Dimension Of Horror

Chapter 2

The tranquilizer took a surprisingly long time to take effect, though the dose was literally enough to stop a horse. The dart pistol had originally been brought into the project when Blade had returned from one of the X dimensions with a horse. This animal, perhaps the largest thing ever brought back from the «other side,» had nearly wrecked the laboratory before the tranquilizer gun had arrived, and Leighton had reasoned that Blade might someday return with another horse, or something worse, and had kept the pistol, never dreaming that he would have to use it on Richard.

When Richard's fit of violence finally subsided and he lay in a crumpled, semiconscious heap, Leighton made a hasty inspection of KALI's components in the immediate area, but found no damage. J looked on, stunned.

Leighton pressed the button on the intercom and summoned a squad of technicians with a stretcher and a straight jacket. Blade's powerful body, such an asset in the field, had become a liability, even a danger.

Still unable to speak, J followed as Blade was carried to the elevator and transported to the hospital complex an additional hundred feet below the computer rooms. Lord Leighton hobbled at J's side, keeping up with difficulty on his stunted legs, but J was only dimly aware of him.

As the elevator door hissed open at the bottom of the shaft, they were confronted by a red-faced fat little man in tennis shoes, white slacks and an appallingly flowery short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt. This was Dr. Leonard Ferguson, Principle Psychiatric Officer for Project Dimension X.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. «A straight jacket? We're not following our standard operating procedure, are we?»

«Obviously not,» Leighton snapped.

J shared Leighton's dislike of Ferguson. Neither could he forget that Ferguson had once attempted to force Blade's retirement from the project on the grounds of an «impairment of decision-making powers.» In a certain Report 97, Ferguson, with the support of his team of consulting psychiatrists, had predicted that Richard's mental condition would «in the future lead to some dysfunctional withdrawal at a crucial moment.»

J had overruled Ferguson, but now…

J glanced at the fallen giant on the stretcher and thought with anguish, Perhaps Ferguson was right!

J's gaze swung to the fat man's face in time to detect the faintest trace of a triumphant smile.

«This way,» Ferguson said crisply, starting down the hall. «His bed is ready.»

J slept and woke again, there on the couch in the Staff Lounge. In the underground hospital there was no night, only an endless artificial day. When he awoke the second time, J took out his pocketwatch and inspected it with bleary incomprehension for a considerable period before realizing that it had stopped.

He dragged himself to a sitting position and looked around. The room was empty at the moment, but he harbored dim memories of doctors and nurses coming and going, conversing in low voices so as not to disturb him.

He groped in his pockets for a cigar or one of his well-loved pipes, then realized he had left every form of tobacco back at his office in Copra House. He muttered a curse, remembering his own words. «I understand it won't take very long.»

With a sniff of mock self-pity, he stood up and brushed himself off, then slipped on his gray suitcoat, which he had carefully hung over the back of a chair to avoid wrinkling it. After tying his Cambridge tie as neatly as he could without a mirror and generally straightening himself up, he went in search of someone who could tell him what was happening.

After prowling up one door-lined passageway and down another, he finally came in sight of Dr. Ferguson, who was coming out of one of the rooms, deep in worried conversation with a burly white-clad orderly.

«Dr. Ferguson!» J called out, breaking into a trot.

The fat little man looked up and smiled without warmth, at the same time dismissing the orderly with a gesture. «Ah, there you are, old man. Before you say another word, I've been instructed to tell you to call Copra House. Your secretary is rather worried about you, I think, though I told her you were… «

«Copra House can wait, Ferguson. How is Blade?»

Ferguson's smile wilted slightly. «Come along to the Lounge, there's a good chap.» He took J gently by the elbow. «We really must have a chat, you and I.»

J shook off the pudgy fingers, but did come along as Ferguson guided him back to the Staff Lounge, seating him on the same couch where he had recently been sleeping.

«Coffee?» the psychiatrist asked.

«No thanks. Just answer my question.»

«I think I'll have a cup. It's been a long day.» He turned the spigot on the large white percolator and stared with distaste at the unsavory black brew that splashed into his cup.

J growled, «I've had about as much as I can take of your patronizing bedside manner, doctor.»

With a sigh Ferguson crossed the room and drew up a chrome and plastic chair in front of the couch, then sat down and sipped his coffee, regarding J with troubled eyes. At last he said, «This was bound to happen, sooner or later.»

«What was bound to happen, damn you!» J leaned forward.

«The subject does not respond to any of the usual treatments. I've tried to proceed with the customary debriefing under hypnosis, but your Mr. Blade cannot or will not cooperate. As nearly as I can determine, he is suffering from a case of complete amnesia.»

«Amnesia? You mean he can't remember what happened to him in the X dimension?»

«If that was all, we'd have nothing to worry about. We've evolved routines to deal with that. No, this is a different kind of problem, a different order of magnitude, you might say.»

«You mean he can't remember his name?»

«His name? Why, my dear boy, he can't remember the English language! He can't remember not to wet the bed!»

«But you have drugs. You have Leighton's bloody memory machines.»

Ferguson sipped and grimaced. «Yes. Quite. We tried them of course. I even had a go at shock therapy.»

«Shock therapy? You used shock therapy on Blade?»

«Yes. I gave him a bit of a buzz. Thought it might help, but it didn't.» He shrugged fatalistically. «But there must be something… ««I'm open to suggestions. My own little bag of tricks is empty. True amnesia is rare, you know, except on the telly and in films. There actually is no treatment of choice for it. Thanks to all the experiments you and Leighton have been doing on this poor chap, this hospital probably knows more about such things than anyone else, but it seems that, as much as we know, it is not enough.»

«Damn you, Ferguson!»

«Damn me? You're projecting, old man, as we say in therapy. If you must damn someone, damn yourself. This is all your doing, you know.»

«What are you saying? Blade is my friend. If there's a living soul I care about, it's him.»

«Really? You've a funny way of showing affection, if you'll pardon my saying so. Downright kinky, to use a layman's expression. But that's how it goes in Her Majesty's Service, doesn't it? England is everything, the individual nothing. If you're angry though, I don't blame you. A useless emotion, anger, but it hits us all now and then. I've a lovely little pill here.» He reached for the breast pocket of his flowery shirt. «It'll grow rose-colored glasses on the inside of your eyes.»

J edged away. «No, thanks. I'll be all right.»

The psychiatrist took out a plastic bottle filled with white oval capsules. «You know, J, I use these little rascals myself. Perfectly safe, one at a time. And someday, if jolly old England gets a bit much for me, I can swallow a dozen at a gulp and kiss the whole bloody mess goodbye.» His tone had been growing steadily more bitter, but now his mood changed abruptly and he smiled again, stuffing the bottle back in his shirt pocket. «But if I tell you my troubles, you'll probably send me a bill for listening. I would, if I were in your place. It's your friend Richard Blade we should be talking about»

«I'm glad you finally realized that,» J said acidly.

«I'm not giving up on the poor chap. I'm sure we'll think of something if we sit around and scratch our heads a while. Hmm. Seems to me I recall hearing about a similar case. Wasn't there another one of your men who came back from the X dimensions with much the same symptoms before I started working here?»

J nodded, remembering. «That's right. We were training a fellow named Dexter as a replacement for Blade, but the first time he went through Leighton's bloody machine, he came back screaming 'The worm has a thousand heads! The worm has a thousand heads!' The man was definitively bonkers, and remains so to this day. We've got him tucked away in a sanitarium in Scotland.»

«I'd like to examine your Mr. Dexter, after I've studied his file.» The fat man leaned back reflectively. «Dexter and Blade may follow a common pattern.»

J said sharply, «Are you telling me that Blade is going to spend the rest of his life tucked away in some sanitarium?»

«Not necessarily. I have a better chance than the team that worked on Dexter. I have more data. The state of the art in my field has progressed somewhat. No cause for undue pessimism, but on the other hand we shouldn't expect any overnight casting out of unclean spirits. By the by, who was on the team that handled Dexter?»

«Team?» J laughed mirthlessly. «There was no team. In those days the only psychiatrist in England with a security clearance high enough to work with us was a Dr. Saxton Colby. Colby handled the whole matter personally, without consultation with anyone.»

Ferguson shook his head, frowning. «Bad show. No help for it now, though. Could I speak to Dr. Colby?»

«I don't know.»

«You don't know? Why on earth not?»

J shifted uneasily. «We don't know where Colby is. We put him in charge of a testing program for candidates for training for the project, potential replacements for Blade. To make a long unpleasant story short, Colby did not develop any viable replacements, but he did develop a few-ah, personal vices-which required his being taken off the project. Nothing nasty, so far as I can recall, but we sent him back to private practice, carefully wrapped in the Official Secrets Act. As to his present whereabouts I haven't the foggiest notion.»

Ferguson burst out laughing, much to J's annoyance. «Do you mean to tell me that after all your paranoid security screening, you ended up with a lunatic for your one and only expert on sanity? Oh that's delightful!»

J said coldly, «Our screening can examine a man's past, but not his future. We don't use crystal balls, you know.»

«You should! You should!» The little psychiatrist sobered with effort. «And, though for some reason I've never been able to fathom, your MI6A is called an 'intelligence service,' you've unleashed this mad scientist, upon an unsuspecting world and now you don't even know where he is. Really, old boy, the mind boggles!»

«If you want to talk to Colby, we'll find him, Doctor Ferguson!»

«Do that! It could be there is a reason why a man sane enough to pass all your tests should suddenly develop these odd vices immediately after treating this Dexter fellow. We have an expression in our profession: 'Loony germs rub off.' What were these vices anyway, if I may ask?»

«If you must know, he was cultivating a taste for nude orgies.»

«My word.»

«We heard stories: I sent a man down to check, and there was old Colby, capering in the moonlight out in the woods, naked as the proverbial jaybird, along with a number of likeminded associates of both sexes. Well, you know how it is in the service. A little eccentricity is regarded as charming, but anything kinky opens you up to blackmail. The KGB does more than scripture can to keep us on the straight and narrow path, if you see what I mean. We had to let him go.»

«Of course. But tell me, exactly how many associates of both sexes were there?»

«I don't recall. Around a dozen. What difference does it make?»

«Probably none, but if there were twelve of them, six male and six female, that would make up a witches' coven. Witches are rather fond of-as you put it-capering in the moonlight in the woods, buns in the breeze. I'm told the Old Religion is still very much alive in Scotland.»

J glanced at Ferguson suspiciously, thinking, He must be joking. Ferguson, however, was not smiling. J muttered, «I dare say. Scotland never has been truly English.»

The psychiatrist waved this remark aside, continuing, «I have another question. This Dexter fellow, was he…»

J interrupted, «I've a question myself, Doctor Ferguson. Can I see Blade?»

«Certainly.»

«When?»

«Right now, if you wish. In fact, I'd like to see if he shows any sign of recognizing you. If he does, the prognosis could be much more favorable than it is at present.» He heaved himself to his feet. «Follow me.»

As they entered the corridor, the public address system pinged and began announcing, «Dr. Ferguson wanted in Room Twenty-four. Ferguson to Twenty-four.» J noticed an odd note in the voice, a note of subdued panic.

Ferguson frowned and hastened his pace, saying in a puzzled tone, «That's Blade's room.»

As they neared Room 24, a burly white-clad orderly emerged from inside, caught sight of Ferguson and J, and broke into a run toward them calling, «Dr. Ferguson! Come quick!» The man was alarmingly pale.

«Calm down, damnit,» Ferguson snapped. «Get a grip on yourself.» He slapped the frightened orderly on the back somewhat more roughly than the occasion demanded, then proceeded to the door of Room 24, J close behind him.

A cluster of orderlies and nurses huddled together in the doorway, murmuring in worried voices. Ferguson and J pushed through the crowd into the small, brightly lit room. J noted with relief that Richard Blade was apparently unharmed, strapped down in a bed, staring vacantly into space.

Ferguson was demanding angrily, «What is all this nonsense, anyway?»

Three of the nurses began speaking at once, trying to explain, a moment before J's gaze fell on the cause of their near-hysteria.

«My God,» J whispered.

A large massive white steel dresser lay overturned on its face to the left of the foot of Richard's bed. Above it, near the ceiling, J saw a deep gash in the plaster wall from which pulverized plaster was sifting down in a rapidly diminishing cascade.

One of the nurses, a disheveled redhead, stepped forward as the others fell silent «I heard a crash in here, sir,» she said. «I was in another room down the hall, but I came running. When I entered the dresser was… it was…»

«Go on, woman,» J prompted. «It's all right.»

«The dresser was floating slowly through the air, settling gently to the floor where you see it now,» she finished.

«Was there anyone in the room?» J demanded

«No, sir. Mr. Blade was here of course, but he was strapped down to his bed. There was nobody in the hall either until a moment later, when every staff person on this ward showed up.»

«She screamed, sir,» the burly orderly explained.

«I suppose I did,» the nurse admitted apologetically, looking down.

Doctor Ferguson was examining the dresser. He shook his head slowly and let out a low whistle. «This is a heavy piece of furniture. We had to move it when we repainted the room a few months back. As I recall it took four strong men to lift it.» He turned his gaze to the gash in the wall. The powdered plaster was no longer falling. «Yet it would appear that someone picked the thing up and threw it across the room, smashing it against the wall up there. I can't believe it.» He faced the nurse. «Did you say you saw it floating slowly through the air?»

«She didn't see nothing like that, did you, luv?» The orderly slipped a protective arm around her waist.

«Yes, I did!» she insisted.

«She's excited, that's all,» the orderly said. «She ain't crazy. When she calms down… «

«We do have one other witness,» Ferguson said thoughtfully. «Your friend Blade, J old boy. Blade saw it all. If there's anyone can confirm or deny her story, it's him.»

J stepped forward. «Richard? Can you hear me? If you can, give me some sign.»

Blade did not reply, but did appear to be aware that J was speaking to him. At least, his eyes focused on J's face.

J tried again. «You must have seen what happened here just now. Tell me, Richard. Tell me.»

Blade's blank eyes remained on J's face, but his features were expressionless.

«Tell me,» J repeated.

J stared into Richard's eyes for a long time, waiting for an answer, or at least for some flicker of recognition.

At last, with an angry shrug, J turned away and strode from the room.

In the lounge he found a wall phone, and after securing an outside line, phoned his secretary at Copra House.

«Could you send the Rolls over to the Tower to pick me up?»

«Right away, sir.» Her voice was cold, businesslike.

«Then call our man at Heathrow Airport and have him make ready the Lear jet. Tell him to file a flight plan for Inverness.»

As he hung up, J silently admitted that he should be sending an agent on this mission, rather than going himself. But, he mused, half-smiling, everything's so nebulous. I need to get a feel for it personally, first-hand, if I've any hope of understanding it.

He went to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited, listening to the rush as it came down. Abruptly, though he had heard no one approach, he thought he saw, from the corner of his eye, someone standing at his right.

He turned to speak, but there was nobody there.

The elevator door slid open. Glancing uneasily around, he stepped inside. As the elevator ascended with a sickening acceleration, he thought bleakly, Are the loony germs rubbing off on me? I could have sworn someone was there!

At fourteen hundred hours, in a light rain, the Lear jet touched down at Inverness Airport. Opening his umbrella, J disembarked and hurried for the hangar, leaving the pilot to tie down and make arrangements. The sanitarium had sent a car-a Rover-and a chauffeur, a big fellow with a pot belly and no hair. J guessed he was an old MI6 man in semi-retirement; former SIS men often had a wary look about the eyes and a body that had once been trained like an athlete's, but had been let go to seed, and this sanitarium functioned largely as a place where used-up agents were put out to pasture.

As they drove inland, cruising swiftly along the glistening wet macadam roadway, J leaned forward and spoke to the back of the man's head.

«Have you been working for the sanitarium long?»

«Long enough, sir.»

«Do you like the job?»

«I've no opinion about it, sir.»

«No opinion?»

«No, sir. I mind my own business. «Left unspoken but strongly implied was: Why don't you mind yours?

J settled back smiling, confident he was with his own kind.

The rain continued. The countryside became wilder and more mountainous and the farms fewer and farther between. Leaving the main highway, the Rover wound its way upward over roads that were no longer in good repair, that lapsed at times into little more than mud and bare bedrock. There was no sign of human habitation now, except for the road itself, not even the herds of black-faced sheep J had glimpsed earlier, let alone the dour bearded shepherds with their barking collies.

Gray day shaded into night with no perceptible break before the lighted windows of the sanitarium finally hove into view. The Rover bounced and jounced through the wide front gateway and braked to a stop. Through the rain J could with difficulty make out the looming bulk of an ancient manor, irregular in outline and half-timbered in the Tudor style.

Again J was forced to sprint for shelter, the big chauffeur puffing along protectively by his elbow. A thick oak door swung wide to admit him, then closed behind him with a hefty thump that echoed disturbingly in the high-ceilinged vestibule. As the chauffeur went out again into the storm, a white-suited orderly obligingly closed J's umbrella and helped him out of his wet raincoat.

A tall white-haired man in a dark tweed suit came forward, hand extended in greeting. «Ah, so you're the one they call J, the chap everyone whispers about but no one is allowed to speak of. I'm delighted to see you're an ordinary human being after all.»

They shook hands vigorously. J said, «Yes, my ordinariness is England's most closely guarded secret.»

«My name is Dr. Hugh MacMurdo. I'm in charge here, as you no doubt know. You probably know more about me than I do myself!» He had a trace of a Scotch accent peeping out from behind his carefully correct BBC standard English. «Copra House phoned to tell me to expect you. I've had supper kept warm for you. You must be starved!»

«I could do with a bite,» J agreed, sniffing the air. «Is that mutton I smell?»

«Indeed it is, old boy. If you've no taste for mutton you've a hungry time ahead of you here. We eat like regular crofters. Turnips. Oatcakes. Barley scones. And we've a most amazing pudding the Highlanders call Sowans.»

Chattering of trivia, he ushered his guest down a long dim corridor and into a spacious dining hall where a fire blazed cheerily in a huge stone fireplace. Additional lighting was supplied by candles in heavy bronze candleholders at intervals along a stout lengthy central table. Gesturing toward the candles and fire, MacMurdo explained, «We make a virtue of necessity, so far as lighting goes. The electricity here is none too reliable, particularly during a storm.» He seated himself at the head of the table. «There's just you and I here. The rest of the staff dined hours ago, but I gather that's all to the good. Copra House gave me the impression you have some rather confidential questions to ask me.»

J sat down at his right. «Quite so, doctor.»

«If some rascal claims we are mistreating the patients, I deny it categorically.»

«Nothing like that. It's Dr. Saxton Colby I'm interested in.» J picked up knife and fork.

«Ah, my scandalous predecessor!»

«Yes. Were you working here when he was in charge?»

«I was his administrative assistant. In military terms, I suppose you'd call me his second-in-command.»

«Then you knew him well.»

MacMurdo chuckled. «I had no part in his off-duty peccadillos, if that's what you mean.» He began eating.

«Still, you might be able to tell me if he was involved in any way with witchcraft.»

MacMurdo looked up sharply, then sat back with a sigh, chewing his food with the air of a wistful cow. At last he said softly, «So you guessed it, eh? You're a clever bunch up at Copra House. I should have known you'd keep rutting about until you came up with the whole truth. But how did you know?»

«One of my associates, a certain Dr. Ferguson, noticed something odd.»

«Ferguson. Of course. A good mind, though one cannot call him a gentleman. Those shirts…» MacMurdo shuddered. «You see, we all know each other in the psychiatric fraternity. You've heard the term 'global village'?»

«Please, doctor,» J said gently. «Don't try to change the subject.»

MacMurdo ran nervous fingers through his disheveled white hair. «Was old Colby involved in witchcraft? Up to his neck, I should say.» He took a hasty swallow of his dinner wine, as if to bolster his courage.

«But when we were investigating him, you said nothing about it.»

«No, I didn't. No one on the staff did. We get rather clannish up here all by ourselves, cut off from the outside world. We protect each other as much as we can. It seemed to us Colby might eventually live down a reputation as a swinging single, but a warlock is another matter. It's not an image that inspires confidence.»

«So you all covered up for him?»

The doctor nodded slowly. «We did. And it was worth it, I think, though now I suppose you'll can the lot of us.»

«No, your jobs are safe enough. Loyalty means something to me, too. Team spirit and all that. But I must know all you can tell me about Colby and this witchcraft business. It's become beastly important all of a sudden. To begin with, how did Colby manage to conceal his interest in the subject when we were investigating him for his security clearance?»

«Well, that investigation took place before he got into it. You found nothing because there was nothing to find. It was here at the sanitarium he first started mucking about in the Black Arts. One week he was as straight a man as you or I. The next week he was studying to be a second Merlin. The human mind is my business, old boy, and I can't begin to explain such a complete transformation.»

«So it happened suddenly, eh? When was that?»

«I can't recall the date without consulting my files, but it was right about the time you sent us that poor soul Mr. Dexter.»

«Dexter?» J said sharply.

«I see you remember him. I'm not surprised. He was a prize, that one. Most of the time he sat around looking at the wall, but now and again, without warning, he'd explode into a screaming fit, kicking down doors and howling about some worm that had a thousand heads. He was a big strong lad, at least when he first got here, and it took four or five of us to subdue him. Once he damn near strangled one of our orderlies to death.»

«What was Dr. Colby's diagnosis?»

«Diagnosis? You know the old saying, 'When in doubt, diagnose schizophrenia.' In that sense, your Mr. Dexter was a schizo of the paranoid persuasion, but between us, sir, that was no more than a label we stuck on the case to cover up our own total bafflement. One thing we were sure of. Dexter was afraid. He was literally insane with fear. What was he afraid of? I haven't a clue.»

«And what was the treatment?»

«Treatment? Why, we protected ourselves from him as best we could. That was the treatment. After the first day or two, Mr. Dexter was kept doped to the gills, and after a couple of weeks we eased off on the sedation bit by bit to see what would happen, finally cutting him off altogether. He was a regular sweetie after that. Sat on the edge of the bed staring at the wall and said, when he said anything at all, that same damn phrase about the worm with the thousand heads. In short, the man was little better than a vegetable. Colby felt somewhat guilty about how we handled Dexter. Said it would have been better not to dope him up so. sometimes you can reach a man that's angry, but once he switches off the world, you can set fire to his clothes and he won't notice. But you've got to understand this Dexter was a giant, a regular King Kong. He was afraid of something. Who knows what? But we were afraid of him!»

J mused thoughtfully, «Dexter was a very special man, Dr. MacMurdo. There's only one other like him in the world.»

MacMurdo lowered his voice. «Dexter was being trained for something, wasn't he? And there was an accident, wasn't there? Colby never told me anything, but I guessed that much. It was so long ago. Surely you can tell me now.»

J shook his head. «No, I can't. It's still classified information, and besides, if I told you I'm afraid you'd lock me in here and never let me out.» He laughed raggedly.

MacMurdo recommenced eating, obviously annoyed. «Keep your little secrets,» he muttered, speaking with his mouth full. «See if I care. Anyway, Dexter had nothing to do with Colby taking up witchcraft. There were plenty of other things happening around here about that time. Dexter was the least of our worries.»

«What do you mean?»

«As you probably know, no old house in Scotland is complete without one or more ghosts. This sanitarium is no exception. MI6 has owned the manor since World War II, but the family ghosts don't seem to realize that. They lie low for years, then suddenly they stage a grand comeback, howling and swinging chains and throwing the furniture around just like old times. If you ask me, that's what set Colby off. The ghosts. For about two weeks this place was a madhouse in more ways than one. Crashing. Banging. Funny lights. Voices muttering things in foreign languages out of thin air. Strange faces in the mirrors. Even a fire that started, so they say, by spontaneous combustion! It burned up four rooms in the east wing before we could put it out. Could have brought the whole place blazing down around our ears! I can't say who was seeing more things that weren't there, the inmates or the staff. I saw a few things myself. I swear I did.»

«I don't doubt it,» J said, thinking of the heavy dresser that had crashed against the wall in Blade's room. «And Colby's interest in witchcraft began during this period of haunting?»

«After the haunting,» the psychiatrist corrected.

«After? I don't understand.»

There was a long uncomfortable pause, then MacMurdo reluctantly began, «First I have to tell you Colby had once had a daughter, back before his divorce, when he was finishing his schooling at the University of California in Berkeley.»

«A daughter?» J prompted, puzzled.

MacMurdo nodded gravely. «Jane was her name. She was about ten years old when she died, there in her bedroom looking out over the San Francisco Bay. Colby used to tell me about her again and again, about the view the poor child had had of the Golden Gate Bridge and all. Jane took an overdose of sleeping pills and died by that window. Nobody could say whether it was suicide or an accident. She didn't leave a note.»

J broke in, «But what's that got to do with. «

«The witchcraft business? Well, along with all those traditional Scottish spooks and ghosties and things that go bump in the night… along with all of them came Jane Colby. Dr. Colby saw her. He talked to her. He went for long walks with her in the hills.»

«You mean he said he did all that.»

«No! He did it! I swear. I saw the lass myself.» His Scottish accent became more pronounced when he was excited.

«Are you sure?»

«I never saw her close up, but once, in broad daylight, I saw Dr. Colby on a far-off hillside, walking hand in hand with somebody or something, and when he came back to the manor, he told me who it was. I had to believe him. Wouldn't a man know his own daughter?»

«Are you saying you saw a ghost in the daytime?»

«These weren't ordinary ghosts. Daytime or nighttime, it was all the same to them. That's why, for two weeks, we hardly slept for two hours out of the twenty-four. There was always something happening. Toward the end, though, the haunting tapered off.»

«Why was that?»

«How should I know? All I can do is pass on to you what little Jane Colby told her father.»

J leaned forward expectantly. «Yes? Yes?»

«She said she could only come through from the other side for a short time. She said she was cut off from her roots, and that a flower cut off from its roots must die.»

«By Jove!» J thumped his fist on the table. «So even a ghost has limitations!»

«Wait. There's more. She said it was up to Colby to open up the gate and keep it open. Then she'd return to him and stay with him forever.»

«And he turned to witchcraft, thinking that witchcraft could open the gate to the other world!» J was triumphant. At last the whole unthinkable mess was beginning to form some sort of pattern, incomplete yet with an otherworldly logic of its own.

«You've guessed it,» MacMurdo admitted ruefully. «Witchcraft was very much alive in those days around here. It still is, as a matter of fact. Last month, while I was in town for supplies, I saw a witch on the telly being interviewed by a reporter, as if she was a bloody film star! But poor Dr. Colby was losing faith in them before your man came nosing about here and caught him with his pants off at a ruddy Witches' Sabbath. They'd promised him a lot, but hadn't given him anything but a bad head cold.»

«So that's the story?» J stroked his chin thoughtfully.

«That's the story. I know Copra House retired him into private practice after that, but I have no idea where he went. Do you?»

«No, but from what you've told me I can make a good guess.»

«Wherever it is, I'm sure he has continued his quest for a gateway to the other world. He was a strongly motivated man, sir. A very strongly motivated man.»

J agreed. «Yes. Guilt plus love equals compulsion.»

«Well said!» MacMurdo pushed back his chair and stood up. «If you've no more questions, I must say good night. I have to be up early tomorrow, as usual. We're somewhat understaffed.»

«I understand.»

«The night man in the hall will show you to your room.» The psychiatrist turned to leave.

«Wait.» J raised his hand. «I do have one more question. I doubt if it will do any good, but could you let me see Dexter tomorrow morning?»

MacMurdo halted in the doorway, surprised. «Of course not.»

«Why not?»

«I thought you knew. Dexter is dead.»

It was J's turn to be surprised. «You don't say! When did he die?»

«Last Friday. After years of sitting around like a stuffed animal, he suddenly started screaming again and smashing things. Caught the night staff completely off guard. Before they could do anything either for him or to him, the poor chap died of convulsions. We did an autopsy, but except for the fact that he was dead, your Mr. Dexter appeared to be in excellent health. Now if you'll excuse me… «

«Did you say Friday, doctor? What time Friday?»

«As I recall, the time of death was exactly one-forty A.M. Friday morning. I can check the records.»

«Never mind. I'm sure you have it right.»

«Good night then, and as pleasant dreams as could be expected under the circumstances.»

«Good night, Dr. MacMurdo.»

Dexter had died within minutes after Blade's return from Dimension X.

J stared numbly at his half-empty plate. The only sound was the steady drumming of the rain on the windowpane.