Death of an Adept

Harry shuddered and shook his head. "I can't remember exactly. Things got very dark. I - can only describe my feeling as one of dread. My head felt like it was about to explode, like there was something in there, trying to get out - or something outside, trying to get in…." He shuddered again. "I can't remember anything more, but it was awful." He swallowed with difficulty and finally looked at McLeod again. "What - what does it mean?"

"It means, my friend, that you seem to have experienced a rather potent flash of psychometry, almost certainly triggered by contact with that bit of ligature," McLeod said casually, laying a gloved hand on Harry's forearm in reassurance. "I've been half expecting it for some time, though I didn't anticipate anything quite this dramatic, first time out."

Harry's jaw had dropped during McLeod's explanation, and now his face went pale beneath its tan.

"I'm not sure I want to hear this," he whispered. "You know I haven't any psychic talents."

"So you've always claimed," McLeod said with a faint smile. "However, I've suspected otherwise for some time. The ability to pick up psychic impressions from physical objects is one of the more useful and better-documented types of psychic sensitivity."

"I know what psychometry is!" Harry snapped, then raised both hands to rub at his temples distractedly, shaking his head in denial. "God, I don't believe this. Couldn't this just have been imagination run rampant?"

McLeod smiled thinly. "Counsellor, I would never venture to describe you as a fanciful man."

"And even if you were," Peregrine said quietly, "I think I can produce some rather compelling independent evidence."

He turned to one of the newly filled pages of his sketchbook and held it out for Harry to see: a sketch-portrait of an elderly white-haired man garbed in the costume of a pagan priest, crowned with a winged headdress in the form of a speckled bird.

"Is this anything like the man you saw?" Peregrine asked.

Harry stared at the drawing. His jaw dropped slightly, his face growing paler still under its healthy sheen of outdoor tan.

"Dear God, that's him exactly!" he whispered, suddenly weaving a little on his feet. "That's him, right down to the last detail."

Casually pulling off his right glove, McLeod turned the stone of his Adept ring inward and lightly clasped the back of Harry's neck, making certain the stone made contact.

"Steady, old son. Just close your eyes for a minute and take a deep breath," he directed with calm authority. "Now let it all the way out. You're perfectly all right. There's absolutely nothing wrong with you. Quite the contrary, in fact. Psychometry's a very useful talent. We'll talk more about this later. In the meantime, just relax and take another deep breath… Now another… You'll be fine in a few seconds."

Harry did as McLeod instructed, trembling beneath the inspector's hand. After a moment or two, his breathing steadied and his face started to regain its normal color. After another few seconds, McLeod slid his hand down Harry's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Better now?" he asked, as Harry sheepishly opened his eyes.

The counsellor nodded and took a deep breath, letting it out with a whoosh.

"You'll have to excuse the attack of funk," he murmured to his companions, suddenly self-conscious. "I never thought anything like this would happen to me. Maybe proximity to you people triggers this kind of thing, Noel. Or maybe it's just that one is more inclined to believe, having seen you work."

Or it could be that the time is ripe for you to come into possession of your own talents, Peregrine reflected. He certainly had no trouble remembering how alarmed and confused he had been when his own talent first had begun to manifest itself, not so very long ago.

But before he could offer Harry any words of reassurance, the sound of hurried footsteps on frosty ground heralded Chisholm's return. He was shaking his head, looking grim.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you on your own," he announced. "If you'll let McIver know when you're ready to head back to Stornoway, he or Maxwell will run you in."

"Trouble?" McLeod asked.

"Aye, but only the usual sort, thank God - not that the poor bastards involved will know the difference," Chisholm replied. "We've got a vehicle over the side on a really bad stretch of road, down toward Harris. It looks like two dead - local chaps. A recovery team is on the way, and I've said I'll meet them there."

McLeod raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I don't suppose there's any chance of a connection with this?"