'When is this crash going to happen?' Joubert asked.

  'At 3.49 today.'

  Lasalle shot an anxious glance at his watch.

  it's 3.46,' he told Joubert.

  'How do you know this is going to happen?' demanded Joubert.

  i can see it now.'

  'How many will die?'

  'Four.'

  is it possible?' Lasalle said, his brow furrowed. 'Can he really be seeing it?'

  Joubert didn't answer, he merely looked at his own watch and saw that it was 3.48.

  Jean Decard was silent for a moment then his mouth opened wide in a soundless scream, his fa^e contorted into an attitude of fear and pain so profound that Lasalle took a step back. Then, with a low grunt, Decard blacked out.

  It took the two men ten minutes to revive him and, when he finally regained consciousness, he still seemed to be in a trance. He tried to rise but fell, knocking a table over in his wake. After another thirty minutes he was coherent. His face was ashen with dark smudges beneath his eyes.

  Joubert gripped his arm.

  'Jean, can you remember anything of what you said earlier?'

  Decard shook his head.

  'I feel sick,' was all he could say.

  Lasalle fetched him a glass of water.

  As the three men sat in the room there was a loud knock on the door and, a moment later, a thick-set man in the uniform of a gendarme entered.

  'Which one of you is Jean Decard?' the uniformed man asked.

  i am,' Decard told him.

  'And you two?' the gendarme wanted to know.

  'We both work here at the Metapsychic Centre,' said Lasalle.

  'Step outside, please,' the gendarme said.

  'No,' said Decard. 'It's all right, what have 1 done wrong?'

  'Nothing, Monsieur,' said the gendarme almost apologetically, i must tell you that I have some bad news.'

  Lasalle and Joubert exchanged glances then directed their gaze back at the uniformed man. He had lowered his voice slightly, an air of expectant solemnity having fallen over the room.

  At approximately 3.49 that afternoon, Jean Decard's twelve-year-old daughter had been killed when a lorry smashed into the bus which was carrying her and her schoolfriends home. There had been three other deaths besides hers.

  'Where did it happen?' Decard wanted to know, tears filling his eyes.

  The gendarme cleared his throat.

  'The Rue De Bologne.'

  Michel Lasalle scooped some cool water into his hand and then swallowed it. He felt the tranquilizer stick in his throat for a moment so he swallowed more water, finally wiping his hands on the towel beneath the sink. He exhaled deeply and replaced the bottle of pills in his trouser pocket. He probably didn't need them any longer but, over the past eighteen months since the death of his wife, the pills had become more than a mere psychological crutch for him. Lasalle was dependent on them, not daring to see what life was like without the temporary relief whichthey brought him. He did not look like a man who had suffered a nervous breakdown, but then again his wife had not looked like the kind of woman who would die suddenly of heart failure aged thirty-five. Lasalle had retreated within himself after her death. Like a snail inside its shell he refused to be coaxed out again by work or friends.

  He became hermit-like in his existence. He and his wife had been childless.

  She had been infertile

  -- her Fallopian tubes blocked. Lasalle's parents had been dead for five years so he had no one to turn to for help. His breakdown had begun slowly, gradually building up like some festering growth within his mind until, finally, his sense of reason seemed to collapse in on itself like a crumbling house.

  He turned away from the sink and looked across the room at Joubert who was sitting with his eyes closed, a cigarette held delicately between his fingers.

  The ash looked as if it were about to drop off and Lasalle watched as smoke rose lazily from the butt. When Joubert finally moved his hand, the ash dropped on to the carpet. Lasalle quickly trod it in.

  Lasalle had worked at the Metapsychic Centre for the past twelve years. The building itself stood on the outskirts of Paris, a large modern looking edifice constructed in the shape of a gigantic 'E'. Its smooth unbroken lines gave it the appearance of having been hewn from one single lump of rock instead of constructed piece by piece. Lasalle lived less than a mile from the building, near the church yard where his wife was buried.

  As he stood looking absently around the room he tried to drive thoughts of her from his mind but every time he heard of more death, as he had with Jean Decard's daughter, the memories came flooding back.

  His companion, Joubert, had no such ties. He was single once more after the break-up of his marriage but then again he had always found the attractions of work infinitely more exciting than those of domesticity. Despite being two years younger than Lasalle, hewas possibly better informed on the subject of the paranormal, having worked at the Laboratory of Parapsychology in Utrecht for six years where he completed his Ph.D in Human Science. He had then moved on to the University of Frieburg in West Germany prior to joining the Centre in Paris.

  Joubert was every bit as different psychologically from his colleague as he was physically. There was a certain detached coldness about Joubert. He saw everyone and everything as potential sources of information and study. The human volunteers with whom he worked might as well have been laboratory rats.

  He showed as much feeling towards them. To Joubert, work was everything and knowledge was the

  pinnacle. He would never rest until he had solved a problem. And, at the moment, he and Lasalle had a problem.

  'Precognition.'

  Lasalle looked at his companion.

  'The business with Decard,' he continued. 'The telepathy and then seeing the accident. It had to be precognition.'

  'Do you think he was able to see the vision because it involved his own daughter?' Lasalle asked.

  'Decard didn't know that his daughter was going to be one of the victoms, only that there was going to be a crash and that four people would die. The fact that he was close to one of the victims isn't necessarily relevant.'

  'What are you getting at, Michel?'

  'We've tested three people, the same way we tested Decard. The results were the same in each case. Each one showed varying forms of telepathy while hypnotised but, with the other subjects, we brought them out of their trances earlier, quicker. If they had been under longer then they too may have been able to predict future events.'

  Joubert got to his feet, crossed to the pot of coffee on the table nearby and poured himself a cup. He took a sip, wincing slightly as it burned the end of his tongue.

  'Depending upon the susceptibility of the subject,' he continued, 'there's no limit to what future events we can learn of.' A brief smile flickered across his face. Not only could disasters be averted but foreknowledge of events could have its more lucrative side as well. Could a subject foresee the outcome when a roulette wheel was spun? Joubert took another sip of his coffee, this time ignoring the fact that it was so hot.

  'But Decard was only able to foresee the future while in a hypnotic trance,'

  Lasalle interjected.

  'Which points to the fact that there is an area of the mind which only responds when the subject is unconscious. An area previously unexplored, with the capacity for prophecy.'

  There was a long silence finally broken by Lasalle.

  'I'd better phone the Institute in England,' he said. 'They should know about this.'

  'No,' said Joubert. 'I'll do it.'

  He stepped in front of his colleague and closed the door behind him, leaving Lasalle somewhat bemused. Joubert

  went to his office and sat down behind his desk, pulling the phone towards him. He lifted the receiver but hesitated before dialling.

  'An area of the brain previously unexplored,' he thought. His features hardened slightly. The discovery, once announced, would undoubtedly bring fame to himself.

  It was not a secret he wanted to share.

  He tapped agitatedly on the desk top, cradling the receiver in his hand a moment longer before finally dialling.

  Kelly picked up the phone and pressed it to her ear.

  'Kelly Hunt speaking,' she said.

  'Miss Hunt, this is the Metapsychic Centre.'

  She did not recognise the voice.

  'Lasalle?' she asked.

  'No. My name is Joubert. Alain Joubert. We have not spoken before.'

  Kelly disliked the coldness in his voice. She was, however, relieved that he spoke excellent English, just as Lasalle did. Her French was no more than passable.

  'Did you receive the copy of the tape recording I sent?' Kelly asked.

  'We did,' he told her.

  'Have you made any progress with your subjects?'

  There was a hiss of static. A moment's hesitation.

  'None,' Joubert said, flatly. 'That is why I am phoning. I feel that it is unproductive for our two Institutes to continue exchanging information on this subject.'

  Kelly frowned.

  'But it was agreed from the beginning that the research would be undertaken jointly,' she protested. 'You would use hypnosis, we would use drugs.'

  There was a long silence.

  'The subject we tested today was unreceptive,' the Frenchman lied.

  Kelly sensed the hostility in the man's voice and it puzzled her.

  'Lasalle told me that your use of hypnosis seemed to be showing results,' she said, irritably. 'He was very happy with the way the research was going.'

  'My colleague has a tendency to exaggerate,' Joubert said, stiffly.

  'Where is Lasalle? May I speak to him?' He is working. I don't want to interrupt him.'

  'So you have nothing at all for me?'

  'No.' The answer came back rapidly. A little too rapidly. Kelly moved the receiver an inch or two from her ear, looking at it as if she expected to see Joubert magically appear from the mouthpiece. His abrupt tone was a marked contrast to that of Lasalle who she was used to conversing with.

  Kelly thought about mentioning the EEG on Maurice Grant but, before she could speak, Joubert continued.

  'I have nothing to tell you, Miss Hunt,' he said, his tone unequivocal.

  Til have to tell Dr Vernon ...'

  Joubert cut her short.

  'Do as you wish, Miss Hunt.'

  He hung up.

  Kelly found herself gazing once again at the receiver. She slowly replaced it, her initial bewilderment at the Frenchman's unco-operative attitude subsiding into anger. Joubert had come close to being downright rude. Why, she wondered?

  Was he hiding something?

  If so, what reasons would he have?

  She shook her head, annoyed both with Joubert and also with her own over-active imagination. Nevertheless, he had no right to sever contacts between the two Institutes. Perhaps she should speak to Lasalle, she had his home phone number.

  Maybe he would contact her tomorrow.

  She sighed and sat back in her chair, listening to the rain beating against the window behind her. On the desk before her lay the newest EEG read-out taken only an hour earlier from Maurice Grant. It looked normal, in marked contrast to the one taken when he'd been in the drug-induced state. She ran an appraising eye over the lines but could see nothing out of the ordinary. There was another polygraph scheduled for later, while Grant was asleep. Perhaps there would be discrepancies on that one, some kind of clue to the tricks his mind was playing.

  She thought about his description of the nightmare. The ritualistic slaughter of his wife and child. She wondered what it all meant.

  Oxford

  It was well past midnight when the powerful lights of the Audi cut through the gloom of the driveway which led up to Stephen Vernon's house. The rain which had been falling all day had stopped, to be replaced by an icy wind which battered at the windows of the car as if trying to gain access. Vernon brought the vehicle to a halt and switched off the engine, sitting for a moment in the darkness.

  The moon was fighting in vain to escape from behind a bank of thick cloud and what little light it gave turned Vernon's house into some kind of dark cameo, silhouetted against the mottled sky. He sat there for a few more seconds then pushed open his door and clambered out. The wind dug freezing points into him, nipping at his face and hands. He ran towards the front door and fumbled for his key, his breath clouding around him as he exhaled. He finally found the key and opened the door, snapping on a light as he did so. The hall and porch were suddenly illuminated, driving back the shadows from the front of the house.

  The building was surrounded by a high wooden fence which creaked menacingly in the high wind, so Vernon was effectively shut off from his closest neighbours.

  The house was tastefully decorated throughout, walls and carpets in soft pastel colours combining to form a welcoming warmth as he stepped inside and shut the door behind him, forcing out the wind.

  There was a large envelope on the doormat. Vernon saw the postmark and hesitated a second before stooping to retrieve it. He carried it into the sitting room and dropped it on the antique writing bureau which nestled in one corner of

  the spacious room. Then he crossed to the walnut drinks cabinet, took out a tumbler and a bottle of Haig and poured himself a generous measure. As he drank he looked across at the letter on the bureau. When he put his glass down he found that his hand was shaking.

  He passed into the kitchen, the fluorescents buzzing into life as he touched the switch. He hunted through the freezer and found a frozen chicken casserole. It took fifteen minutes according to the packet. Vernon decided that that was all he wanted to eat. He hadn't much of an appetite. He left the polythene-wrapped casserole in a pan of water and wandered back into the living room, ignoring the letter on the bureau which he still had not opened.

  The stairs creaked mournfully as he made his way to the first floor. From the window on the landing he could see the two houses on either side. Both were in darkness, the occupants obviously having retired to bed. Vernon resolved to do the same thing as soon as he'd eaten.

  Five doors led off from the landing: the door to his own bedroom, that of the spare room, then the bathroom and another bedroom which had once belonged to his son who had long since departed.

  The fifth door remained firmly locked.

  Vernon paused before it for a moment, swallowing hard.

  He extended a hand towards the knob.

  A window rattled loudly in its frame, startling him. He glanced at the door one last time then walked across the landing to his bedroom. Once inside he removed his suit, hung it up carefully and changed into a sweater and a pair of grey slacks. Without the restraint of a shirt, his stomach was even more prominent and it sagged sorrowfully over his waist-band. He tried to draw it in but lost the battle and allowed the fat to flow forward once more. Vernon glanced at the clock on the bedside table and decided that his supper would soon be ready so he flicked off the bedroom light and headed back across the landing once again.

  As he approached the locked door he slowed his pace.

  His breathing subsided into low, almost pained exhalations as he stood staring at the white partition. He felt his heart beating that little bit faster.

  There was a loud crack and Vernon gasped aloud.

  He spun round in the gloom, searching for the source of the noise.

  The wind howled frenziedly for a second, its banshee wail drowning out his own laboured breathing.

  The sound came again and he realized it came from inside the locked room. But it was muffled.

  He took a step towards the door, freezing momentarily as he heard the sound once more -- harsh scratching, like fingernails on glass.

  On glass.

  He realized that there was a tree directly beside the window of the locked room, it must be the wind blowing the branches against it. Nothing more.

  Vernon felt angry with himself for having reacted the way he did. He glared at the door for a moment longer then turned and padded down the stairs. He walked through the sitting room, unable to avoid looking at the envelope which still lay on the bureau like an accusation. He would open it after supper he promised himself.

  He sat in the kitchen and ate his supper, discovering that he wasn't as hungry as he thought. He prodded the food indifferently, left the plate on the table and went into the sitting room. There he poured himself another scotch and slumped in one of the high-backed armchairs near the fire. It was cold in the room and Vernon pulled his chair closer to the heat, watching as the mock flames danced before him. He downed most of the whisky, cradling the glass in his hand, gazing into its depths.

  Above him, a floorboard creaked.

  Merely the house settling down, he thought, smiling humourlessly.

  He got to his feet and filled his glass once again, finally finding the courage to retrieve the letter. He slid his index finger beneath the flap of the envelope and started to open it.

  The strident ringing of the phone pierced the silence and nearly caused him to drop the letter.

  He picked up the receiver hurriedly.

  'Stephen Vernon speaking,' he said.

  i tried to ring earlier but there was no answer.' The voice had a strong accent and Vernon recognized it immediately.

  'What have you got for me, Joubert?' he said. The Frenchman told him about Decard's prophecy.

  'Does anyone else know?' Vernon asked.

  'Only Lasalle,' the Frenchman told him.

  'You haven't told Kelly?1

  'No, you told me not to give her any information other than that which you authorised.'

  'What about Lasalle?'

  'He knows nothing of what is going on, he ...'

  Vernon cut him short.

  'I mean, what has he told Kelly?'

  'She doesn't know anything about what happened today and from now on / will deal with her.'

  Vernon nodded.

  'Vernon? Vernon, are you there?'

  He seemed to recover his senses.

  'Yes, I'm sorry. Look, Joubert, when will you know for sure if the experiments have been successful?'

  The Frenchman hesitated.

  'That's difficult to say. I feel we are very close to a breakthrough though.'

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33