As he spoke, he commended his soul to the protection of the Light and let himself reach out to perceive what he could of what she was experiencing, once again lowering the psychic barriers between them. Though he did not close his eyes, all his own bodily sensations faded, save for the point of contact where his hand still clasped Claire's passive wrist. For an instant he floated dizzily outside himself, momentarily blind and disoriented. Then suddenly he was in the scene Claire had been describing.
A host of new sensations burst in on him from all sides - the gurgle of the waters in the burn, the cool touch of the night breeze, the scent of gorse mixed with a hint of petrol. Even as these sensations registered, a set of headlamps appeared ahead in the distance.
"There're headlights coming," Claire murmured. "They converge like a set of flares. We can hear the roar of the engine, and John grabs me by the sleeve and starts to push me out of the way."
" That bloke's going too bloody fast!' " she said urgently, mimicking her husband's words. " 'We'd better move back.'
"He pulls me away from the verge, but we can't go far because of the gorse hedge. We can hear the engine noise redoubled as the car bears down on us - it's weaving back and forth across the center line - the guy must be drunk! Squealing brakes - it swerves and ploughs right into the verge!
" 'Jesus, he's heading right for us!' " The tone made it clear that again, these were John Crawford's words.
"He pushes me behind him, trying to shield me," she went on, breathing hard, "but there's no place to go! I can feel the gorse tearing at my legs, and the fence behind it hard against my waist, but we're pinned like moths against a win-dowpane, caught in his headlights - "
"Go to Slow-motion!" Adam ordered, right beside her in the vision and fighting his own instinct to recoil. "Slow it all you want," he went on, as one of her fingers jerked spasmodically. "You've got time to watch now. You know you can stop the action, just before it happens, but let the car get as close as you possibly can. You want the best possible look at the driver. It's ten yards away - nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two - Freeze-framel" he ordered sharply.
Chapter Fifteen
ON the knife edge of a scream, the world shuddered to a halt. Claire's eyes were open now, wide and glazed like those of a hare mesmerized by fright, staring straight into the glare of the remembered headlamps. Her pupils were even contracted, her lips parted for the scream Adam had interrupted. Seizing upon that moment of paralysis, he moved in with surgical delicacy to direct her perceptions.
"Can you see him?" he asked softly. "I know there's a glare from the headlights, but can you see his face behind the windscreen?"
"Too bright," she murmured. "And still too far away…"
"Adjust your video machine," Adam urged. "It can do all kinds of things that an ordinary machine can't do. You can step down the light level, filter it, zoom in on his image…. Make the necessary adjustments, Claire. You can see him…."
Adam could not see the face, try as he might. For Claire, however, her adjustment of perception seemed to achieve the desired effect.
"It's him!" she murmured breathlessly. "I can see him now - see him clearly!"
"Describe him to me, then," Adam ordered. "Tell me what he looks like, in as much detail as you can manage."
He could not spare a glance for anyone but Claire - indeed, had almost forgotten the presence of McLeod and the enrapt Peterson - but McLeod was already glancing back at the artist - who was leaning forward avidly, his eyes slightly glazed, pencil poised above his sketch pad. A shiver passed through Claire's seated body before she began haltingly to speak.
"He's young - early twenties, maybe… clean-shaven… hair straight and dark, cut longish… good-looking, actually. The face is square, with hollow cheeks and high cheekbones…."
"Alec, are you getting all this?" McLeod whispered to Peterson, whose response was a distracted nod. The artist's pencil flew, executing swift strokes across the page as he strove to capture what Claire was describing.
"Full lips… longish nose, narrow at the bridge, with nostrils a bit flared… There's a - a sort of a bump, like he might have broken it once…."
Peterson kept drawing for several minutes after she had wound to a halt, at length passing the sketch pad over to McLeod.
"Is it possible for her to look this over, see if I'm getting it right?" he asked in a shaky undertone.
McLeod glanced at the drawing in his hands, then passed it to Adam. The face that looked back at them from the paper was that of a spoilt, impetuous youth.
"Claire, I'd like you to take a look at Mr. Peterson's sketch and tell me what you think," Adam said quietly. "Keep the actual image on your video screen strongly before you, then compare it with the sketch."
He put the sketch pad into her hands. Dispassionately the blue eyes tracked down to the drawing, flicking across it without reaction as she slowly nodded.
"It's very close," she said. "The chin needs to be sharper and the ears neater. And the hair's a little too clean-cut. It should be a bit longer on top, like a pop star's. It's quite dark, by the way - maybe black. And the eyes are light; I couldn't see the color."
When she made no further comment, Adam reclaimed the sketch and returned it to Peterson. Tongue between his teeth, the police artist went back to work. After a short interval, he returned the amended sketch for Claire's inspection. Again she pointed out necessary refinements, which Peterson dutifully made. It took four tries before she pronounced herself satisfied.
"That's the man," she said, holding it at arm's length before her. "That's him exactly."
"Excellent," Adam said. "Close your eyes now, and relax for a few minutes. Go deep asleep and take a nice rest until I touch your hand and call you by name."
As she subsided, eyes drifting closed again, Adam took the sketch pad from her slack hands and shifted his attention to Peterson, intending to compliment him on his work. The police artist looked bewildered and just a little distressed. McLeod had noticed it, too, and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
"What's the matter, son?" he asked.
Peterson ducked his head, just missing a shiver. "Sorry, sir," he said with some difficulty. "It's just that - if you don't mind my saying so, this is pretty spooky stuff. Would you mind if - if I went and got a cup of coffee?''
"Not at all," Adam said, before McLeod could reply. "I think that's a very good idea. But would you close your eyes for a moment first, please? I think you may have gone a little into trance there, and I want to make sure you're fully back to waking consciousness. It's perfectly normal," he added with a smile, at Peterson's delayed look of startled surprise. "Happens quite frequently."
"But I - "
"Close your eyes, Alec," Adam commanded, leaning forward without warning to lay his hand across the artist's brow. "Don't fight it; just relax and let that breath all the way out. That's right," he added, dropping his hand as Peterson subsided without resistance - indication that, indeed, he had been in trance and still was. "You're perfectly fine, and nothing happened at all out of the ordinary. There's nothing frightening about hypnotic regression; it's simply a tool like any other. Between your efforts and Claire's, we may well bring our man to justice. You've both done very well. You can take pride in your work. It was very well done, indeed."
He cast a cautionary glance at McLeod as he went on, sitting back in his chair.
' Take another deep breath now, and let it all the way out. And when I count backward from five to one, on one, you'll come back to normal waking consciousness, feeling fine, with what happened here just a little hazy - which is just the way you want it to be. And five… four… three… two… and one. Open your eyes now, Alec, and have a nice stretch. You might like to go on down to the hospital cafe and wait there for Inspector McLeod, have that cup of coffee."