Part Eight

Back in his flat, Doyle didn't go to bed straightaway. The visit to the hospital had been both a trial and a release. The doctor had told them Toni and Cheryl were going to live. It would be a long, hard pull before their physical torment would be at an end, and even longer for the emotional scars to heal. But he'd seen Toni, had talked to her for a bit and tried to reassure her, bolster her flagging spirits. Using simple, non-verbal responses, she had been able to give answers to Doyle's questions about the attack. Unfortunately, her memory was almost a complete blank. She couldn't corroborate Cheryl's recollections of the attacker's words, but she did confirm there had been only one person, a man. Their brief conversation had left her exhausted but uplifted in spirit. Perhaps she would recall more at a later time, after a good rest.

Doyle had the feeling it would be over long before then.

He brought a beer from the kitchen and sipped it as he paced the floor in his front room. Back and forth, back and forth...he was restless for action, irritated that they still had no firm clues to the attacker's identity, and frustrated that he had to wait for their opponent's next move.

He thought about Bodie, who was probably sound asleep by now. Bodie had an incredible knack for just turning it all off. 'As easy as switching off a lamp,' he'd once said. Doyle figured it would be a handy skill to have, though he knew from four years of association with Bodie that his partner wasn't quite as cool and collected as he liked to pretend. For one thing, Bodie had a temper -- a cold, dangerous, calculating temper. The rest of his emotions were more controlled, hidden from prying eyes that might see his emotions as signs of weakness and seek to exploit them. Only their long association enabled Doyle to spot the subtle hints in Bodie's expressions which revealed his innermost thoughts.

Doyle finished his beer, debated going over the Freddy Price file just one more time, and found the prospect boring enough to make him think of sleep. He switched off the lights and went to bed.

His head had hardly touched the pillow when the phone rang. He quickly jumped out of bed to answer it, but there was no second ring. Frowning, he climbed back beneath the covers.

Exactly five minutes later, it happened again...a single ring, strident and demanding. Five minutes after that, still another single ring.

Angrily, Doyle jerked out of bed and went to stand by the phone. He shivered slightly against the chill of the room after the warmth of his bed, but he did not abandon his vigil. Five minutes later, at the first hint of a ring, he grabbed up the receiver and listened.

The line went dead a moment later. Disgusted, he put the handset back in the cradle. He knew who the caller was now, this tormentor who wanted to dominate their every thought and action.

He dialed Bodie's number and was rewarded with a thunderous bellow from the other end of the line. "What?!" Bodie roared into the receiver.

Doyle's tone was conversational. "Having a bit of trouble sleeping, are we?" he enquired gently.

When Bodie recognized his partner's voice, he grimaced with embarrassment. "I don't think our adversary wants us to get any rest," he returned calmly.

"So what are you going to do?" Doyle asked curiously.

Bodie's reply was typically Bodie. "Go to sleep. Good night."

Doyle smiled as he hung up the phone. He wondered if Bodie could actually do it, program his mind to ignore the single telephone ring and yet come alert at the first change in pattern.

He knew for a fact he couldn't do the same himself. Instead, he dressed again in jeans, shirt and heavy sweater, switched on the lights, and prepared to settle down to another careful reading of the Freddy Price file. The answer had to be there somewhere.

It was going to be a long night.

 

Part Nine

Bodie did not go back to bed for the simple reason that he had never gone to bed in the first place. Even before the mysterious phone calls, he'd been unable to sleep. Instead, he focused his thoughts on cleaning his weapon. The immaculate 9mm Browning lay disassembled on a cloth atop his coffee table. He cleaned and oiled each piece, reassembled it and tested the action several times. Of course, it was in perfect operating order. He slid home a full magazine of thirteen bullets, and then did something he was not wont to do under normal circumstances: he injected a bullet into the firing chamber, removed the magazine and refilled it to capacity, then inserted it back into the grip. He set the safety before sliding the weapon into its holster. Bodie couldn't have explained why he did it, but the simple truth was that the waiting was getting him down. The unknown assailant out there in the darkness was making him edgy, and Bodie intended to take every advantage he could.

The phone rang its single tone, but Bodie determinedly ignored it. With the cleaning and loading tasks completed, he settled back on the comfortable sofa and put his feet up. He picked up a glass of beer from the end table, but did not drink it. Instead, he turned the glass idly in his hands and watched the play of light over the amber clarity of the liquor as he thought back to the matter of Freddy Price and Eric McKay.

A straightforward case, that. Searching through their contacts, getting the leads and putting the case together. A clever piece of detective work, Doyle had called it. Oh, there'd been a critical time element; CI5's cases always seemed to involve an inadequate time limit. In this case, a huge shipment of stolen weapons had been bound for sale to a radical political faction bent on anarchy. But they'd pieced it together, Doyle using his contacts from his police background, Bodie tracking down some of his old mercenary sources. They were a team, Bodie and Doyle.

Unfortunately, Eric McKay had made a break for it, nearly upsetting the entire operation just at the moment of springing the trap. Cowley had salvaged the plan. Bodie and Doyle had gone haring after McKay, so they'd missed the real action as Cowley recovered the stolen weapons and arrested most of Freddy Price's thugs. Pleasantly, though, Bodie and Doyle had been privileged to bring in Freddy himself, who had slipped through Cowley's net and nearly escaped the country.

However, despite the assignment's satisfying conclusion, Bodie had to reflect that Doyle's observation had been right on the button: innocent people had become victims in their efforts to capture McKay.Bodie abruptly sat up in one smooth, fluid motion, an action as supple as a panther sensing the invisible spectre of danger.

The phone hadn't rung on the five-minute marker.

Bodie stared at the silent phone for a long moment, his nerves strung taut with anticipation. Then, almost as an afterthought, he removed the Browning from its holster, disassembled it once again, and went to work with a screwdriver.

 

Part Ten

Doyle concentrated on the Freddy Price file. Every five minutes, to the second, his phone would ring once and then fall silent. Each time, his jaw clenched in anger and he was jerked out of his concentration. Studiously, he resisted the temptation to grab up the receiver and vent his anger at the bastard at the other end of the line. He knew this was just what his adversary wanted. Doyle would not give him the satisfaction.

The cold, unemotional facts of the case seemed so cut and dried compared to the adrenaline-charged memories he actually had of the events. Something niggled at the back of his mind; it was here, he knew it was. Annoyed, he tossed the file aside and went to get another beer.

His hand hesitated an inch from the kitchen light switch.

A moment later, he was at the telephone, dialing Bodie's number. The phone was answered on the second ring. Bodie didn't sound as if he'd been asleep. "Hello?" he greeted with false cheerfulness.

Doyle could barely contain his excitement. "I've got it," he said exultantly.

Bodie refused to be impressed. "Does that promise to be good or bad for either or both of us?"

"Call Cowley and meet me at HQ. I have to swing by and pick up a couple of police files."

Bodie sensed his partner's excitement and didn't object. "All right. But it had better be a good theory, or Cowley will have your liver for breakfast for dragging him out at this hour."

"It's not a theory," Doyle retorted. "I know who's after us and why. You were right. You have to understand where he's coming from emotionally."

"Two o'clock in the morning, and I'm supposed to understand where he's coming from," Bodie grumbled, but Doyle had already hung up on him. With a sigh, Bodie replaced the receiver and slipped on his holster over his shirt. As he shrugged into his coat, he smiled to himself. Doyle was onto something.

Now, they could finally go to work.

 

Part Eleven

Doyle trotted across the street to where the CI5 stakeout team waited in a parked car. If he'd hoped to catch them sleeping, he was in for a disappointment.

"We're supposed to be undercover here," Alan Jones remarked sarcastically. "Hard to stay anonymous when you dash up and start talking to us."

"Forget all that," Doyle said. "I'm going over to the Met and then to HQ. You can call it a night."

"We call it a night because the sun's gone down and the moon is out," Colin Cade agreed brightly. "Or at least the moon would be out if there weren't so many clouds."

"Anyway, we're sticking to you all the way," Jones concluded.

"Suit yourselves," Doyle returned agreeably and hurried toward the car park.

He crossed the dark expanse of lot and went to his royal blue TR-7. He'd inserted the key into the lock when his instincts warned him of danger. He stood absolutely still, relying on his hearing to detect what his eyes could not see. His hand inched toward his holster.

A tiny sound, the merest tap of a pebble against concrete, made him drop and turn. Too late, he realized the sound had been a diversion. The blow, when it came, was from behind. Too swift for him to deflect, it felled him without a sound. Had he remained conscious for a few additional seconds, he might have realized two things. First, his hard duty with the Met and later CI5 had honed his survival instincts to an incredibly high level of awareness. It was next to impossible to catch Ray Doyle off guard, even when his thoughts were focused on the facts he hoped to uncover in the police files. The second thing he would have realized, therefore, was that his attacker was a professional in his own right, at least on par with Doyle himself. The assailant had stood in the shadows only a few feet from the TR-7, had in fact become as one with them. Undetected by Doyle's finely tuned senses, the man had for all practical purposes literally been invisible until that moment when he'd brought the truncheon whistling down upon his victim's skull.

The large figure, dressed entirely in black, crouched over the crumpled form of Ray Doyle. He removed Doyle's weapon and ID case and laid them on the concrete. Then he lifted Doyle's body with negligible effort, rounded to the passenger side, used Doyle's keys to unlock the door, and bundled his victim unceremoniously onto the seat. Satisfied, he shut the passenger door, went around the car and climbed behind the wheel.

When Alan Jones pulled his car in behind the TR-7, he never suspected it was not Ray Doyle at the wheel. His clues came too late, when the Triumph suddenly braked viciously and slewed sideways in the road. A man garbed totally in black stepped from the driver's side and raised a slide-action shotgun. Jones tried desperately to react to the sudden danger, his hands convulsively jerking the wheel to avoid a collision. The windscreen exploded in a rain of glass, the car smashed into a lamp pole, and the forlorn blaring of the horn shattered the silence long after the shotgun's roar had died and the Triumph's powerful engine had faded into the night.

 

Part Twelve

Angrily, Cowley tossed Doyle's ID and Magnum onto his desk. "The bastard left these as offerings," he growled, a hard edge to his Scottish burr. "He's taunting us, challenging us to find him, and we don't even know where to begin."

Bodie sat impassively before Cowley's desk. Whatever he was thinking was carefully masked by the coldness of his expression. "That means he probably doesn't plan to kill Ray -- yet," he commented bitterly. He shifted his weight slightly, the Bodie equivalent of agitated floor pacing. He was irritated with Jones and Cade for failing to do their jobs properly, irritated with Doyle for being so smugly chary with his facts over the phone, irritated that after twenty-four hours, they were further behind their quarry than ever.

Cowley sat down behind his desk and rubbed sleep-robbed eyes. He knew Bodie wasn't nearly so cool as he appeared. Cowley had learned long ago that Bodie knew all the tricks for controlling any outward signs of inward turmoil. It was a skill necessary to the job, necessary to survival. It didn't mean Bodie wasn't churning inside with anger and fear for his partner's safety. There was a lot of compassion locked inside Bodie, but the world rarely caught a glimpse of it. Only with his anger was Bodie less inscrutable. Bodie was comfortable with his anger, trusted it, used it to advantage when others felt it to be a sign of loss of control. Bodie felt anger gave a person an edge; Cowley felt anger was a useful tool when tempered with good judgment. Judgment, however, was something Bodie frequently lacked in Cowley's eyes. The younger man was far too reckless, far too impulsive for his own good.

"How're Jones and Cade?" Bodie asked. He was already shrugging off his irrational aggravations and focusing his anger on the as yet nameless and faceless villain who waited for him somewhere just beyond his grasp.

"Shaken, bruised, but remarkably unharmed," Cowley replied, uncharacteristically missing the subtle transformation in his top agent. "Cade took a bit of glass in one eye, but the ophthalmic surgeon is confident there was no damage." Even as he answered Bodie's question, he was quickly reviewing and discarding possible avenues of investigation.

Bodie nodded, then quietly commented, "Ray said he knew who it was."

"Yes," Cowley returned thoughtfully, "and that means you know as well. After all, Doyle said you were right. You held the clue and he came up with the answer. Now you have to do the same."

"What could he have been after at police records?" Bodie mused softly.

Cowley looked at him closely, and sensed Bodie was mentally slipping away from his control. The chief of CI5 was quick to reassert authority. "That seems slim at best," he said crisply. "Our particular confrontation with Freddy Price and Eric McKay was a CI5 matter from the very beginning. We didn't even use police backup on the raid." Cowley waved his hand in irritation. "Doyle must have meant he wanted to trace Price and McKay back before our involvement with them."

"Their police records are included in our files," Bodie pointed out.

"Not every detail. Something must have aroused Doyle's curiosity to the point where he felt it imperative to research the details of their criminal pasts."

"Not at two o'clock in the morning," Bodie countered firmly. "He said he knew who was after us. He didn't say he had a lead or an idea; he said he knew. That means it's in our files somewhere. The police report would be the clincher."

Cowley had to admit Bodie made sense. It fit with what he knew about Ray Doyle's way of thinking. He would not have roused them at such an absurd hour unless he'd been absolutely certain. The police report would have been corroborative evidence, gravy atop the meat of facts.

"So what would the police reports have to offer us on Freddy Price and Eric McKay that our own records don't tell us?" he wondered aloud.

Bodie didn't answer. He was trying to fathom Doyle's train of thought. Doyle had said Bodie had been right about the need to understand the emotional foundation of their adversary before he could be identified. Bodie thought about the girls, bludgeoned near death, and an apartment totally demolished by a madman. It required more than anger, even more than hate. It required passion, he realized with a start, a single-minded, impassioned rage unleashed from frustration, helplessness and despair. It was a mindless lashing out to vent an agony within. It was...grief.

"The police would have investigated the accident," he said suddenly.

"What accident?" Cowley enquired sharply.

"When we were chasing McKay. He took a corner too wide, and an oncoming car swerved to miss him. It struck a pedestrian, literally flung her through the air onto the bonnet of our car. We thought she was coming right through the windscreen."

Cowley nodded as he recalled the incident. "You tried to help her, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but she had no chance at all. No chance." Bodie shrugged off the horror of the memory and went on. "She'd been pretty smashed up. We got her to the sidewalk, realized she was beyond all hope, identified ourselves to a P.C., and went after McKay again."

Cowley felt Bodie was onto something at last. "The police conducted the investigation into the mishap. As far as our office was concerned, the woman had simply gotten in the way during the pursuit of your lawful duties."

"Pursuit is right," Bodie returned sourly. "Innocent people seem to suffer the consequences of our actions far too often."

Cowley snorted derisively. "We take every precaution, and you know it."

Bodie smiled every so slightly. "The opinion voiced is not necessarily that of the speaker," he said softly, his thoughts returning to Doyle.

Cowley was momentarily taken aback, an infrequent condition. "Eh?" he asked, then shook his head in irritation. "Never mind. Get over to police records and pull the file on that incident. Find out the name of the woman who was hit, spouse or other relatives, and whether or not she was married on the tenth of June, nineteen sixty-one. And find out the name of the driver who hit her. If your theory's right, he'll be marked for premature death." He had to shout the last bit because Bodie was already out the door and haring down the corridor.

 

Part Thirteen

The cold roused Ray Doyle to consciousness. He was shivering violently, his light jacket and sweater gone, which left only his shirt and jeans to ward off the bitter cold. He was lying on concrete, its pitted surface wet and reeking and mouldy. His clothing beneath him was soaked; the concrete drew off every bit of warmth his body tried to produce.

He opened his eyes to near darkness. His arms were securely tied behind his back, his hands already numb and icy from loss of circulation. His bound ankles had been drawn up behind him and tied to his wrists, effectively rendering him helpless. His head throbbed fiercely from the blow he'd taken in the car park.

He examined the confines of his small prison as best he could considering his limited freedom of movement. It looked like a cement-block storage room of some sort, a bunker or basement. Water trickled through cracks in the walls and puddled on the floor. It dripped steadily from rusty overhead pipes. The door was iron, heavy and strong but black with rust.

Only the monotonous drip of water broke the silence. Doyle knew with certainty he was alone, abandoned here until his presence was required. He tried to feel the knots in the ropes binding him, but his numb fingers refused to obey his commands. He struggled for a few exhausting minutes, then relaxed, accepting his predicament and vowing to conserve his strength until an opportunity for resistance presented itself.

The foetid dankness of the room crept into his very bones. He coughed hollowly, the sound echoing in the chamber. Pneumonia was all he needed now, he reflected bitterly, grateful when the bout of coughing subsided and the dull ache left his chest.

The hours passed slowly. He lost all sense of time in the monotonous surroundings, with only the lonely, annoying drip of water to keep him company. He was almost grateful when he heard the echo of footsteps approaching and turned his gaze alertly toward the door.

It clanged open with a squeal of protesting hinges. The man who entered was dressed entirely in black, right to the ski mask hiding his face. He was big, barrel-chested and heavy with muscle. A narrow roll of fat disturbed the line of his heavy pullover sweater, but the fat was almost negligible compared with the sheer power emanating from him.

In his hands, he carried a baseball bat -- a good, solid Louisville Slugger, its wood pale and ominous against the black clothes and dark, water-stained walls.

Doyle felt a chill that was not entirely from the cold. He'd seen Toni and Cheryl in hospital, knew what he could expect from this madman. The anticipation turned his stomach to jelly and brought a thin sheen of sweat to his face. But his expression remained neutral as he gazed up at his captor. With conversational aplomb, he remarked, "Hello, Mr. Seldon."

The figure in black stiffened with shock. Then a massive gloved hand lifted to rip the ski mask away. Seldon's face was as big as the rest of him, going jowly with age and the effects of too much alcohol. But it was hatred that made him truly ugly, his expression so vile and repulsive that Doyle knew he was looking upon the man who would probably kill him. A lot of bad men and a few bad women had tried to eliminate Ray Doyle, but this particular adversary had the edge of insanity -- his madness shone in his eyes with glittering clarity, even in the dimness of the cell. His insanity could ultimately be the edge that would defeat Doyle, and perhaps Bodie as well. They'd dealt with all types of criminals, terrorists, and other villains, some fanatical in their single-minded mission, but they'd never encountered someone so totally beyond reason as this man.

Seldon stepped toward him and raised the heavy wooden bat, his arms shaking with his impassioned rage. Instinctively, Doyle tucked his head, but he knew the futility of the gesture. He tensed himself for the blow.

It never came. After a long, agonized moment of indecision, Seldon lowered the lethal weapon. "Not yet," he hissed, his breathing hoarse through his parted lips, the spittle running down his chin. "Not yet. You'll take a long time to die, Mr. Doyle, I promise you that." A wretched smile twisted his mouth into a sickening rictus. "You'll live long enough to see your partner die. You'll be able to hear his screams." The smile broadened suddenly as he savoured the prospect. "I know how to make even the toughest man scream, Mr. Doyle. They taught me well." Lost in memory, the smile fixed on his face, he turned slowly and lumbered from the cell. The huge metal door banged shut with finality.

Ray Doyle released a heavy sigh of relief and lowered his head back to the icy concrete. This time, the cold felt good against his fevered forehead.

And where the hell was Bodie, anyway?

 

Part Fourteen

Dawn was bleak and gray, the rising sun leaching the darkness but not driving away the lowering clouds that hovered stubbornly overhead.

The headlights of Bodie's new red Escort sliced through the grayness. Tyres hummed along the wet streets while the wipers swished aside the heavy raindrops pelting on the windscreen. The warmth from the heater was a welcome defense against the rawness of the day, but Bodie found the closeness of the recirculated air constricting. He cracked the side window and breathed the fresh air gratefully, ignoring the occasional errant raindrop that splattered through.

He hadn't spoken a word on the entire drive. Beside him, Cowley scanned the police report of the accident resulting from the high-speed chase after Eric McKay. "Gregory Seldon," he repeated quietly to himself. He tapped the police report against his knee. "We'll have a complete dossier on him soon. We need to know what we're up against."

"The notorious Nottinghill murderer," Bodie commented softly.

Cowley glanced at him sharply, then recognized the reference. "As long as you don't think of yourself as Sherlock Holmes and hare off alone across the moors."

Bodie smiled slightly. "Anyway, he's a pro." If Seldon had managed to catch Ray Doyle by surprise, he had to be a pro.

Cowley nodded grimly. "Aye."

The forbidding edifice of Royce-Callen Military Hospital rose out of the grayness of the Wiltshire countryside. Bodie skidded the Escort to a halt at a painted kerb which forbade parking. They walked into the lobby and had difficulty rousing anyone in authority at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m., but Cowley's identification and menacing scowl soon had a nurse scurrying for the resident physician.

Doctor Lenton was a sour-faced young man who had worked too many night shifts and felt put upon by the world as a result. "Gregory Seldon," he repeated dumbly, frowning. "He's a voluntary patient."

"Yes, but is he here?" Cowley persisted.

"We can check, but we don't lock him in at night, if that's what you mean. He's free to come and go as he pleases." Lenton took them to a hospital wing that looked more like an apartment complex than a hospital. He stopped before one of the doors and began to knock, then looked shocked as Bodie's hand closed around his arm in an iron grip. Bodie pulled his Browning, flipped off the safety, set himself, and kicked in the door with an ear-splitting crash. He went into the room low and fast, prepared for anything.

The room was unoccupied. Cowley entered and turned on the light as Bodie holstered his weapon. It was a simple room, simply furnished, neat to a fault. The dressing table had been turned into a shrine: a dozen framed photographs of a woman at various stages of her life, a newspaper clipping of the wedding announcement, dated June, 1961, and a funeral notice. Amanda Seldon had been a plain but attractive woman with a radiant smile. The last photos of her clearly showed the strain of the years, but she still looked strong and forthright. The mirror on the wall behind the dresser had been draped with a black cloth, a shroud.

Cowley turned to Lenton. "Tell me about him," he snapped.

Lenton pursed his lips stubbornly. "Our patient's records are confidential."

"I don't care about that!" Cowley shot back. "My staff are preparing a dossier on him, but you can be of help to me now. Don't waste my time." The last words were spoken as a threat, not a request.

Lenton looked sufficiently cowed. "All right, all right," he grumbled petulantly, sniffing as he reasserted his dignity. "Mr. Seldon was involved with some sort of government cloak-and-dagger organization. I don't know in what capacity. However, he was taken prisoner somewhere in the Eastern bloc and held for almost six years. He was returned to Britain as part of a prisoner exchange."

Cowley glanced at Bodie, who was making a slow circuit of the room, his sharp eyes missing nothing. He'd known Seldon was a professional from the start. "Go on," Cowley urged.

"Anyway, he was with us for three years, undergoing therapy as a result of his ordeal. His wife, Amanda, visited him regularly. About two years ago, he was judged fit enough to be released. Unfortunately, his wife was killed just a few weeks later. The blow destroyed his already fragile grip on reality."

"So he was readmitted," Bodie interjected impatiently.

"No, he came voluntarily to us for help," Lenton replied, edging away from Bodie and stationing Cowley between them. He didn't like the look in those somber, deep blue eyes. "He was very close to a total breakdown, but medication and therapy cured him. A month ago, we felt confident enough to urge him to establish a normal life."

"Tell me more about how his wife's death affected him," Cowley instructed.

"He was devastated, naturally," Lenton confirmed. "The first anniversary of her death was the worst time for him. He attempted suicide twice."

"And this year?" Bodie asked softly, contempt cold in his words. He'd discovered a chessboard on a small table in front of the single window. A game was evidently in progress. His mind studied the strategy of the game even as he waited for the doctor's reply.

"He seemed to have gotten a grip on himself," Lenton returned almost brightly. "He is no longer suicidal."

"Yeah," Bodie murmured to himself. Seldon had gotten a grip all right -- he'd found a way to channel his grief away from himself and onto the persons he felt were responsible for his pain.

Lenton noted Bodie's interest in the chessboard. "Mr. Seldon is a superb player, a master of chess strategy. I've played against him many times, but never beaten him."

Bodie glanced at the doctor as if to say he wasn't surprised, and Lenton's smile faded.

Cowley noted the exchange. He was worried about Bodie. He sensed his top agent was drawing away again, moving mentally and emotionally away from Cowley's authority and the support of CI5. Cowley feared this emotional detachment would become physical as well, and then Bodie would be the lone mercenary once again, a commando stalking the streets of a city jungle in search of his prey. If that happened, Cowley and the skilled team of CI5 would be unable to protect him. Bodie's independent streak would get him killed, and Ray Doyle would be doomed right along with him; Bodie was Cowley's only hope of finding Doyle. Somehow, he had to keep Bodie in hand.

"Listen to me very carefully," George Cowley told Lenton, his anger held firmly in check but lending a strong, threatening tone to his words. "If he comes back, I don't want you to tell him anything. Pretend everything is completely normal. Do not mention our visit. Then call us. Quietly. Can you do that?"

Lenton sniffed again. "Of course."

Cowley pushed past him out of the room. "Come on, Bodie."

As Bodie passed Lenton, he smiled engagingly. "You should do something about those sniffles," he commented mockingly. "You could damage your nose if you're not careful."

Lenton paled under the steady gaze, and then Bodie was gone. The doctor was ashamed to find himself shaking with relief.

 

Part Fifteen

Edward Stanton, the driver of the car that had hit Amanda Seldon while swerving to avoid Eric McKay, lived in a quiet suburb of large, expensive lots landscaped to artistic perfection. Gravel crunched pleasantly under the tyres as Bodie turned the Escort into the winding drive. The house itself was sturdy brick with decorative woodwork and a peaked roof.

The ambience of the quiet neighbourhood was disturbed, however, by the presence of several official vehicles -- two panda cars, a coroner's van, and two unmarked CI5 vehicles clogged the parking area in front of the house. Bodie swung into an opening and parked, the front tyres of the Escort smashing down a lovely little bed of peonies. He and Cowley climbed quickly from the car and headed for the front door, where they were met by Alan Jones. Jones looked a little green around the edges, his normal confidence badly shaken.

"I take it we're too late," Cowley offered calmly, his own frustration hidden beneath layers of firm authority.

Jones nodded. "Several days, by the smell of it." He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the memory. "Forensics are in there, as well as the local fuzz."

"Let's check it out, Bodie," Cowley said crisply and stepped toward the door.

Jones looked sympathetically at the ex-mercenary. "If you think the smell is bad, wait till you see the corpse."

Bodie just gave him an impassive stare and followed after the CI5 Controller. Jones did not take it upon himself to join them.

The smell hit them as soon as they stepped into the foyer. Cowley was moved to hold a handkerchief to his face in an attempt to ward off the horrible stench, but Bodie merely tightened his expression with resolve and forged ahead.

The center of activity was the living room. Flash bulbs strobed the room as a police photographer recorded the grisly details of the crime. The forensics team, looking a little ill, moved from place to place, gathering the gruesome bits of evidence into plastic bags and carefully docketing each one.

The wretched stench of death hung like a pall over the room. Edward Stanton had been killed near the fireplace. Charred brands littered the carpet as mute testimony to the use the fire had served. Stanton's body had expanded and deflated again with the expulsion of bodily gases. His face was frozen in the horrific rictus of the moment of death, dulled eyes staring accusingly at a world which had wronged him terribly, the skin tight over the skull in a ghastly deathmask. Edward Stanton had clearly died in agony.

The medical examiner saw Cowley and stepped over to address him in a stiff, business-like manner. As hardened as one became to the business of death, there was always something yet more gruesome to discover, and George Cowley knew the examiner was simply shielding himself from the horror of this crime. "We don't know yet what killed him," the ME said quietly. Off Bodie's sceptical look, he said, "He's been burned, slashed, bludgeoned, and ultimately dismembered by an axe. Forensics found the weapon in a corner. But if you want an unofficial guess, I think he was choked to death by a pair of very large, powerful hands."

"Time of death?" Cowley asked.

"Difficult to say, but my estimate is eight to eleven days. I'll know more when we've done an autopsy."

"As soon as possible, Doctor," Cowley urged quietly.

"Of course."

The forensics team were finished with the body, and it was loaded into a metal coffin for transport by coroner's van to the morgue. The various bits and pieces of his amputated limbs were placed around the corpse, each in its own plastic bag, and then the attendants lifted the casket onto a trolley to move it to their waiting vehicle. As the casket with its grisly contents was wheeled past, Bodie felt oddly dispassionate for the suffering of the late Edward Stanton. In fact, his thoughts were miles away, focused on the fate of his partner, one of the few people in the world he would honestly call a friend. If he allowed himself to indulge in fanciful imagination, it was not so hard to picture Ray Doyle's present suffering -- Gregory Seldon had left ample evidence of the torture he was prepared to inflict. Doyle was in the hands of a mad animal who was capable of the most heinous violence. Bodie felt his anger boiling into a seething desire for vengeance which he wanted to vent on this sadistic murderer with his bare hands....

"Bodie!"

Cowley's incisive voice cut through the morbid thoughts and jerked him back to the present. "Yes, sir?" he asked very softly, his voice carefully controlled, his expression once again studiously impassive.

Cowley held no doubts about Bodie's internal turmoil. He had only to look into those dark, abstrusive eyes. Windows to the inner man, Bodie's eyes held a haunted ache in sharp contradiction to the remote coldness so carefully etched on his face.

Cowley knew Bodie was on the brink of doing something rash and typically Bodie-like. "Bodie, I want you to start questioning the neighbours," he said firmly. "Someone must have heard or seen something." His merciless tone left no opening for debate.

Open rebellion flashed briefly across Bodie's face, then was buried beneath the hard facade. "Yes, sir," he returned with a sharp edge of defiance in his tone. He knew better than to argue with George Cowley. Instead, he turned and left the house.

Cowley refused to let Bodie get under his skin. He limped over to one of the lab technicians. If anyone noticed him massage his aching leg, no one dared mention it.

Bodie walked into the fresh air and breathed deeply, glad to have left the close, foetid confines of the house. His fists were tightly clenched at his sides, but this was the only indication of an inner rage. He wanted to smash something, preferably the face of Gregory Seldon.

They were dealing with a monster, a monster out to kill in blind revenge. And it was now down to Seldon and Bodie. All the support and backing of CI5 would not change that. Seldon was a predator out for the kill, a jungle animal. And Bodie knew the jungle. He knew how to stalk and kill his prey in the jungle. It would be a one-on-one contest for survival: Seldon fighting to avenge the death of his wife, Bodie fighting to save the life of his partner.

There was no doubt in Bodie's mind that the game had come down to that. Kill or be killed.

Seldon was a chess player. Toni, Cheryl, McKay and Stanton had all been chess pieces on a grisly game board for which only Seldon knew the configuration. Bodie was to be a piece on the same game board, but he knew he would not move obediently from square to square at the whim of a maniacal gamemaster.

Bodie was a poker player whose strategy was as unpredictable as it was successful. He knew when to be cautious, he knew when to brazen through a bluff. He played the odds; frequently, he defied them.

Bodie's only hope was that Ray Doyle was still alive. It seemed strange to him to be contemplating a jungle hunt on the one hand while worrying over the fate of his partner. As a mercenary and later a Para, Bodie had learned at an early age to depend on no one but himself. It was the only way to survive. That belief had never completely left him. But CI5 worked as a team. It had been a hard lesson for Bodie to learn. The greatest test had come when he had been partnered with Ray Doyle. Yet Cowley's instincts had proved infallible once again. The two men, different in so many ways, were both private, independent loners, rebellious tearaways with their own set of rules. They obeyed George Cowley because of Cowley's sheer force of presence. Cowley had once boasted he could sell their bodies to science while they were still alive, and it had not been an idle boast. Their futures in CI5 depended upon their ability to tread the very thin line between independent action and outright disobedience of Cowley's directives.

Miraculously, out of the partnership had grown mutual respect and a very genuine friendship. Bodie would never admit it in a hundred years, but Ray Doyle was the first close friend he'd ever truly had.

Being a team meant blind trust in your partner's ability to watch your back, faith that your partner would willingly lay down his life to save your own. They'd covered each other's backs on occasions too numerous to mention, and now Doyle was counting on Bodie to be there again when he was needed.

And Bodie didn't intend to let him down; this simple code countermanded any law or dictum laid down by George Cowley. This belief also defied the law of the jungle.

Bodie sighed, wondering if he had finally emerged emotionally as well as physically from the ways of his past. Ironically, this was the time he would require total self-reliance more than ever. His jungle instincts could not desert him now.

Stripped of the extraneous clutter, the core of the problem was simple and clear: it was down to Bodie and Seldon, two professionals pitted against one another, with Ray Doyle as the prize.

Bodie understood the battle lines more clearly now. He was eager to join the conflict.

Abruptly, he looked up from his thoughts and noted the attendants closing the back of the coroner's van on the casket containing the remains of Edward Stanton. Funny, but his seemingly lengthy introspection had taken place in a short space of time.

His decision made, Bodie strolled casually to where Alan Jones stood by one of the panda cars in quiet conversation with a young, pale constable who remained shaken by what he'd seen inside the house.

"All done?" Jones asked

"Not yet," Bodie replied easily. "Cowley wants you to do a knock and natter with the neighbours." Inwardly, he flinched. 'Knock and natter.' Cop talk...Doyle talk.

"Lucky me," Jones returned emotionlessly. "Aren't you supposed to have a backup?"

"Cowley wants me to follow the autopsy. HQ will dispatch someone to meet me at the morgue."

Jones frowned, as if wondering about the haphazard shuffling of assignments; Cowley was usually more cautious. But Bodie smiled disarmingly and retreated to his Escort before Jones could question him. A moment later, the Escort's engine roared to life, and Bodie hared off after the departing coroner's van. With a sigh, Jones found a blank page in his notebook, checked his ballpoint for ink, and wandered off toward the nearest neighbour.

 

Part Sixteen

Once again, the cell door banged open, crashing against the cement wall with a resounding wallop that jerked Ray Doyle back to full awareness with a start of alarm.

Seldon came in. He was carrying a long length of rope and a wooden chair. These he placed in the center of the room before bending over Doyle to remove the tether. He untied Doyle's ankles as well, and the rush of returning circulation made Doyle wince. Seldon pulled him up and held him firmly by the arm.

"Time for you to take the stage," he hissed viciously. "Climb up on the chair."

Doyle shook his head. "I can't even stand yet," he protested with as much energy as he could muster.

Seldon held him patiently. "Okay, we'll wait," he said agreeably. "Don't want you spoiling the show."

Doyle looked at him suspiciously but didn't comment. Feeling crept agonizingly into his numbed feet, and strength returned slowly. Seldon led him to the chair. "Up," was the single, sharp command.

Urged along by Seldon, who now seemed eager to finish what he'd started, Doyle stepped carefully onto the wooden seat. He stood there, balanced precariously, and debated the possibility of kicking Seldon's head off with a well-aimed foot. It didn't seem likely, but chances were becoming fewer and slimmer all the time.

Abruptly, Seldon kicked one of the legs out from under the chair. Doyle hadn't even noticed its tenuous attachment, but suddenly he was falling to land heavily on the cold cement. He grunted with surprise and pain, his head smacking dangerously hard against the floor, a blow which nearly sent him spinning into unconsciousness.

Once again, Seldon hauled him up. "You're not doing very well, Mr. Doyle," he chided bitingly. "You don't want to let your partner down, do you? He's coming here to rescue you. Mustn't be dead when he arrives."

Seldon reassembled the chair, and Doyle was finally getting the horrible mental picture of exactly what was in store for him. Seldon made a loop in one end of the rope, not a hangman's noose, but rather a slipknot. He placed the loop over Doyle's head and threw the other end of the rope over the rusted piping running across the ceiling. "A little incentive to stay on your feet," he explained patiently, then once again urged Doyle to the chair. He hauled the rope tight, and Doyle had no alternative but to climb back onto his precarious perch or risk strangulation at the hands of this madman. He balanced himself with great effort, then waited tensely for what he knew was to follow.

As he expected, Seldon kicked the broken leg out from under the chair, and Doyle did his best to keep his balance.

For the second time, he failed. Seldon held the rope firmly, and Doyle suddenly found himself dangling by his neck, his breath choked off, an incredible agony shooting through his neck and back. He wanted to scream in panic, but he couldn't get a sound past the constricting pressure strangling him, killing him.

Then Seldon let him drop. Doyle landed on his feet but sprawled immediately to the floor. He fought for breath, but the effort produced another spasm of coughing that made breathing nearly impossible. His chest felt on fire.

"I enjoyed that," Seldon remarked. "Shall we try again?"

He pulled Doyle to his feet, but Ray was almost too weak to stand. "No, no, this won't do," Seldon mocked him. "Personally, I don't give a damn if you're alive or dead when I leave this room, but we have to give Bodie something to fight for, don't we? Why should he sacrifice himself if you're already dead? I wouldn't tell him you're dead, of course, but it just wouldn't be the same."

"You're a bastard," Doyle muttered between clenched jaws. Everything hurt: his head throbbed; his neck and shoulders were already stiffening and sore from the near strangulation; his lungs hurt with every breath.

"Quite probably," Seldon agreed calmly. He reassembled the chair and started to fix the rope in position around Doyle's neck again. Doyle knew it was now or never. He ducked his head and butted Seldon in the gut, The big man lost his breath and doubled over with a grunt of surprise. Doyle kneed him in the face, throwing Seldon back, and then tried for a low, dirty kick designed to keep him down for good.

Unfortunately, Seldon was quick as a cat despite his bulk. His hand slapped Doyle's kick aside, and as Doyle twisted, Seldon moved in and began to pound him methodically with his massive, iron-hard fists. Doyle was slammed into a corner, and Seldon pinned him there, refusing to let him fall until his anger had been spent.

Doyle was certain he was going to die right then, beaten to death by a maniac totally beyond control. Luckily, Seldon's rage lacked coherent direction, and Doyle was able to block the blows with his ribs and shoulders, thus avoiding more critical injury to the vulnerable parts of his body. Still, he was a mass of bruises when Seldon finally stopped.

"All right," Seldon rasped, his breathing ragged and quick. "No more chances, Mr. Doyle. That's all the practice you get." He hauled Doyle back to the chair, adjusted the noose, then tugged on the rope to force his prisoner back onto the chair. Doyle, still gasping for breath after the beating, climbed up with an almost fatalistic detachment. He was going to suffer a slow but certain death by strangulation. From a purely personal perspective, he thought he preferred the beating.

Balanced once again on the wooden seat, he noted absently that Seldon no longer held the other end of the rope. He had tied it off, tightly and securely. If Doyle fell this time, he would certainly die. The noose was tight, the rope pulled taut, forcing him onto his toes. He rocked against the rope, trying to find his balance, and finally achieved some semblance of stability.

Seldon grinned up at him. "Good luck, Doyle," he said cheerfully, and pulled the broken chair leg free. For a moment, Doyle panicked. He was certain he wasn't going to make it as he shifted precariously, the chair teetering beneath him. But luck and determination paid off, and he finally stilled his weaving. It was a major effort to stand rock steady, his muscles clenching and unclenching as minute changes to his balance were required. He didn't know how long he could hold the position, and God help him if he was struck with another bout of coughing. That would finish him for certain.

"Good for you," Seldon approved. "Now Bodie has something to fight for. Good-bye, Doyle."

And then he was gone, leaving the door open as a mocking reminder of Doyle's utter helplessness.

Doyle closed his eyes against the salt sting of sweat that began to trickle down his face from the strain. Strange, how he could feel so icy cold and still be sweating. He tried to ignore the agony radiating throughout his body and concentrated on keeping his balance.

'Hurry up, Bodie,' he thought despairingly. 'This time, I might not be able to hold on.'

A new, macabre thought came to him, and his mouth twitched in a wicked grin. 'Or maybe hang on,' he cruelly corrected himself.

Continue on to Part Three