Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [72]
‘Well, there are certain studies which deal with what has been called behavioural extension or projection of affect –’
Harrigan made a sound of disgust, then punched the lab door open and walked out. The technician hurried after him.
Benny watched them go, frowning. Harrigan’s description of warlock was disturbingly accurate. She remembered how it had felt when the Mayans gave her the drug. As though her thoughts and emotions were flowing out into the room, visible to everyone else. But more than that, the sensation that things in her mind had a tangible effect on external reality. It was as if the secret world of the mind could be turned inside out. But how did Harrigan know that?
There was a sudden chittering sound and Benny turned around quickly to see another sheet of chemical analysis results emerging. It flopped out of the printer, waiting to be read. She stood motionless for a long moment, making no move to look at it. All afternoon she’d observed this routine. The technician loading samples into his equipment, pushing buttons and waiting for the printout.
But this time it was different. This time no one had loaded a sample. This time no one had pushed the buttons.
There shouldn’t be any printout.
The laboratory was empty and silent except for the faint purring of the air conditioning. The glass doors of the cupboards were shining in the late daylight. The taps and sinks and work surfaces gleamed. Benny stood looking at the printer and the sheet of paper that shouldn’t be there.
Finally she made herself tear it out of the printer and spread it on a work surface.
At first glance the printout was just the usual chaotic sequence of peaks and dips, a mountain range in thick strokes of ink. Then Benny turned it sideways and it resolved itself into huge bold loops of handwriting.
Danger. Get out immediately. Come home. D.
* * *
Webster sat with his computer in his lap, waiting tensely while the big Texan finished talking to Raymond Bowman. Although, thought Webster, talking wasn’t really the word. The old man’s voice was more like a prolonged shout.
‘Did I say that this man was to be harassed? Did I say he was to be handcuffed and beaten on the head and dragged here like some trussed‐up animal?’
‘He caused the car crash, Mr Harrigan. He could have killed Christine. He could have killed me or Artie.’
‘Yes, he caused your god‐damned car to crash. After you put him in irons. After you tried to cave his skull in.’
‘I’m sorry about all that. I was just –’
‘You were just making sure that Creed was good and scared of you. So when he joined the team he’d know who was in charge. Well you’re damned right he’ll know who’s in charge. Because it’s going to be him.’
‘Is that really wise?’
‘Who else should I get to head up this operation? A failed attempt at a bully?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Or maybe your helpful little wife? Do you realize she could have killed that man? Given him permanent brain damage?’
‘He antagonized her sir.’
‘I doubt it. That girl’s just plain unstable. It’s time you faced the facts. I don’t know what’s she’s told you about her background but the Agency has done some digging and I know the truth of the matter. So listen up and I’ll tell you all about it.’
Bowman glanced at Webster sitting uncomfortably behind them. ‘Do we have to discuss it in public?’
‘No, son. We don’t have to at all. We could, theoretically, have a nice private chat. Just like you could, theoretically, have brought Creed McIlveen here in a civilized fashion instead of with a knot on his skull.’ Harrigan leaned across his desk. ‘Here’s the scoop on your sweetheart. A victim of repeated brutal child abuse by her father, she finally got hold of daddy’s gun and offed him.’
Webster turned away and concentrated on watching the screen of his computer. But not before he saw the look of pain on Raymond’s face.
Harrigan’s voice was a low, relentless snarl. ‘That’s the official story. Teenage girl driven to kill in self‐defence. The local police bought it. The DA bought it. But the Agency didn’t buy it. We have forensic