So, if E-Branch moved now, two of the three targets were good as dead (the Minister recoiled for a moment, shocked by the necessarily cold efficiency of his own thoughts) but Keogh would still remain the big question mark, the pivot on which everything else turned. And it would be to everyone’s advantage – literally everyone’s, everywhere – if the Necroscope could be taken out at the same time as the others.
‘Sir?’ The girl was still waiting for an answer.
The Minister opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment David Chung held up a hand and said, ‘Hold it!’ Cleary and the Minister looked at the locator; his other hand was resting on a Zippo cigarette lighter, the longtime property of Paul Garvey, a telepath working with the police out of Darlington. That hand was steady, the tips of Chung’s long fingers motionless where they touched the cold metal. But the hand he held up was trembling, violently.
Suddenly he snatched back his hand from the tray, stepped back a little from the desk. In another moment he’d recovered himself, came forward again and said: ‘Garvey has been hurt! I don’t know how, but it’s serious . . .’ He closed his eyes and his hand hovered a moment over the maps beneath their clear plastic laminate.
As the small Chinaman’s hand came down to cover a section of the Al north of Newark, the Minister turned to Cleary. ‘Can you get hold of Garvey?’
‘I’ve worked with him, lots.’ She was breathless. ‘Let me try.’
She closed her eyes and concentrated on mental pictures of her fellow esper, and got him at once. Garvey was in fact sending at that very moment. But his signal and message were weak, garbled, distorted by his pain . . . which Cleary immediately became heir to! She gasped and staggered, and for a second lost him. Then she picked him up again, but barely in time before he blacked out and his telepathic thoughts flew into shards in her mind. The rush of psychic sendings had not been without images, however, which she’d received even as he was going under.
She turned to the Minister and her features were drawn, bloodless. ‘Paul’s face,’ she said. ‘It’s ruined! His cheek is hanging in tatters. But there’s a doctor with him. They’re in some sort of … motorway cafe? I think he was attacked by Johnny Found – but the Necroscope was also there. And a policeman is dead!’
The Minister grabbed her wrist, steadied her. ‘A policeman, dead? And Keogh was there? You’re sure?’
She nodded, gulped. ‘It was in Paul’s mind: a picture of a … a bloody hole in a policeman’s head. And another of Harry, with eyes like red lamps burning in his face!’
Chung said, ‘Garvey’s somewhere here,’ and he pointed at the map. ‘On the Al.’
The Minister took a deep breath, nodded and said, This is it: it’s all coming to a head, right now. Keogh might have guessed it all along but by now he must know we’re after him, definitely. So while all three of these . . . these creatures, are in different locations – from which two of them at least can’t escape – now has to be the best time to move on them.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Miss Cleary, er, Millicent? Is Paxton still waiting? Get back on to him and tell him to move in now, at once. Then speak to Scanlon and tell him the same thing.’ He turned to Chung. ‘And David – ‘
But the locator was already busy on the radio, speaking to people in Darlington.
Meanwhile:
By the time Johnny Pound’s thundering Frigis Express truck took the curves on the roundabout at the junction of the Al and A46 outside Newark, he was much calmer and showing a lot of skill and driving discipline. Had there been a police patrol car stationed at the roundabout, its officers probably wouldn’t look twice at him.
There was no patrol car, however. Just Harry Keogh.
Using Pound’s knife, the Necroscope had followed the truck’s progress in a series of short Möbius jumps, waiting for his quarry to slow down a little before attempting what would have to be an extremely accurate jump on to a moving object – directly into Pound’s cab! Also, it must be accomplished as smoothly as possible, so as not to jar Harry’s badly shattered collarbone. The pain of that alone would have left any other man writhing on his back or entirely unconscious. But Harry wasn’t any other man. Indeed, with every passing moment he was a little less a man and more a monster, albeit one with a human soul.