The veiled threat was quite real, and Raeburn's bow, forehead to floor, conveyed real respect for the power wielded by the Man with Green Gloves, if not the individual who held that title. Dismissed with a curt wave, Raeburn got to his feet without further comment and departed, not looking back at the two dagger priests who followed after.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
WHILE Raeburn and his pilot were winging their way over the Alps toward Zurich, Adam Sinclair was caught up in traffic on the approach to the Forth Road Bridge, coming into Edinburgh for his nine o'clock lecture. Crisis intervention was the morning's topic - an important aspect of psychiatric practice, but it also described much of his work with the Hunting Lodge, and certainly applied to the task awaiting him in Ireland. Humphrey had packed him a bag and was driving, which freed Adam to review his lecture notes, but slowing traffic soon had him glancing at his watch and then peering ahead in some concern, as Humphrey eased the Range Rover to a halt behind a long line of other cars making for the bridgehead.
"Looks like an accident up ahead, sir," Humphrey noted.
The distant flash of blue lights reminded Adam of his own accident approaching this bridge, little more than a year ago - no accident at all, as he later had learned, but an attempt by the Lodge of the Lynx to kill him. They had done him an unwitting favor, though they did not know it, for without the accident, he might never have met Ximena.
The Range Rover began to creep toward the lights, and Adam sat back with a faint smile curving at his lips, lecture notes temporarily forgotten. He thought about ringing Ximena when he got to the hospital - if he ever got to the hospital, in this traffic - but the timing was all off. It was just after midnight in San Francisco; and if she was not working the Emergency Room, she would be snatching some much-needed sleep, in between bouts of looking after her dying father. He wondered how much longer their relationship would stand the strain of separation.
The Range Rover finally rolled onto the bridge itself, and the cause of the delay at last became apparent. A holiday caravan had parted company with its tow-vehicle and ploughed laterally into the guardrail flanking the left-hand lane, blocking that lane and partially obstructing the other. No one appeared to be hurt - or if they had been, an ambulance must have already taken the victims away in the opposite direction - so at least Adam would not be obliged to stop and render medical assistance; but traffic officers in fluorescent orange windbreakers were diverting all in-bound traffic into the right-hand lane while workmen struggled to clear away the obstruction.
The sight of the officers from Traffic Division reminded Adam of Claire Crawford. He had looked in on her briefly the night before, when he checked in at the hospital, but there had been no time to follow up on their work with the forensic artist; nor would there be time today or even tomorrow. Nonetheless, her spirits had seemed much improved, even when he told her he must be away for a few days.
He tried not to dwell on the reason he must absent himself. The plans for that exercise were as well laid as could be done until he and his fellow Huntsmen actually arrived in Ireland. Meanwhile, he must not shortchange his patients or his students by letting himself be distracted from the morning's duties.
To that end, he returned to the review of his notes. Traffic opened up, once they eased past the knackered caravan, and Humphrey managed to make up the lost time and deposit his employer at the main hospital entrance with a full five minutes to spare.
"Thank you, Humphrey," Adam said as he tucked his notes into an inside coat pocket. "If you could take my bag up to my office and leave it there, I should just about make this lecture. I'll be in touch as I can. It may be Sunday before we get back."
"Very good, sir. And may I add, good hunting."
Experience and determination enabled Adam to make a reasonably good presentation, despite his growing distraction, and the question-and-answer period that followed was lively and thought-provoking. When he emerged from the hall some two hours later, still engaged in animated discussion with two of his students, a young aide in a candy-striped uniform was waiting to hand him a pink telephone message slip.
"Mrs. Fisken said it was urgent, Dr. Sinclair," she said, "and that you're to ring back right away."
His first sinking thought, as he unfolded the slip, was that some complication must have arisen over the arrangements he had made to cover his absence. He was hardly relieved when he read McLeod's name and number.
"Sorry, Doctors, I'll need to attend to this," he said, tucking the note into a pocket. "We'll continue our discussion on Monday."
When he had reached the refuge of his office, he tapped in McLeod's number at police headquarters with some apprehension.
"It's Adam," he said, at the sound of McLeod's voice. "Is there a problem?"
"For a change, no," came McLeod's reply, a touch of excitement in his tone. "It may take more than this to make your day, but I wanted to let you know before you left the hospital. Donald just brought me a report that Carlisle Police faxed in early this morning. Guess what? Last night, about an hour after pub-closing, a bloke by the name of Avery Melville turned himself in at a local police station. He's claiming to be the man responsible for a drunken hit-and-run accident that took place up here in Edinburgh about a year ago, on the A70 road to Lanark."
It took but half a heartbeat for Adam to realize the import of what McLeod seemed to be telling him.
"This is is the Claire Crawford case we're talking about?"
"The very same."
The sense of relief that flooded through him was mixed with equal parts of wonder and astonishment.
"Well done, Donald! I expect he's as pleased as the rest of us. But before I go running off to tell Claire about this development, have we done any double-checking? How close are the facts? Could this really be the hit-and-run driver who killed her husband?"
"It looks a dead certainty to me," McLeod said, on a note of grim triumph. "McSwain down in Carlisle says this Melville's looks match up with the sketch we put out. And the account he gave of himself coincides at every salient point with the story as Claire told it. No, I don't think there's much doubt that Melville's the perpetrator, all right. Hit-and-run drunk-driving isn't a sufficiently glamorous crime to inspire a false confession."
"I see your point," Adam allowed. "All the same, I wonder…"
"You wonder what?"
"I wonder about the timing. Assuming this Melville is the guilty party, what do you suppose impelled him to make a clean breast of things now, after remaining at large for so long?"
"I was wondering the same thing," came McLeod's reply, "and so was Donald. He rang Carlisle and asked if they'd fax him a transcript of Melville's confession. Want me to read it to you? The pertinent bit isn't very long."
"Please do."
"Ever since it happened," McLeod read aloud, "I've been hating myself. Probably the only reason I'm still here is that I haven't got the courage to take my own life. I've often thought about turning myself in, but I was afraid of having to face up to her - the woman I hit. Then a couple of days ago, something… I don't know, something changed. I don't know what; all I know is that I suddenly realized I wasn 't scared anymore. All I want now is to be out from under this weight of guilt.'"
"I see," Adam said, when McLeod finished reading. "Well. Off the record, I would have to say that it appears our last session with Claire may have produced something more than a sketch."
"The thought had occurred to me," McLeod agreed. "Are you going to tell her that?''