Dagger Magic

"Go to Slow-motion!" Adam ordered, right beside her in the vision and fighting his own instinct to recoil. "Slow it all you want," he went on, as one of her fingers jerked spasmodically. "You've got time to watch now. You know you can stop the action, just before it happens, but let the car get as close as you possibly can. You want the best possible look at the driver. It's ten yards away - nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two - Freeze-framel" he ordered sharply.

Chapter Fifteen

ON the knife edge of a scream, the world shuddered to a halt. Claire's eyes were open now, wide and glazed like those of a hare mesmerized by fright, staring straight into the glare of the remembered headlamps. Her pupils were even contracted, her lips parted for the scream Adam had interrupted. Seizing upon that moment of paralysis, he moved in with surgical delicacy to direct her perceptions.

"Can you see him?" he asked softly. "I know there's a glare from the headlights, but can you see his face behind the windscreen?"

"Too bright," she murmured. "And still too far away…"

"Adjust your video machine," Adam urged. "It can do all kinds of things that an ordinary machine can't do. You can step down the light level, filter it, zoom in on his image…. Make the necessary adjustments, Claire. You can see him…."

Adam could not see the face, try as he might. For Claire, however, her adjustment of perception seemed to achieve the desired effect.

"It's him!" she murmured breathlessly. "I can see him now - see him clearly!"

"Describe him to me, then," Adam ordered. "Tell me what he looks like, in as much detail as you can manage."

He could not spare a glance for anyone but Claire - indeed, had almost forgotten the presence of McLeod and the enrapt Peterson - but McLeod was already glancing back at the artist - who was leaning forward avidly, his eyes slightly glazed, pencil poised above his sketch pad. A shiver passed through Claire's seated body before she began haltingly to speak.

"He's young - early twenties, maybe… clean-shaven… hair straight and dark, cut longish… good-looking, actually. The face is square, with hollow cheeks and high cheekbones…."

"Alec, are you getting all this?" McLeod whispered to Peterson, whose response was a distracted nod. The artist's pencil flew, executing swift strokes across the page as he strove to capture what Claire was describing.

"Full lips… longish nose, narrow at the bridge, with nostrils a bit flared… There's a - a sort of a bump, like he might have broken it once…."

Peterson kept drawing for several minutes after she had wound to a halt, at length passing the sketch pad over to McLeod.

"Is it possible for her to look this over, see if I'm getting it right?" he asked in a shaky undertone.

McLeod glanced at the drawing in his hands, then passed it to Adam. The face that looked back at them from the paper was that of a spoilt, impetuous youth.

"Claire, I'd like you to take a look at Mr. Peterson's sketch and tell me what you think," Adam said quietly. "Keep the actual image on your video screen strongly before you, then compare it with the sketch."

He put the sketch pad into her hands. Dispassionately the blue eyes tracked down to the drawing, flicking across it without reaction as she slowly nodded.

"It's very close," she said. "The chin needs to be sharper and the ears neater. And the hair's a little too clean-cut. It should be a bit longer on top, like a pop star's. It's quite dark, by the way - maybe black. And the eyes are light; I couldn't see the color."

When she made no further comment, Adam reclaimed the sketch and returned it to Peterson. Tongue between his teeth, the police artist went back to work. After a short interval, he returned the amended sketch for Claire's inspection. Again she pointed out necessary refinements, which Peterson dutifully made. It took four tries before she pronounced herself satisfied.

"That's the man," she said, holding it at arm's length before her. "That's him exactly."

"Excellent," Adam said. "Close your eyes now, and relax for a few minutes. Go deep asleep and take a nice rest until I touch your hand and call you by name."

As she subsided, eyes drifting closed again, Adam took the sketch pad from her slack hands and shifted his attention to Peterson, intending to compliment him on his work. The police artist looked bewildered and just a little distressed. McLeod had noticed it, too, and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"What's the matter, son?" he asked.

Peterson ducked his head, just missing a shiver. "Sorry, sir," he said with some difficulty. "It's just that - if you don't mind my saying so, this is pretty spooky stuff. Would you mind if - if I went and got a cup of coffee?''