Alchemist

  The room was comfortable with a double bed and an ensuite bathroom with expensive fittings. Monty sat on the bed, trying to collect her thoughts, suddenly feeling leadenly tired. Her watch said five to four and it was growing dark outside. Flecks of sleet were falling, and new fears swirled like a mill-race in her knotted, empty stomach. Did she really have to go downstairs and face that cold bitch alone?

  She looked at her face in the mirror and was appalled at her appearance, her face puffy from tiredness, her hair crushed shapeless by the helmet; the thought flashed through her mind that the elegant Tabitha must be wondering what on earth her son saw in her.

  She had a shower both to freshen up and warm up, put on clean clothes and had a hasty damage-limitation go at her hair and make-up before venturing out.

  ‘You are safe here, Montana,’ Tabitha Donoghue said by way of a greeting as Monty found her seated in front of an open fire, smoking a thin cigarette. A silver coffee pot, fine china cups and a tray of biscuits were laid on a quartz-topped table, beside an ashtray overflowing with butts.

  There was something in the way she said safe that made Monty frown. Nothing she could immediately finger, but it did little to allay her misgivings. ‘Thank you,’ she replied politely, sitting down opposite her hostess. ‘You have a very beautiful home. It’s –’ she tried to think of a comment that would elicit the reason for the candles, but could not find the phrase she wanted. ‘It’s so spacious,’ she said, aware of her own banality.

  Conor’s mother poured her coffee. There was a grace in her every movement and Monty again admired her appearance. In spite of a few telltale lines, and a slackening of the neck just visible above her black sweater, she could have passed for someone in her early forties.

  ‘Do you take milk, Montana?’ The smell of the cigarette was tantalizing.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Good; best to avoid all dairy products while this is happening.’

  Monty puzzled over the remark but nothing further was ventured on the subject. She glanced round the room, awkwardly. Two Burmese cats sat motionless as marble either side of the fire; tribal masks stared down at them from the white painted walls. Again she sensed the stillness and quietness of a temple.

  Mrs Donoghue was now studying her with an expression that seemed to have been hauled up from a well of sadness, and said quietly: ‘Some things in life are not worth it, Montana.’

  Monty cradled her coffee cup in her lap. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Life’s a compromise; you learn that when you get older.’ The older woman stood up abruptly and began to circle the room, looking at the walls, the plants, then straightened a slightly crooked candle, as if she was delaying having to face Monty again.

  Monty watched her, wondering about the chore of lighting and replacing the dozens of candles; presumably the maid did it, but why? She noticed, nearby, a framed photograph of Mrs Donoghue standing in the middle of what looked like an oilfield, next to a sleekly handsome man whose face looked familiar.

  ‘That’s me with Uri Geller,’ Tabitha Donoghue said, evidently having eyes in the back of her head.

  Monty was startled. ‘What was the occasion?’

  ‘We both located some oilfields for the same company.’ She straightened another candle. ‘That’s my work these days. That’s what I do.’

  ‘Really? How do you do that?’

  ‘I dowse,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  ‘With a divining rod – like the ones used to find water?’

  ‘No; mostly with a pendulum over a map. I go on location occasionally, for very accurate pinpointing, but usually I don’t need to; I can get to within a hundred metres or so just on a map.’ She turned and smiled. ‘The oil companies mostly don’t like to admit to using people like me – I think it embarrasses them that I can see off all their hi-tech equipment.’

  Monty realized now where her obvious wealth must come from. She was about to ask Mrs Donoghue if she was psychic, when she remembered the rebuke the three suits had received earlier.

  ‘I practise science, not miracles.’

  ‘Do you use your pow – ah – skills – for anything else, Mrs Donoghue?’

  ‘I find missing persons for the police.’ She shrugged as if to imply there was nothing to it.

  ‘I’ve read about dowsing, but I don’t know how the – ah – science – works.’

  Tabitha Donoghue walked slowly back to her chair. ‘A great many things work in ways we do not understand, Montana,’ she said softly. ‘Sometimes we do not want to understand them, and sometimes they are genuinely beyond our powers of comprehension.’

  Monty let her go on.

  ‘The thirst for knowledge, for enlightenment, is limited to very few. Most people don’t have the time or the inclination to learn. Have you ever thought now ironic it is that such people spend their entire lives with their eyes closed, then die with them open?’

  Monty tried to smile. ‘I think that is because there are many people who fear the unknown.’

  ‘A fear that is at times wholly justified – as you are now finding out. But you accept the unknown, don’t you, Montana? The occult?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You wear a crucifix, so you believe in God?’

  Monty’s hand involuntarily went to her neck. The thin chain of her crucifix was buried inside the collar of her blouse, which was inside a pullover; there was no way this woman could see she was wearing it. Any more than she could have noticed her looking at the photograph a few minutes ago.

  Had Conor mentioned her crucifix to his mother? That was a possibility, but unlikely. ‘I don’t see that wearing a crucifix or believing in God means that I necessarily believe in the occult,’ she said, thrown.

  Tabitha Donoghue studied her face, taking her time. ‘Religion isn’t some kind of convenience store where you select the goodies you like and ignore what you don’t. If you believe in God then you believe in Satan. He comes with the territory.’

  Monty shrugged. ‘I suppose what I mean is that I’m a lapsed Catholic – an agnostic, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t care what the hell you are. It’s just better to try to understand your adversaries than to ignore them. And to try to guard against their powers, rather than pretending that they do not exist.’

  This sudden vehemence took Monty aback. ‘I’m sorry – pretend what does not exist?’

  Conor’s mother looked at her watch, and seemed anxious. ‘He should be back by now.’

  Monty checked the time herself. Almost an hour had lapsed. ‘Maybe he stopped to have a coffee – or he had problems getting a taxi?’

  ‘I go now, good night, Missy Donoghue.’

  They both turned. The maid was standing behind them with her coat on, holding a carrier bag. Tabitha Donoghue stood up. ‘I’ll give you a ride to the subway.’ She turned to Monty but her thoughts seemed far away, her words incoherent. ‘It’s starting, I can feel it. I have to go to him.’ She seemed very agitated now.

  ‘Shall I come with you? Monty said, not entirely following, but uneasy at the prospect of being left there alone.

  ‘No, you must stay. You are safe in this house, but you are not safe outside. Don’t answer the phone or open the front door, not to anyone.’ As she looked at Monty, her eyes became two large circles, like the eyes of a hunted animal, and there was a deep timbre to her voice. ‘You spoke of the unknown? You’re going to find out about the unknown. You’re going to find more than you ever dreamed.’

  104

  Wednesday 7 December, 1994

  The tiny, windowless chamber was enclosed by marble walls, each one displaying an inlaid gold pentagram six feet in diameter. The sole light source was the green glow from the computer screen of the electronic map-reader, which was set into the square malachite table around which they all sat.

  Hovering plumb centre over the screen, suspended from a silk thread attached to the ceiling twenty feet above them, was the quartz-crystal weight of a pendulum.
It had been honed at the base into a needlepoint.

  The only other object in the room was a pure gold scrying bowl cradled in a wrought-iron stand. It was filled with water freshly taken from the baptism font in a local church.

  For the moment they concentrated on the screen. One, locked in concentration, held a hogskin glove in the palm of his hand as delicately as if it were a newborn chick. He wore papyrus slippers on his feet and a robe made of finest quality linen; simple, natural clothing that contained nothing to interfere with the energy flow. No jewellery, no mental baggage.

  He had evacuated his brain as part of his preparation, concentrating all this thoughts and energy on one speck; one tiny speck in an empty universe. One speck in the void before time had begun. The first speck of dust. Smaller than an atom. Smaller than a neutron. Out there in the void, waiting for him.

  Come to me.

  It was obeying. Its orbit altered so that it passed close by him.

  Come to me.

  It was gone, accelerating past him and away, fading into nothingness. In a moment it would return; it was circling the void and would have to return. Coming back now. The speck flashed past him with a glint, then was gone again. From the glove in the palm of his hand he sensed the faintest of vibrations; they clashed with his own, clashed with the vibrations from the speck – the wrong waveband – but he felt a surge of satisfaction. The signal was what mattered and he was picking up the signal.

  Come to me, he willed. Come to me, ah yes, come.

  The speck passed him. It made one complete rotation, then another, each one a fraction shorter than the previous rotation as it traced an invisible path of ever-decreasing concentric circles.

  Come to me.

  The modulations of the wavebands were beginning to synchronize. The speck turned into an inch-high lump of quartz crystal; the sharp point skimmed the surface of the screen in the table top. On the screen was a map which showed the contours of the Potomac river, Chesapeake Bay and the surrounding land mass.

  ‘Scale,’ he called out sharply.

  There was a putter of computer keys, then the scale of the map changed from five miles to one inch, becoming one mile to one inch. Grids of streets appeared.

  The pendulum began to swing again, in large circles at first, then decreasing again. Finally the point was hovering, in a motion that was almost a quiver, over the north of Georgetown.

  He turned to the scrying bowl, staring into the blackness of the holy water. Stared harder, concentrating, willing the image. But it would not come, as if someone was blocking it. Someone who knew how to disturb the vibrations, confuse them.

  He concentrated harder still, pitting his mind against the one he could not see, like two wrestling arms locked on a bar table. He thought of the powers he had, the prayers and the rituals and the energy forces he could summon.

  I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and end, the first and last.

  Yahweh.

  He focused his mind on the rituals. Focused it on the power of the base metals he had cast with his own hands in the foundry. Silently he called out in the void.

  Yahweh.

  It was coming. He could see it now, it was working, the arm was yielding, bending, collapsing, caving in. He felt the sweat on his own body, his brow, his chest, felt his energy surging then replenishing, draining then replenishing. Had to keep going, had to summon new strength, had a long, long way to go.

  Yes!

  A house. Small, badly in need of a repaint. The door was opening, a woman came out first. Yes, he could see it clearly now, as clearly as if it were happening through a window in front of his own eyes. He could see the quarry coming out of the house, giving the woman a quick kiss on the cheek, walking down the drive, getting into the back of a taxi. Yes there was no mistaking, no mistaking at all …

  ‘Got you!’ he called out, in his excitement momentarily forgetting the protocols of silence. ‘I’ve got you, you smart little bastard!’

  105

  Washington. Wednesday 7 December, 1994

  ‘Want me to get Dave to ring you at your mother’s when he gets home?’ Julie Schwab said, as they stood on the doorstep.

  Conor thought for a moment. ‘No – I’ll give him a call later.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good to see you, thanks for your help.’

  ‘No problem. Take it easy, you look beat. They’re working you too hard!’

  He smiled. ‘I guess. Take care.’ He turned, hurried down the drive to the waiting cab and gave the address of his mother’s house. The sleet of earlier had turned to snow; thick flakes were falling and settling.

  Monty was safe; that had been his number one concern. Now they had to get her father out of wherever he was being held. And they had to do it without the police; Monty had proved that herself.

  He watched the meter ticking. The driver was a bald black man with the frame of a Sumo wrestler; the steering wheel in his massive paws looked like a toy and he slouched as he drove with an easy, lazy confidence. ‘Forecast heavy fall tonight. Gonna be a mess tomorrow, yup, sure is.’

  Conor saw the man’s eyes in the mirror and nodded in acknowledgement. Daylight was starting to fail and most vehicles had their lights on now.

  ‘Gonna be a real mess, yessir,’ the driver repeated.

  Conor’s forehead twinged suddenly and his focus blurred. He closed his eyes then opened them again, startled, feeling a little giddy. They were accelerating down a slip and joining the Beltway, heading north, moving fast. Snow tumbled towards the windscreen at a sharply raked angle and the wipers clouted it away.

  It was the snow that was making him feel giddy, he realized, relaxing a little; it was twisting and turning through the battery of tail lights ahead like a kaleidoscope. A truck thundered past, chucking up slush which hit the windshield with a heavy slap, then he was thrown sideways in his seat as the taxi swerved violently to avoid some unseen obstacle.

  He turned and peered through the rear window, but the lane behind was clear. ‘What was that?’

  There was no response from the driver.

  ‘What was that you swerved for?’ Conor asked.

  The driver said nothing.

  Something was going on up ahead, in the distance. Strobing lights. Brake lights were coming on. A truck two hundred and fifty yards or so ahead of them was braking sharply. The taxi started accelerating.

  Conor frowned, wondering what the driver was doing, waiting for him to jam on the brakes; but he just kept accelerating.

  ‘Hey!’ he said, alarmed. ‘Hey, you OK?’ He looked up at the mirror. The driver’s eyes were fixed dead ahead, expressionless, as if he was in a trance.

  They were accelerating even harder.

  The traffic ahead had come to a complete standstill.

  Conor felt a damburst of cold fear. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘Stop – for God’s sake!’

  Accelerating.

  Hurtling towards the tailgate of the truck. Two hundred metres. One seventy-five. One fifty.

  Conor was on a nightmare fairground ride. The truck was still not moving. The gap was closing. Frantically he scrabbled for the passenger handle, yanked it, threw his shoulder against the door, heard the roar of air, felt the velocity against his skin then in one desperate lunge threw his entire body weight against it.

  Was he falling? Or was he flying? Tumbling in freeze-frame slowness into the darkness.

  A tremendous thump in his chest punched the wind straight out of his lungs as if the entire road had risen up to strike him. He was rolling; rolling. A horn blared. Lights hurtled past him; he felt the heat of an exhaust poisoning his face. Giddy, rolling, rolling. Had no idea where he was. The tarmac trampoline rose up and slammed him in the stomach, then punched him up in the air. It came at him again, smashed him in the chin, then the knees, then the side of his face.

  There was a tremendous metallic bang.

  He lay still. Two bright lights high above him, bearing down out of the darkness. Coming for him. Angels? No, the
hiss of air brakes, the harsh slithering of rubber on wet tarmac. Then total darkness and an echoing roar as if he had entered a railway tunnel; he clutched his hands to his head, pressed himself into the hard road surface in terror as a tractor-trailer hurtled over him.

  Then it was gone. And he was still there.

  More vehicles were coming. He had to get out of the way; a car slithered past him so close its door brushed his jacket. After it had disappeared, he hobbled across the lane on all fours, like an animal.

  ‘Conor!’

  The voice of his mother calling out in the darkness.

  ‘Conor!’

  He saw a door swinging open, an interior light; a car had stopped beside him.

  ‘Conor! Get in, get in!’

  He crawled over the sill like a drowning man heaving himself on to a life raft. Felt the soft leather of the passenger seat; collapsed into another world. Just the glow of the dashboard and the plush smell of the hide, the warm air of the Mercedes’ heater.

  Ahead, through the wiper and its arc, he could see cars and trucks skewed all over the road; shards of broken glass everywhere. Headlamps were shining on the tailgate of the stationary truck he’d seen half a century ago. Something was sticking out of it like a half-eaten fish in the jaws of a predator. In the arena of lights he could see clearly it was the cab he had just been in. It was wedged, almost up to the rear window, beneath the rear fender of the truck, the roof sheared off and hanging like the lid of a sardine can.

  He turned to face his mother, too queasy to speak.

  ‘I thought I was too late,’ she said quietly. ‘I thought you were dead.’

  106

  As she heard the distant slam of the front door, Monty regarded the silent cats, the burning candles, the spitting fire, and felt like the spectre at the feast. Only she hadn’t actually found the feast bit yet, she reminded herself.

  It’s starting, I can feel it. I have to go to him.

  What was starting?

  Curious, she walked round the interior of the house, hoping to spot pictures of Conor as a child, of his father, or anything that would give her further clues about Tabitha Donoghue.