‘Of course I do,’ Clarke answered, feeling his desperation increasing by leaps and bounds, knowing that the Minister was building a case, but what sort of case? Against whom? He had to take one last stab at getting through to him. ‘But can’t you see that even in this you’re wrong? With all due respect, you don’t know anything about vampires. You’ve had no experience of them. You’re not even talented. You only know what you’ve read or heard from others. And hearsay can’t make up for experience. See, this mind-smog you’re talking about is something Harry can’t control. He doesn’t “cover himself” with it, it just is. It’s a result of what he is. Like a dog has a tail, Harry has mind-smog. It isn’t deliberate. In fact if he could get rid of it he would, for it’s a dead giveaway!’
The Minister looked questioningly at Paxton, who nodded however grudgingly. Or perhaps it wasn’t so much a grudging nod as a grim one. A nod of affirmation? And even as his apprehension went up another notch, so Clarke said, ‘So you see how easy it is to make mistakes?’
Unblinking, unwavering, the Minister said, ‘All vampires have this mind-smog, right?’
Clarke did blink, however, as his nerves started to jump. There was nothing to fear here, for his talent would warn him of it, but still his nerves were jumping. ‘As far as we know, yes,’ he answered. ‘All of them that we’ve dealt with, anyway. When a telepath tries to scan a vampire, he gets mind-smog.’
‘Darcy Clarke.’ The Minister’s face was white now. ‘It must have taken a lot of nerve to come here. Either that or you’re a madman, or you really don’t know what’s happened to you.’
‘Happened to me?’ Clarke could feel the tension building and didn’t know what it was about. ‘What the hell are you talking – ?’
‘You have mind-smog!’ Paxton spat the words out.
Clarke’s jaw dropped. “What? I have . . .?’
The Minister raised his voice. ‘You out there, Miss Cleary, and Ben. You can come in now.’
The door opened and Millicent Cleary stepped inside, with Ben Trask right behind her. The girl looked at Clarke and her voice was breathless as she said, ‘It’s true, sir. You . . . you have it.’ She had always called Clarke sir. He looked at her, backed away a step and shook his head.
But Ben Trask said, ‘Darcy, she’s telling the truth. Even Paxton is telling the truth.’
Clarke took two hesitant steps towards him . . . and Trask narrowed his eyes, backed off and held up his arms to ward him off! Clarke saw the look in his old friend’s eyes and couldn’t believe it. ‘Ben, it’s me!’ he said. ‘I mean, with your talent you have to know that I’m telling the truth, too!’
‘Darcy,’ Trask answered, still backing away, ‘you’ve been got at. It’s the only answer.’
‘Got at?’
‘Without your knowing it. You believe you’re telling the truth, and on your own that would be enough to throw me. But it’s two to one, Darcy. And you have been pretty close to Harry Keogh.’
Clarke spun on his heel, looked at the faces surrounding him. The Minister, white as chalk behind his desk. Paxton, grim-faced, his right hand nervously playing with the lapel of his jacket. Trask, whose talent had never once let him down – until now. And Millicent Cleary, still respectful for all that she’d just accused him of being a monster!
‘Crazy, every damned one of you!’ Clarke shakily husked. He thrust his left hand into his pocket, brought out his Branch ID and tossed it on to the desk. That’s it; I’m through with all of this; finished with the Branch for good. I’m walking.’ He reached with his right hand inside his jacket and dragged his issue 9mm pistol into view –
– And Paxton yelled, ‘Freeze!’ and aimed the gun which he had produced a moment earlier.
Astonished, Clarke turned towards him – turned his empty gun towards him, too – and Paxton squeezed off two shots.
Simultaneous with the deafening reports, Millicent Cleary and Ben Trask yelled, ‘No!’