Dagger Magic

Lutzen's seamed face registered bemusement and some doubt. "Raeburn?"

"More properly, Francis Tudor-Jones," Dorje said in some irritation. "Surely you remember him."

"Tudor-Jones…" Lutzen gave the name a curious twist in pronunciation as he nodded. "Ah, yes, I remember both the father and the son, Rinpoche. The father was instrumental in keeping a valuable book of spells from falling into the hands of our British enemies - though his motives for doing so remain open to question. You forbade the son to continue his studies with us."

"He was altogether too ambitious," Dorje murmured, "though a worthy successor to his father. As Lynx-Master, he was making serious inroads in Scotland. Unfortunately, he ran afoul of a White Lodge there."

"At some cost to us," the old man agreed.

"Then you will agree that he owes us this service," Dorje replied. "He resides now in Spain. I shall send Kurkar and Nagpo to bring him here without delay."

"He will not welcome this charge."

"Of course he will not," Dorje replied. "But I trust he will not be so foolish as to resist the edicts of Shinjed. Nor can he deny that a debt is owed us in recompense for past benefits - and past failures. He will do as we require of him, or suffer the consequences."

Chapter Eight

ADAM'S Tuesday began early, as planned. By ten o'clock, he had made his rounds and seen his first patient, rescheduled from the previous day. He was ensconced in his office, reviewing his notes for a noon lecture, when the phone rang.

"I've got some news for you," McLeod said, an edge of satisfaction to his voice. "We've got a make on Lennox's phantom lady. Your suggestion that we start working backwards paid off. It turns out that the accident back in January wasn't the first Carnage Corridor fatality. There was a pedestrian incident about this time last year - man killed, woman critically injured. Donald pulled file photos, and the woman appears to match up with the phantom lady in Lennox's pictures."

"Indeed?" Adam sat forward, reaching for a pen and scratch pad. "Please go on."

"Our files give the woman's name as Claire Alison Crawford, aged twenty-seven," McLeod said. "On the night of May sixteenth of last year, she and her husband John were walking home from a ceilidh when a drunk driver ran them down. John Crawford was killed instantly, but Mrs. Crawford survived. Their address will interest you. It's about three blocks away from the stretch of road now known as Carnage Corridor." He paused to let this piece of information sink in.

"I see," Adam said as McLeod's pause lengthened. "I gather there's more to come. What happened to the driver?"

"They never caught him," McLeod replied. "The car turned out to have been stolen; it was found abandoned in a ditch about five miles north of Carnwath. The joy rider himself must have been on a right bender. The floor of the passenger side was littered with empty cider bottles."

"But there was nothing to identify the driver," Adam said.

"Nope. There were plenty of fingerprints left all over the car, but none of them checked out against criminal records. If the bastard ever commits another offense, we'll have him nailed for hit-and-run manslaughter, but unless and until that happens, he's off the hook."

"All right, back to Mrs. Crawford," Adam said, jotting down notes. "You say this incident took place about a year ago?"

"Aye."

"Where's Mrs. Crawford been since?"

"After she left hospital," McLeod said grimly, "she spent the better part of six months down at Stoke-Mandville."

The significance of the name was not lost on Adam. The Stoke-Mandville Centre had been established expressly for the treatment and rehabilitation of patients suffering from varying degrees of paralysis.

"I see. How badly affected was she left by the accident?"

"She still has the use of her arms and upper body," McLeod said, "but she'll be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life."

Adam allowed himself a heavy sigh as he contemplated the havoc that could be wrought on innocent lives as a result of one man's criminal self-indulgence.

"You say Mrs. Crawford spent six months in rehab. Do you know where she went after she got out?"

"Aye, we do. She went home," McLeod said. "She moved back into her house a few days after Christmas - not a week before the first of our current series of Carnage Corridor accidents."

After a moment's pause, McLeod asked heavily, "What are you suggesting? Could this woman somehow be responsible for causing these people to run off the road?''

Adam nodded slowly, even though he knew McLeod could not see it.