Adam closed his eyes as his mind reeled into disbelieving dismay, spinning him perilously near the brink of unconsciousness again.
"Yes, indeed, I thought you might recognize the name," Raeburn went on, enjoying his captive's reaction. "Shall I tell you of our bargain? Seven centuries ago, in exchange for favors rendered, Soulis engaged the services of a spirit familiar called Robin Redcap, and induced him to share the knowledge of how to bind elementals. Soulis has pledged to share that knowledge with me, in exchange for release from limbo and freedom to walk the earth again in human form. Shall it be your form or young lolo McFarlane's? I wonder…"
The sheer audacity of Raeburn's intentions bespoke an ambition that had outpaced the limits of reason, and the stark reality of Adam's own peril at last overwhelmed the fragile act of will that had kept him from sinking back down into oblivion again.
He almost managed to surface again, some unknown time later, dragged sluggishly back to the very threshold by vague queasiness and a dull, pulsing drone that buzzed to his very bones and somehow reminded him of flight. The drugs binding him to his body prevented him from dreaming, but just before the darkness pressed in on him again, a part of him disjointedly imagined that he was being carried aloft in the belly of some great saurian bird….
And at Strathmourne, as the midnight hour came and went, McLeod and Julian watched as the locket fastened to the end of Adam's skean dubh stirred slightly in McLeod's hands.
"What's that?" Julian whispered as McLeod stiffened, bleary eyes fixed on the trembling locket.
"I don't know," he murmured. "I'm not getting any direction. It's just - vibrating."
"It isn't just you, trembling from fatigue?" Julian ventured.
"No, it's bloody well not me!" he snapped - then exhaled with a whoosh and shook his head, bending it to concentrate once more.
"Sorry, Lady J. I am tired, but I'm not doing this. Maybe they're moving him, as Philippa suggested. God, why can't we get through?" As he slammed his free hand flat against the table in frustration, Julian set a hand on his shoulder and held out the other.
"Let me take over on this, and go call the others," she said. "We'll see if we can boost the signal, as it were. I don't think this is critical yet. I can't see them making their move nearly a full twenty-four hours before optimum time."
Nodding, McLeod surrendered the skean dubh and locket to Julian as he pushed back his chair and stood. "Moving him in the dark. Aye, that would be in character," he muttered. "I'll get the others."
They were assembled within five minutes - Philippa and Peregrine, Christopher and Victoria, with Ximena, Harry, and Julia breathlessly looking on, lending their prayers to the venture. Though they cast their combined energies into the effort for the next several hours, and some of the participants reported a general southerly inclination, none of them could induce the pendulum to take up a more definite direction. When the effect finally ended, around two in the morning, no one had any doubt that they had made a near contact with Adam; but that was all it had been.
"I think my fear for Adam is changing into anger with Raeburn," Philippa said, when Christopher and Victoria had withdrawn to resume their previous monitoring and the others were sipping dispiritedly at mugs of hot chocolate. "As a psychiatrist, I've spent most of the afternoon and evening trying to get inside his head.
"Why is he doing this? It isn't only a lust for illicit power that drives him; vengeance has to be one of his motivations. And if Adam is going to be the object of that vengeance, Raeburn will want him well aware of what's going to happen to him and who's responsible. That dish is best served up sufficiently in advance that the victim has time to fully savor the anticipation and dread.
"That means that if they're keeping him heavily sedated - which they must be doing, or he'd have broken through by now with a call for help - they're going to have to bring him around at some point, at least enough to appreciate the helplessness of his situation, and with enough lead time to make him sweat. That could give us the window of opportunity we'll need to find him and get to him before it's too late."
"But he could be anywhere!" Ximena blurted. "Even if you can figure out where he is, how can we ever get to him in time?"
"Harry and I have been working on that aspect," Philippa said grimly. "If there's even an hour's lead time, we have a chance; he has a chance. All we need is that one, vital break. Pray God that we'll get it!"
Chapter Thirty-Three
EARLY morning of Imbolc Eve found McLeod and Harry sheltering in the lee of Strathmourne's entry porch, McLeod with a cellular phone in one gloved hand, Harry scanning the grey skies to the south through compact Pentax binoculars. The rest of the house still slept, in varying stages of exhaustion, though pairs of Huntsmen continued to keep watch by turns in the parlor, hoping to renew the all too brief contact of the night before. Rousted from his first real sleep in the last twenty-four hours by the general's telephone call, McLeod felt like someone had poured sand in both his eyes.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered under his breath, as a mottled grey shape with military markings materialized out of light snowfall, slightly preceded by the chuff of rotor blades. "I hope this isn't an omen."
"You hope what isn't an omen?" McLeod retorted, as Harry lowered his binoculars and the chopper ghosted to a gentle landing on the front lawn in a flurry of snow.
"I was expecting a Wessex," Harry replied. "That's a goddamn Lynx."
McLeod's stomach did a queasy turn, but he forced himself to move past the unfortunate name to more immediate considerations.
"I don't care if it's called a goddamned bloody Raeburn. Can you fly it? Will it do the job?"
"Hell, yes," Harry drawled, stuffing the binoculars into a pocket of his flying jacket. "Not as big a payload as a Wessex, but a damned sight faster. I'll go see who they've sent for the team. Stand by."
Harry set out across the snowy lawn as the pilot cut power, hunched against the wind of the slowing blades as the side door slid back to disgorge a lanky figure clothed in the distinctive black combat smock, paratroop boots, and body armor favored by the SAS. CJose on his heeJs came a taJl, grey-haired man neither of them had expected to see here in person, with the shoulder slides of a brigadier on the epaulets of his olive-drab pullover. As McLeod saw who it was, he headed down the steps to meet the new arrival, who nodded grimly to Harry as they passed, then jogged on toward McLeod, keeping his head down and one hand on his tan beret.
"Good morning, Gordon. Thanks for coming," McLeod said.
"Morning, Noel," said General Sir Gordon Scott-Brown, as he and McLeod exchanged handshakes. "Sorry about the Lynx, but that's what they sent up from Hereford this morning. What's the update on Adam?"
Shaking his head, McLeod set a hand under the general's elbow and urged him back toward the house. Behind him, Harry and the SAS officer had disappeared back into the helicopter.
"Not good, I'm afraid. I hope to God I haven't brought you out on a wild goose chase. Come on into the house and we'll bring you up to speed. Adam's man has laid on breakfast for the troops, so Harry's going to bring them in in shifts. We can brief them once you know the lay of the land."
"Fair enough. Incidentally, Ian Duart is your mission commander. You'll remember him from the Cairngorm operation. And a couple of the lads in the hostage rescue team were along on that one as well."
"Then they aren't likely to be flapped by what may crop up this time," McLeod said, opening the front door and standing aside to let the general enter first. "If we get a chance to turn them loose on the opposition, that is. How many are we talking about?"