She threw up again, her legs buckling with exhaustion, barely able to support her. There was no more food to come up, she was vomiting foul-tasting, acrid bile now. She coughed, her lungs aching, her eyes blurred, waiting for it to pass now, and for the pain in her guts to subside.

  Finally she rinsed out her mouth, and then the sink and began to feel a little better, except now she had a raging thirst. She poured herself a glass of iced water from the fridge and drank it straight down. Then she made her way upstairs again. It was like climbing a mountain. At the top she stopped, doubled up in pain, and had to wait until the attack passed before she was able to move. She made it back to her bedroom, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Her forehead was burning, and she knew she had a temperature. Something was seriously wrong inside her, she was certain - and scared. It wasn't smart being all this distance away from Van Rhoe. Even if he was a satanist and was going to sacrifice her baby, he was a good doctor, the best. He would know what the pain was and do something about it. Maybe I'm going into labour.

  She had none of the early-warning symptoms Van Rhoe had told her to look out for, no contractions - unless these new pains were contractions. No blood. No mucus plug.

  She lay back and closed her eyes, but her brain was whirring too much to sleep. Casey, Casey, Casey.

  Casey was calling out to her.

  She wondered if she could make it if she drove. She could call a taxi. But the nausea was coming back and she felt too ill to move anywhere right now. She looked at her watch: five after four. Three hours, I can call you. I'll get mom or Dad to bring me over first thing, you can relax, I'm here in LA, I'm near you, I'll see you in a few hours. I love you.

  There was a book at the bottom of her suitcase somewhere. She knelt down, rooted around through her badly packed belongings, and finally found it. Exhausted by even this exertion, she clambered back into bed with it.

  It was the second of two reference books she had bought in an occult shop in Covent Garden. She'd read the other on the flight, but this one appeared to go into more detail in the areas that interested her.

  She stopped scanning when she reached the section headed "Amulets and Talismans", and started reading carefully.

  According to Sir E. H. Wallis Budd, the egyptologist, the essential difference between an amulet and talisman is that an amulet exercises its protective powers continuously and in general around its owner whereas a talisman is called on to perform some isolated task of protection. Possession of items She stopped reading. The finger in velvet in the attic: had that been an amulet or a talisman? Then, as she read on, the egyptologist confirmed that bones, teeth, hair, spittle, blood and body parts all made powerful amulets and talismans.

  Bump's hands pushed sharply outwards. Then he rolled, and pushed again, and suddenly into her head came an image of the man from Telecom.

  "What do you want?" she shouted at him. And then she bit her lip: she'd shouted aloud. I'm delirious. "Susaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn." Bump rolled again. "Susaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn."

  Casey was desperate and she wasn't imagining it. "It's OK," she whispered. "I'm coming."

  She swung herself out o bed, pulled on the leggings and sweatshirt in which she'd travelled, stuck her feet into her flat shoes, pulled on her camel coat and grabbed her handbag.

  "I'm coming, Casey," she whispered again. "Calm down, I'll be with you as quickly as I can."

  She let herself out of her bedroom, tiptoed past her parents" door and down the stairs. They creaked but no one stirred in the house, and she was relieved. She didn't want to have to explain to her parents what she was doing - she could tell from their expressions last night that they hadn't been sure whether to believe her or whether she was cracking up.

  She'd made them promise not to tell John she was here if he called, and just after they'd all gone to bed, shortly before midnight, the phone had rung and she had hurried from her room, stood outside her parents" door, and had heard her father say, No, I- Gayle and I- we didn't hear from her for a couple of weeks - er, Sunday last she called. Sounded fine, a little tired but fine.

  She closed the front door, using her key to soften the click of the latch, then climbed into her rental car.

  It was a forty-minute drive in daytime but, in the pre-dawn quiet, Susan was in Orange County and heading towards the canyon in less than a quarter of an hour. It had stopped raining, but the road still had a glossy sheen from the water.

  She suddenly saw flashing lights in her rear-view mirror, a whole broad band of them; it looked like a spacecraft was coming up the freeway behind her, and nervously, she moved across to the exit lane and slowed right down.

  A convoy of fire trucks hurtled past, followed by two police patrol cars. Then not just one ambulance, but a whole fleet.

  And, oh Christ, no, she could see where they were heading. She could see the red glow that was too thick, too concentrated to be street lighting.

  Her distress deepening, she stamped on the gas pedal, pushed the needle up past ninety m.p. then a hundred m.p., chasing them, and two miles on, steadily gaining on their taiMights, she followed them down the exit ramp and along the four-lane road that went through the small village. More emergency vehicles howled past her and crashed the stop light ahead. Susan crashed it too, beyond caring, a tight knot of fear in her gullet. This road had changed since she was last here, a year back, she thought. More flashing lights appeared in her mirror. She drove past a new development and she wondered - she hoped - whether some miracle had happened and they were all on the wrong road.

  And then, to her disbelief, the convoy started to turn left. Braking hard, she shouted at them, through the windshield, "Wrong way, you're taking the wrong -"

  And then she stopped shouting.

  They hadn't.

  They weren't going to Casey's nursing home.

  They were going to a different part of the canyon. And, she remembered now, there was a big lumber warehouse a mile or so up there. That's where they were going!

  She lowered her window and felt a welcome blast of air on her face as she accelerated again. It was OK, there was no fire at the clinic. Casey was safe. The sirens screamed on up there above her like mad animals, and perspiration sloughed off her. "I'll be right with you, Casey," she said. "Just coming up to the entrance now."

  The imposing white Doric pillars, each engraved with the words CYPRESS PALISADES CLINIC, were right ahead. She put on her right-turn signal, then halted to let a car opt, one of the night staff or a doctor, she presumed, the headlights momentarily dazzling her. Then she accelerated hard up the long, tree-lined driveway, braking sharply every fifty yards to crash over the sleeping policemen.

  The clinic was a handsome modern building, three storeys high, spread out along the ridge of the canyon with fine views in daylight out towards the ocean and inland across the desert. It was a medium-sized, luxury private hospital, with a high reputation both for cosmetic surgery and for its facilities for long-term care patients like Casey.

  Most of the building was in darkness, but lights were on in the downstairs hall and in a few upstairs windows. Whenever she'd been here in the past, the parking lot had been full; now there was only a handful of vehicles parked outside.

  Susan pulled into a bay, then got out of the car and looked anxiously up at Casey's room. It was on the second storey, with a row of window-boxes full of flowers that her mother kept up all year round, but she couldn't see these now. There was a faint tinge of burning wood in the air, and the distant wall of sirens pricked the silence of the night.

  She walked as fast as she could towards the main entrance, but the automatic glass doors remained shut as she approached them. A sign on them read, AFTER 10 P.M. PLEASE USE BELL.

  She pressed the button. Then, when nothing happened, she pressed it again. After an eternity, a uniformed security guard, who must have weighed a good three hundred pounds, ambled into view, gave Susan a cursory inspection, nodded at her then ambled away again. A full minute later, the doors slid open.

  As she went inside, the guard was sitting behind the front desk with a National Rifle Association magazine open in front of him. "Help you?" "All right to go see my sister?"

  He raised his eyebrows as if to say, At this hour? "You know where she is?"

  "Room 214 in the Laguna wing."

  He tapped his computer keyboard. "Name?"

  "Hers or mine?"

  He gave her a weary look. "Hers."

  "Casey Corrigan."

  "And yours?" Susan Carter."

  He studied the screen, then tapped some more keys. There was a sharp whir and a pass card printed out on a machine beside him. He pushed it into a plastic holder and handed it to her. "Know your way?"

  "Yes." She pinned the card to her coat lapel. "Thank you."

  "No problem. Have a good one." He returned to his magazine.

  The place reminded her of the V6rn Bank's clinic in London. The designers had done their best to make it look more like the foyer of a hotel than a hospital lobby. The walls were panelled in light cedarwood, hung with huge tapestries, and groups of comfortable chairs, separated by plants and vases of fresh flowers, were spread around the perimeter of the marble floor. But, again like the bank's clinic in London, the sterile smell was the giveaway.

  The swift surge of the elevator car brought on another bout of nausea and dizziness. As she stepped out "into the blue-carpeted corridor she had to lean against the wall and close her eyes. Don't black out, she thought. Not now, please, not now.

  The elevator doors shut behind her with a hiss and the only sound in the corridor was the thudding of her own heart, the flat hum of the air-conditioning fans and a beeping sound, a steady, beep... beep... beep... beep.

  She opened her eyes and stared down the long corridor, each of the doors labelled with a typed name in a small metal holder. This was the long-stay floor. All the patients, like Casey, were in a persistent vegetative state, and most of the names on the doors were familiar to her as she stumbled past them. D. Perimutter. Sally Shulman. Bob Tanner. Casey Corrigan.

  A red light was flashing above Casey's door.

  Her heart in her mouth, Susan ran, stumbling, down to it, and pushed open the door. The room was in darkness; just a faint haze of green and orange light from the dials of the machines that kept Casey alive and monitored her every breath, heartbeat and brain signal. Three small red lights were flashing, and another audible warning was sounding, a shrill pip-pip-pip-pip.

  Susan fumbled for the light switch and snapped it on. The brilliant overhead light dazzled her momentarily, and then she saw Casey lying in bed, just like she always was. Except Casey was motionless. The ventilator was still clunk-puffing away, but Casey's chest wasn't rising and falling, like it should, like it always did.

  It wasn't moving at all.

  And the colour of Casey's face behind that naso-gastric tube, did not look right. Her cheeks were usually rosy, as if this great long rest she was having. was doing her good. But they weren't rosy now, they were the colour of spent chewing gum.

  Susan's eyes swung up to the monitors then jumped along the dials to the ECG. Normally there would be steady spikes. But now instead of any spikes there was an unflickering green line, and on another monitor next to it, three words were flashing on and off: AIR SUPPLY DOWN!

  Her eyes sprang to the ventilator, and she saw immediately what was wrong: the connector dock, linking Casey's breathing appliance to the rubber output tube from the ventilator, had come apart. The oxygen was being pumped uselessly out into the room.

  Shouting for help, Susan tried to jam the two parts of the line together. She felt the hard blast of air, got them together but they sprang apart the moment she released them. They needed a clip, or tape, something. "HELP!" she screamed. "Help, someone, help, please help me!" She ran out into the corridor. "Help! Please help!"

  There was no sign of anyone. Her brain raced, as she tried to think what to do. Someone must come along, there had to be someone on duty, it was more important to try to keep the air flowing. Christ, how long had Casey been like this?

  She went back into the room, grabbed the two lines and forced them back together. A moment later, Casey's chest rose and fell faintly; at least some air was now going into her again. Susan stared at her, that beautiful face, framed by her long golden hair - a much prettier colour than her own, Susan had always thought - and thit terrible grey colour of her face.

  She stretched forward and touched Casey's face. It was cold, like putty. She'd never felt human skin as cold as this.

  Grabbing the two halves of the air line, she forced them back together.

  "HEELLLLLLP!" she screamed again. "Please, please, someone help! Oh God, please help!"

  Then the pain came. It felt like a steel band being tightened around her, crushing her, crushing everything inside her. Unable to help it, she cried out, doubling up. But somehow she managed to cling to the line, trying desperately to concentrate on holding the two halves together. And then it felt as if some huge steel blade was twisting inside her, ripping through her internal organs, and the pain was unbearable. Her head felt as if it was separating from the rest of her body, there was an unbearable pressure on her ears, they were imploding.

  She screamed in pain, screamed for help for Casey. The floor suddenly tilted, rising steeply past her face, and she was struggling to stay on her feet now, they were losing their hold. The walls swung beneath her. The carpet smacked her in the face.

  She lay, unable to move, her nostrils pressed against the carpet. She could smell the cleaning fluid that had been used on it.

  The pain was coming again, that blade twisted around inside her, ripping upwards through her guts. Bile was rising up her throat, she wanted to throw up and she was fighting against it with all her concentration.

  She mumbled, unable to speak because she was swallowing back the vomit, "Help me, someone, please, help me."

  Somehow she was still holding the two pieces of line together, clutching them as if they were the only thing she had in the world.

  Hang in there, Casey, don't die on me, please don't die on me.

  And then the pain went off inside her like a detonation, and the ferocity of it this time sucked everything out of her, all the light out of her eyes and out of her brain. Everything was swallowed by a vast, unbearable vacuum of agony.

  When she next saw something, it was very dim. A face she didn't recognise, a woman, in a white nursing gown, sleek black hair, a lapel badge right close up to her face which read, PAT CAULK, SNR NIGHT NURSE.

  "Casey," Susan whispered, urgently.

  The nurse was holding her wrist - maybe she was taking her pulse, Susan wasn't sure. The nurse's arm was right across her face and the sleeve of the gown was pushed almost into Susan's mouth, muffling her voice.

  "Casey," she whispered again. "Please -" Then her words slipped, along with consciousness, from her grasp.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  John cancelled a lunch meeting with clients because he was too worried about Susan to concentrate, and stayed closeted in his office, dialling home every half-hour or so in the hope that Susan might be back, or at least had left a message on the answering service.

  But the only messages all moriing were just a rambling one from Joe, the builder, about materials he needed to buy, one from Liz Harrisoff asking Susan to lunch next week, then an incomprehensible, hysterical one from Pila.

  John immediately rang the hospital, and got himself put through to the intensive care nursing station. He lied to the nurse who answered that he was Archie Warren's brother, and asked how he was doing.

  To his dismay, Archie was not doing well. He was still unconscious, on life support, and as yet they'd still not been able to diagnose what was wrong. The only positive news was that there appeared to be no damage consistent with a stroke, which left a mystery virus as the most likely explanation. But until they found out what it was - if they found out -they had no way of treating him. It was literally wait and see. He would either improve, remain as he was or deteriorate.

  Deeply depressed, John hung up. If Harvey Addison were alive he could have rung him, asked the name of the best neurologist in the country and pulled strings for him to see Archie. He stared gloomily at his coffee. Everything was beyond his control. He was feeling frighteningly isolated, and helpless.

  Susan was not with any of her friends or her parents. Either she'd had a breakdown and was wandering the streets somewhere, or she had gone into hiding in a hotel, or - he hesitated about this, although he knew it was a real possibility - perhaps Mr. Sarotzini had abducted or kidnapped her.

  At half past five in the afternoon, John was just putting down the receiver after yet another fruitless call home and debating whether to phone the police and report Susan missing, when Gareth Noyce came into his office with a load of computer printout. "You never asked me to do this for you, right?" he said, excitedly.

  "Do what?" John asked, then realised what he was talking about. "You've decoded it?"

  "Not me, exactly. You now owe a big favour to a real ale expert in Gloucester. My friend could go to jail for this - we're talking about the Official Secrets Act, right? Actually I promised him a pre-production copy of Dr. Doomandgloom for his kids and he seemed pretty happy with that."

  John seized the printout, then immediately felt disappointed as he scanned the pages. On each were just columns of trades; this was a ledger record of the VOrn Bank's transactions, dating back about seven months. On each row was the name of a company, some of which he recognised but many he didn't, followed by a date, the number of shares held, the total number of shares issued, the percentage of total held, the current trading price and the twelve-month high and low prices. "Thanks, Gareth," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "This is great."