Sandy executed a hasty five-point turn in the narrow road and headed back in the direction from which they'd come. As Midge dabbed at the cooled dampness on my face with a tiny handkerchief, I realized I was in the same red Escort that Kinsella had arrived at the cottage in several evenings ago. She left my hand and lower arm alone, the skin there mottled a fierce scarlet and the flesh already beginning to swell.
The car stopped and Sandy jumped out. We were before tall wrought-iron gates set between staunch, gray pillars, a high wall of old brick continuing on either side. Beyond the gate we could see the huge house, the one we'd only seen from the back on our walk through the forest—Bleak House, as I'd mentally dubbed it. The girl swung open the gates while her older companion watched impassively through the window. Sandy hurriedly returned, her expression as anxious as Midge's, and set the Escort in motion again.
Although very much preoccupied with my own discomfort, I took note of the house as it loomed larger. It seemed strange that the place should be set back-to-front, the rear at the end of the long drive and facing toward the gates; even so, Croughton Hall aka The Synergist Temple was still coldly impressive from whatever view.
We passed around the side of the building, drawing up in the rectangular turning area. From there, the meadow stretched upward toward the woodland. By now I was beginning to tremble some, delayed shock I supposed. The man in front got out and opened my door; gingerly protecting my arm, I struggled from the car and looked up at the house. Don't ask me why, but even then when I could barely think of anything other than the intense burning pain, I was reluctant to go inside. Midge, however, appeared to have no such qualms.
"Come on, Mike, the sooner we immerse your arm in water, the better for you," she said, tugging firmly at my elbow. Sandy positioned herself on my other side, while the bony man led the way up the wide stairway to the entrance. Before we'd even reached the top step, one side of the big double door opened and Kinsella was there frowning down at us.
"Mike, what the hell's happened to you?" he called out.
"A disagreement with a car radiator," I quipped, not really feeling that humorous. In fact, I thought I was going to throw up at any moment.
His face blanched when he caught sight of my clawed hand. "Oh God, you'd better get him in here fast." He threw open the other side of the door to allow us all through.
By now I was really shaking, try as I might to control it. Midge clung to me as if afraid I would collapse.
We were in a large hallway, a broad staircase opposite leading up to a gallery. The pain was growing worse, so I wasn't taking too much notice of my surroundings, but still I was aware of the sudden dim coolness inside the house.
"Can we get him into the kitchen or bathroom and put his arm in cold water?" I heard Midge implore.
"We can do much more than that," Kinsella replied. He turned to the girl and said in a voice that was barely audible, "Tell Mycroft who's here and exactly what's happened. Hurry."
Sandy hurried.
He spoke to the Bone Man next and only later did I wonder at Kinsella's authority. "Let the others know," was all he said, and the older man immediately scurried off.
"Okay, Mike, let's try and get you comfortable." The American opened a door off the hallway and ushered us through.
We found ourselves inside a large drawing room—or it may have been a library, so crammed with books were the walls. The heavy mustiness of the atmosphere which, even in my condition, was distinct and somehow unpleasant, suggested that most of the volumes were old editions. Not that I was in the mood for browsing.
Kinsella seated me at a large oval table, its surface highly polished. Angled shafts of sunlight struck into the room in clear, delineated rays, like searchlights, and he went to each tall window to draw the curtains, leaving them open barely a fraction, so that the light was no more than narrow beams. The door we'd entered by had been left ajar and I could see and hear movement outside as though people were gathering. I was damp with perspiration, feverish almost, and I really wanted to scream out at the pain's growing intensity. It was as if nerves numbed by shock (or heat) were now awakening and absorbing the hurt more fully.
"We must do something!" Midge urged as I sucked in air between tight lips to stifle my own moans.
"Be patient a moment longer," Kinsella replied calmly, which was easy for him to say. He sat beside me at the table and laid out my arm on the glossy surface, careful to guide me by the elbow only. Midge stood over me, hands on my shoulders.
"The car radiator burst, huh?" said Kinsella.
"No," I answered between clenched teeth. "I was stupid enough to unscrew the cap."
"You were lucky your arm took the full blast. If your face had . . ."
"Yeah, I know. I was stupid and lucky at the same time."
He was examining the blotchy scald marks on my face when the door opened all the way. A man stepped in and Kinsella said, "Mycroft."
I'm not sure what I'd expected, but the very name, coupled with the vicar's sinister warnings about the Synergists, had conjured up visions of someone tall and powerful, with leathery, wrinkled skin and piercing pale eyes that could shrivel another's soul at will. A cross between Vincent Price and George C. Scott, maybe, or even Basil Rathbone's older brother. This guy was medium height and paunchy, skin smoothly unblemished; almost, but not quite, characterless. He wore gray slacks and a maroon cardigan over a bright white shirt, a beige tie formalizing what otherwise might have been a relaxed effect (these observations were assembled as a whole afterward, you understand, when my suffering had eased—at the time, his appearance wasn't my prime concern). I suppose his eyes could have been described as penetrating, but there was a gentleness to them also. Sorry I can't make the man sound more insidious (sorry because of later events), but that's how he appeared then. He could have been anybody's favorite uncle.
Kinsella stood as Mycroft approached, standing aside and pulling back his chair so that the white-haired man could move in closer to me. Mycroft leaned forward, one hand resting on the tabletop, and I caught a faint whiff of spicy breath. He looked first at my face, then down at my injured hand and arm.
"You must be in great pain," he surmised (quite unnecessarily, I thought). His voice was mild and oddly dry, and the American accent was more New England than further south. There was also a great deal of concern in his tone, almost as if he shared my pain.
"If you want the truth, it's not getting any better," I confessed, growing a little weary of all this inspection and no action. The raw flesh of my arm was beginning to pull alarmingly.
He looked directly into my eyes once more, then at Midge. "We'll waste no more time," he said, more to her than me. He waved a hand and the door opened wide: in came Sandy, our friend Gillie with her;-between them they carried a clear, rectangular bowl containing a greenish liquid. They placed it on the table before Mycroft and myself.
"Call them in," Mycroft said to Kinsella, who promptly went to the door and gave the order. I looked around, becoming quite nervous; Gillie smiled reassuringly at me, but didn't speak. I noticed Midge was also worried.
People began filing into the room, all silent and all watching me. Neil Joby was among them but, although he stared straight at me, he gave no acknowledgment.