Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  Come on, dammit. Take me!

  His body fetched up hard against ice-coated rocks, and he seized them, with his last strength pulling out of the deadly current to get to her. She was just that way, just a little more. Good, good, but how the wind bites. He would freeze to death here. An easy enough way to go. Just fall asleep. He knew how to do that.

  But he was hungry. Too hungry to sleep. Of all the rotten times for his Beast to make demands.

  Slowly a bit of unpleasant, unwanted life came back to him. He was desperately hungry, but too weak to hunt. If he rested, just for a minute . . . the icy water lapped at him.

  It was the black of deep night, the sky still clouded, yet perversely the stars and moon were out, dancing like fairy lights under its canopy. They wafted close and swerved away, shifting erratically. He thought one of the lights might be Sabra, coming closer, closer. He wanted to properly greet her, but was not ready yet. Too injured to move, too weak to rise, too anchored to this broken vessel of flesh to soar free. He was still trapped in a harsh world of pain; until he could let that go, she'd always be beyond his reach.

  "He's here!" a man bellowed, intruding on his death. Shining dazzling light into his eyes.

  More shouting. Interlopers flooded into his dream of easy release. What were they on about? They must leave him alone so he could . . .

  Not Sabra, but Bourland came into blurred view, his face pinched-white and incredulous.

  "My God, get a medic down here! He's still alive!"

  Chapter Twelve

  Dreamtime.

  He was aware of others moving around him, but they were like phantoms. They called his name but it held no meaning for him. The only reality was cold agony. They were so careful with him, but their least touch only made it worse.

  An airlift out, strapped to a board swinging suspended under a 'copter, flurries of activity when he was returned to earth. Roadside triage. People and more people. Phantoms.

  Needles, tubes, a blessed rush of sustenance into his starved veins. Not his preferred method of feeding, nor his food, but the liquid would do to stave off the hunger. Drugs, a special blanket. He began to warm. What a lovely, comforting thing that warmth was . . .

  Richard awoke slowly, at night; he felt that much of the world outside. Day had a specific kind of pressure, easily ignored with practice. For a moment he thought he was on watch in Sabra's intensive care room and had just dozed off, for he heard an identical beep of monitors nearby. But that couldn't be right, she was . . .

  He groaned a little, eyelids fluttering, finally staying cracked open enough for him to look around. Hospital room, yes, only now he was the patient. He wasn't quite up to moving anything else yet. Much better to lie very still.

  Bourland, seated next to the bed, leaned into view.

  "Well, now, Richard. Are you going to stay with us after all?" he gently asked.

  "Where is she?"

  "Who?"

  "Sabra. I heard her singing."

  Bourland looked at a loss for a moment. "She's . . . she's not here, Richard."

  Oh. Of course. Dream. Muddled delirium. Desperation. Desire. Not to be. Not yet. "She's gone."

  "Yes, she is." He swallowed. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

  A normal human would have quite sensibly blotted out the whole horror. "Yes. The bridge. Bomb. Fall." God, he was tired, but apparently he'd slept enough and his body insisted on waking up more and more. "St. Mike's?"

  "This is a different place. More secure."

  No doubt. Bourland would be paranoid about preserving security after what had happened to Sabra. Not his fault. No one's fault but Charon's. Got to kill that animal . . . "Charon? Did we—?"

  "We're looking for him. Don't worry, he left a trail a mile wide."

  A false one. Richard knew they'd never find him. Not now.

  It was all for nothing.

  "Richard, that fall you took . . ."

  Here it comes. He really didn't want it. "How bad off am I?"

  Bourland visibly considered the question. "They wouldn't tell me everything. Probably thought I'd not be able to handle it, but I know how to read a chart, and I've overheard things."

  It was quite an impressive list. Both legs shattered to pulp, ribs, arms, his back, skull fractures, nerve and soft tissue damage . . . if anything could be broken it was broken.

  "They said you're stabilized, but you should be dead. No one could have survived such a fall. But you're healing, at an amazing speed. That's what's flummoxed everyone. And me."

  Them? Oh. Doctors. A nice army of them and likely to bring in reinforcements to have a look at the curiosity for themselves. This was too much to deal with, and they wouldn't leave him alone, ever.

  "The insides of your arm should be pocked from the shots and from when they drew blood. I sat here and watched the holes vanish. Why is that?" Bourland's voice dropped to a whisper.

  This was bad. Richard always feared someone in this modern age would discover his edge and put him under a microscope, but after all he'd been through, still sick with grief for Sabra, he just could not bring himself to give a damn.

  He shut his eyes, hoping Bourland would take it for sleep. There was a shifting, a creak, soft footsteps, a door opened, shut. Silence. The only heart beating in the room was his own.

  Sweet Goddess, why did you spare me?

  He'd been so close.

  * * *

  Richard napped lightly, never quite going fully out, his mind drifting, but not to anything important or traumatic. He wouldn't allow it. Battered inside and out, he needed the downtime. He tried moving once, a finger, then a toe, but nothing happened. Best to give it a while.

  He thought a doctor came several times to check on him. He was fairly sure of hearing low voices discussing him. Some people were very astonished. They asked him if he could feel this or that. Ignorable.

  They were feeding who knows what directly to his veins to judge by the plastic bags just within view. It tamed his hunger for the time being. Good. Now if it would just take away the dizziness. That twist before he'd hit the . . . no. No memories allowed, remember? He shut down again to drift some more.

  When next he bothered to surface he noticed the camera up in one corner of the ceiling. He was familiar with the type of installation. It wasn't a retro-fit, but part of the planned construction, meaning this room had been originally designed with the intent to observe whoever was in it. Assume there were listening devices as well.

  Was this place to do with the Boris and Natasha couple? If so, then this could prove very bad indeed. Bourland's influence with that group might be insufficient protection to keep off the vivisectionists.

  Why do I even care?

  Because he still had to go after Charon. He'd murdered Sabra, stolen something precious and holy, and the bastard had to be stopped. Richard had no idea what else, if anything, was afoot, but it wouldn't be anything good.

  Bourland returned. Perhaps he'd been in a booth or type of nurse's station with monitors to show when the special patient was awake for longer than a minute. There seemed little point pretending to drop off again. Richard had questions.

  So did Bourland. "How are you?"

  "Read the charts." He was sure he was hooked to a number of sophisticated data-collecting devices.

  "You know what I mean. Are you up to talking?"

  "If it's short. Isn't a doctor supposed to nag you about keeping visits brief?"

  "He's outside looking after things, and I know when it's time to leave. Has to do with the way your eyes suddenly roll up into your skull. Are you in much pain?

  "Like a migraine all over."

  "They have an automatic dosage thing set up . . . the button's in your hand." He pointed. "Want me to press for you?"

  Richard thought the offer might also be a test. Could he move his fingers or not? He didn't want to know just yet and hedged. "Where's Michael?"

  "In a safe place close by. Well guarded."

  "Any m
ore phasing out, visions?"

  "No, thank God. He's been normal, but quiet. Because of Sabra. He's still . . ." But he did not finish.

  "I know. We all are." Richard understood Bourland's pain and grief down to his core and beyond. "I'll find Charon. I swear it."

  Bourland was good. He managed to conceal his pity. So far as he knew Richard was going to be confined to hospital beds, dependant on machines and gentle, helping hands for the rest of his life.

  "How long have I been out?"

  "A day."

  "That long?"

  Incredulous stare time. "Listen, my lad, we didn't think you were going to wake at all the way you were knocked about. I am still dealing with the impossible: that you survived. How is it that—"

  "Tell me what's happened. Please."

  He got a headline report of the bridge aftermath. News of it had gone around the world a few dozen times since Richard's fall and was likely to stay the top story before the insatiable TV cameras until the next disaster shifted the media's short attention span elsewhere.

  "The official account is that it was a freak motor accident involving the gas tank, but there's a large number of outsiders supporting the failed terrorist bombing and cover-up theory. Every law enforcement agency you can think of is all over this one, but I've had a talk with the people who matter, and they'll see that certain aspects of it are buried. They're nettled we weren't up front from the start about Charon."

  "The Americans?"

  "Of course. I rather like them, but they do love to be the star players in every game."

  "Let them. They've a vested interest in the bridge, and they've a right to look after themselves. In this case it won't be a problem because the ones in charge know where to rein in their people."

  "As long as no terrorist group decides to take credit for it. I'd hate to be responsible for the repercussions from that."

  "So what if they do and get slapped down? Fewer bad guys in the world."

  "Well, you've every right to be bloody-minded after—"

  "And you need to read more Winston Churchill."

  "I have, and things are considerably more complicated than when—"

  "No they're not."

  "Now, just a damned—" Bourland caught himself, gaped, and shook his head. "You son of a bitch. Lying on what should be your deathbed, yet throwing out smoke and mirror distractions."

  Richard couldn't laugh, but his lips twitched. "Guilty, m'lud."

  He shut down again.

  It seemed only a few moments. When he woke, his head was more clear, but so was the pain. His extremities ceased to be so wonderfully numb. Pins and needles darted through the layers of his bodywide migraine, white hot. Bourland was in view, sitting in a chair, just as he'd done for Sabra.

  "Philip."

  He was up and there in an instant.

  "Press that button for me, would you?"

  "You're feeling things, hm?"

  "God, yes. Please."

  Bourland did so, and in a few moments the torture eased back to its bad, but still tolerable levels.

  "What's happening out there? How long's it been?"

  "Still the same. You slept for an hour. Sleep some more."

  "Soon. Get my mind off this. Talk to me."

  "They're still looking for him. That group guarding Michael thinks they found where Charon staged his operation. Unoccupied hotel room, telescope, electronic equipment modified. Still had the Eaton Centre sales receipts. Left a mess."

  "That's our boy." Though personally neat, Charon was not one to keep a tidy environment around him.

  "Specialists are going through it. They think he set the bomb off using a cell phone as a long distance trigger. C-4, they're estimating how much."

  "The driver?"

  "Dead."

  "I tried to tell him . . ."

  "Not your fault. Charon's. The man was dead the moment Charon picked him as his mule. His name's not been released yet. Nor yours."

  "Good."

  "Not released as in we let on to the media you were killed."

  "Good. "

  "I must say you're taking it well. Being dead."

  I've had practice.

  He continued. "Seemed the best way to give Charon what he wanted."

  The door opened and a white-coated doctor came in, smiling. He was a very dignified, kindly type, bald with a carefully tended white beard. "Hello, Richard. We've been looking after you. So far you've been our most remarkable patient."

  No doubt.

  The doctor examined, made notations, shone a light in Richard's eyes, and asked banal things like his street address and what year he'd been born. Richard cooperated, thinking that would get rid of him faster.

  "I've some questions if you're up to them . . ."

  But he would get no answers. Richard fixed him with a look. "Later, please. Philip and I must talk."

  The doctor, still wearing his kindly smile, went on his way, no arguments.

  Bourland saw. "What the devil is it you do to people?"

  "He knows I'm on the thin edge. Whatever he wants can wait."

  "But you just—"

  Another man poked his head in, very tall, with piercing blue eyes, frowning. "Everything all right?"

  Bourland twitched annoyance at the further interruption. "We're fine, Frank, but could you keep your people out for the time being? He's not up to being put under a microscope just yet."

  Oh, my prophetic soul, Richard thought.

  Frank nodded, gave Richard an intent stare, then withdrew, snicking the door shut. It had a substantial lock on it. On the outside.

  "This isn't a regular hospital, is it?" Richard asked.

  "It's more of a research lab. Private funding, but we keep our eye on them when necessary. They're another branch to do with that paranormal crew I brought in."

  "Not the sunglasses-in-the-rain crowd?"

  "Heavens, no. That lot's specialty is deconstruction, not repair."

  What a relief. Sort of. This bunch could prove just as harmful, like a curious baby elephant, and as hard to divert.

  "They're very interested in you, my friend. Tell me why."

  Richard would have shaken his head, but realized with a shock it was held immobile in some spiderlike contraption that harkened back to the days of the Inquisition. This thing was stainless steel, shiny and efficient. And bloody uncomfortable. He shut his eyes.

  "I rather thought that'd be your answer," said Bourland. "Whatever it is has them stirred up, but they won't bother you. Frank will see to that."

  "Good for Frank." Whoever the hell he was. Bureaucrat, perhaps. He had the look of a long-term player. Nice suit. "Charon? Progress?"

  "We're assuming he's slipped out of the country, but so far no clue by what means—air, train, bus, car, on foot, or hang glider—they're checking every possibility. It might help if we had a clue as to his destination."

  This wasn't what Richard wanted to hear, but there was little he could do about it. Charon must have been up to something big . . . and it could involve another holy site, but where . . . oh, God. "Glastonbury," he whispered.

  "What?"

  "Have people on watch in Glastonbury. In the U.K. Armed."

  Bourland gave him a narrow look, then pulled out his cell, hitting a quick-dial number. He relayed the information. "No, I can't tell you why, just see it through. Standing orders on Charon are still in effect."

  "What are those?" Richard asked.

  He closed the phone. "To kill him. I think we're both agreed he's a cancer in the gene pool, and the sunglasses crowd has no problem with removing him. They got a bloody nose the other day by failing to get him. Why Glastonbury?"

  "A hunch. That's all I can say. Really. It just came to me. How's Michael?"

  "He's fine so far as it goes. He knows you were hurt and about the cover story of your death. He wants to see you, but I thought later would be better. When you're awake for longer than a few minutes at a stretch."

  And a
lso to prepare the boy for the shock. It would be wholly frightening for him to see another of the adults he loved and relied on flat on the back held immobile by such scary, painful-looking bracing. Hell, Richard was having trouble coping with it himself.

  A soft double-knock on the door as it opened. Frank pushed in, shot a brief, cool, apologetic glance to Richard. "Philip, that report you wanted from Chichén Itzá—we've the hard copy now."

  "Right. Thank you."

  "Report on what?" Richard asked.

  Bourland hesitated. "How awake are you?"

  "Enough. If it's short."

  "It is," said Frank. "I can paraphrase."

  "Please."

  He read from a folder in one hand. "Our team in place has been interviewing people, one of them a very respected local healer and spiritual leader. He said through a translator that their god had been taken from them by a man who—this is what he said exactly—'caused the great snake to be swallowed up by the darkness. The man then fought with and murdered our village elder, a holy one. The man is very dangerous. He's eating the light to keep himself alive.' "

  " 'Eating the light'? What the hell does that mean?" asked Bourland.

  "Perhaps it's a translation problem," Frank suggested. "I'll get a follow-up. But the team earlier reported that an old native man did collapse and die in the local air terminal a few days ago. The cause seems to have been a brain hemorrhage. The medicals are still trying to get a final determination."

  Richard and Bourland exchanged looks. Brain hemorrhage, hell.

  Frank continued skimming the report. "There's going to be another ceremony to try to bring their god back; they'll be staging it a few days from now. They're delaying until there's a larger crowd. The team says more and more people are coming out of the forest, converging on Chichén Itzá."

  The report again made sense to Richard and Bourland. All those other lights that had been in Michael's vision . . .