared with the ichorous evidence of her attack on the car driver. She tried hopping across the finished floor, avoiding the concrete reinforcement wire and attempting to hide behind one of the central pillars. But Jack slid smartly to one side, and had her covered again.
A flash of lightning brilliantly illuminated the whole area and the ensuing peal of thunder demonstrated how close the strike was. Megan was clutching the briefcase tightly in her right hand, and her head flicked from side to side as she considered her exit routes.
‘Give it up, Megan,’ Jack called, his voice loud and clear despite the pounding of the rain and another crack of lightning. He hopped over a couple of girders to get nearer to her, and pointed at the briefcase. ‘Thanks for finding that. I thought I’d let you lead me to it, rather than hunt for it myself.’
Megan considered the gap that yawned beneath them. Backed away carefully towards the exterior of the building. Felt for the floor with her feet all the way back. Never took her eyes off Jack’s revolver.
He followed her carefully. She had reached the wooden platform outside. Wind and rain whipped around the edge and into the building, lashing the torn green exterior covering repeatedly against the metal scaffolding. The ladder to the next floor swung loose in the wind. A heavy-duty plastic debris chute clattered against the exterior brickwork.
Megan chanced a look behind her. Little was visible through the rain, except for the smeared outlines of the well-lit landmarks of the Millennium Centre and the St David’s Hotel.
‘Nowhere to run,’ Jack told her.
Megan faced him again. Her anger had dissipated. He wasn’t sure if she was unnaturally calm or trying to give him that impression.
‘That’s a Webley Mark IV,’ she said. ‘Point three-eight calibre, and a five-inch barrel. More than enough to pick me off where I stand.’ Unexpectedly, she smiled at him. It was the last thing he’d expected. ‘I wonder where you get your cartridges. Though I suppose I should worry more about where I might get one now.’