Inherit the Earth - Brian Stableford [89]
If Conrad Helier really had faked his death, Damon thought, he really might have returned to public life by pretending to be his own son—but Conrad Helier’s son was very definitely, and very defiantly, his own man. Unfortunately, Conrad Helier’s son had a brain shrouded in mist, and he felt further away from understanding now than he had been before.
“Did you have any unnaturally vivid dreams while you were asleep?” he asked the young woman.
“No dreams at all,” she replied, “so far as I can remember. Why?” Her voice cracked on the last word, as fear broke through. She looked as if she were about to cry. She was immune to the worst effects of pain, but IT couldn’t immunize anyone against the purely psychological component of fear.
“Please don’t worry,” he begged her, although the plea sounded foolish even to him. “I really don’t think we’re in any danger.” He wasn’t at all certain that he was out of danger. When he had tried to fly, he had only fallen. Either the mirror man had tricked him and mocked him—for no reason Damon could fathom—or the fault had been in himself, in his skill or his courage. Which was worse?
“It’s crazy,” Catherine Praill insisted. “Why would anyone want to kidnap someone like me? What kind of—”
Before she could finish the sentence the door of the room was kicked open and thrust violently back against the wall. A head peered around the jamb, while the barrel of an obscenely heavy gun, clutched in two unfashionably hairy hands, swept the enclosed area from side to side with crude threat.
Once the gunman was sure that the two prisoners were helpless, and unaccompanied by anyone more menacing, he said: “All clear.” He didn’t come into the room itself, being content to hover in the corridor while a woman stepped past him, pausing on the threshold to survey the scene with calm disdain.
“Oh,” she said as her eyes met Damon’s. “It’s you.” Her disappointment was palpable.
“Rachel Trehaine,” Damon said as lightly as he could. He shook his head but the fog wouldn’t clear. “I thought you were just a scientific analyst,” he added, knowing that he was only a pale imitation of his old smart-ass self. “I didn’t expect to see you in charge of a hit squad.”
The expression of disgust on the red-headed woman’s face was something to be seen. “I’m not in charge of a hit squad,” she said. “I’m just. . . .” She hesitated, obviously unsure as to how her present occupation ought to be characterized.
“They didn’t shove a note under your door, by any chance?” Damon meant it as a feeble joke, but when he saw the disgusted expression turn to one of puzzlement he realized that it might have been a lucky guess. He resisted the temptation to giggle and took advantage of his luck to hazard another guess. “You were expecting Silas Arnett, weren’t you?”
Rachel Trehaine wasn’t in the least amused by his perspicacity. “Call Hiru Yamanaka at Interpol,” she said to one of the men waiting in the corridor. “Tell him we’ve found one of his missing persons. And try to find something in the van that we can use to cut through the chains of those handcuffs.”
“How long have I been a missing person?” Damon asked, still fighting the fog.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” the woman from Ahasuerus said. “I was referring to Miss Praill.”
Damon grimaced slightly as he realized that he should have known that. So far as Interpol knew, he was probably still safe and sound on Rajuder Singh’s private island. “Where are we?” he asked as mildly as he could. He didn’t want to add any further fuel to Rachel Trehaine’s understandable annoyance.
“Venice Beach,” she told him, with only a slight hint of disgust.
His captors had brought him home—or very nearly home. In retrospect, that wasn’t particularly surprising.
“Thanks for coming to fetch us,” Damon said meekly. “I’m sorry you had to take the trouble.”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea why they didn’t contact Interpol directly,” the woman said wearily. She was looking out into the corridor, waiting for the members of her team to find something that could be used to cut