Psychic Killer: 10/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
Chapter Fifteen
Michael Weaver and his wife were seated at a large table along with Terrence, Quade, Tang Fu, Dean and Baker. Mark stepped up to the table, firmly quelling a slight nervousness, and with the cool assurance that had seen him through countless tight situations as a Strike Commander in the Viceregal Patrol, asked if he could join them.
Anna Weaver looked up with a smile. "Of course, Mark."
Weaver flicked an enigmatic glance at him and seconded his wife's invitation. Mark read curiosity in his superior's mind and the speculation that Linley was up to something. His attitude was, somehow, a little too purposeful.
Wow! Mark thought. Weaver wasn't a psychic, but he didn't need to be. The man had an instinctive grasp of body language of which he wasn't even aware. Fortunately, the others were less perceptive. Mark sensed varied emotions as he seated himself between Dean and Terrence, but no one put his shields up; there was, after all, no psychic threat from him.
Dean, next to him, was suspicious and resentful, Quade, Baker and Terrence, curious, and Anna Weaver was interested and rather attracted to him. He reminded her of Michael, when she had first met him over a century ago. Weaver, Linley noted, was aware of his wife's mild attraction and faintly amused by it.
A waiter appeared beside them. Linley observed with dry amusement, that the man's imitation flower leis were a source of irritation to him, as they interfered with his ability to take orders. He had to brush them aside constantly, since every time he shifted position, the leis also shifted.
He batted at one of the imitation red hibiscus and inquired if anyone wished for drinks.
"I'll buy a round for everyone," Mark said, easily. "What'll it be, folks?"
His offer was accepted, and the waiter took orders and departed. Terry, Linley noted, requested a Terran coke, and Mark, himself, ordered a beer. He caught Weaver's quick flash of surprise and decided that his old reputation as a heavy drinker had preceded him. Besides, he supposed, he was an ex-patrolman, and everyone knew that patrolmen drank hard whiskey for breakfast.
Mark could have told him about the reason for the sharp curtailment of his drinking habits, but now didn't seem quite the time. His current objective was to promote an atmosphere conducive to relaxation. He hesitated, trying to decide how to begin.
"How's Jim, Mark?" Terry asked. "Travis tells us he had another narrow escape."
"Broken ankle," Linley said. "He got off lucky."
"He must have," Anna said. "How far was the gravity turned up?"
Linley checked to be sure that the table's privacy screen was on before he replied.
"As far as it would go." He fell silent as the waiter arrived with the tray of drinks, sorted them out, got everything arranged and departed. "I heard him yell and -- seeing that we're all on pins and needles right now -- I came running. I turned it off and went in to help, and while I was there, the guy came back and turned it on, again." He took a swig of his beer and waited patiently for the expressions of shock to run their course. "Jim managed to turn it off with telekinesis. It was a real close call."
Dean sipped the martini he had ordered and set the glass down. "It seems to me," he said, acidly, "that General Westover and Colonel Blake should be here instead of out on some wild goose chase. It's obvious the murderer is still here at the hotel."
"Could it possibly have been an accident?" Baker asked, a little sharply. "I mean -- maybe there was a malfunction somewhere, and --"
"The safety had been disconnected," Mark said. "Besides, Jim said he sensed someone."
"Maybe he just thought he did," Baker interrupted. "I mean, Jim *does* tend to lose his cool quickly in a bad spot, and with all that's been going on around here --"
"I saw the control box," Mark said, firmly. "Somebody had been messing with it. I *am* an expert, and I *don't* lose my cool in a bad spot. Ever."
"Well, maybe the thing was being repaired. They disconnect the safety when they fix the grav units, you know."
"And put a warning on them, Colonel!" Quade snapped. "Besides, if it was being repaired, the whole damn thing should have been disconnected!"
"You seem very anxious to have us believe it was an accident," Terry said. "If it was, it was one cracking coincidence, don't you think?"
Baker glared at him. "What the blazes is that crack supposed to mean?"
"Easy," Mark said. "We're all a little uptight over the business." He glanced around the table, his psychic senses scanning, then turned to Dean. "As for General Westover and the others, Alan picked up some very useful psychometric vibes from the blaster that nearly killed us. They're following it up, but he has to check it out with Riskell to be sure we aren't getting the wrong man."
Dean's mental output did not alter, but suddenly the emotions at the table were charged with tension. Linley kept his face bland, trying to pinpoint the source. There was something ugly here, one mind his words had alerted that was indeed fully capable of murder.
"Riskell?" Dean inquired. "What do you mean?"
"We have reason to believe," Mark said, dropping his bombshell with apparent unconcern, "that the murderer is from Riskell, and that these attempts may be connected with the betrayal of psychics on Riskell in the last two weeks."
Weaver shot Mark a startled look. Quade leaned forward.
"Everyone here is from Riskell, Mark, except the Weavers and Mr. Meeks. You suspect one of us, then?"
"Possibly," Mark said. He glanced up as the waiter approached. "I'll have the steak and lobster. Make my steak rare."
"Yes, sir. Baked potato or rice pilaf?"
"Baked potato with butter, sour cream and chives."
"Soup or salad?"
"Salad," Mark said. "House dressing, please, with plenty of fresh ground pepper."
Apparently engrossed with his order, Linley was scanning furiously, watching, without appearing to, the reactions of the others. Meeks, he noted, was seated at a table to his left, and Finnar was busily eating at a smaller table somewhat behind Weaver. Although apparently as absorbed in his meal as Mark was in his order, the Arcturian's hearing buds were cocked in their direction.
The waiter was busily making notes on his pad. "Very good, sir. A refill on your beer?"
"Yes, thank you," Mark said. "And coffee. Black."
"Of course, sir." The man batted at one of the leis, made a final note, collected Linley's menu and departed. Mark took a sip from his water glass, blandly regarding the group. They were all unshielded, except Meeks, of course, and the alert tension in the air was electric.
One by one, he surveyed them. Tang Fu, hiding intense interest behind a passive expression. Baker's mind, sharp and analytical, Quade, alert and watchful, Terry, a little apprehensive, Dean, irritated and nervous, Finnar's mind, oddly humanlike, quick and alert, Weaver, inquisitive and worried, Anna Weaver, openly admiring. Mark, in his present mood, reminded her even more vividly of Michael in his youth.
And alert, menacing, hostile, angry and persecuted -- the mind that could murder, in the midst of their group. It was familiar and yet not familiar -- floating phantomlike over them all -- the mind of someone he'd thought he knew.
Mark felt a chill run down his spine. He didn't believe in ghosts, but this was almost as if he were face to face with the real thing.
"Who do you think it is?" Quade rumbled.
"Well, it's not you!" Baker snapped. "You have an alibi for the attempt with the blaster, so unless there's two murderers running around here, that means you and Terrence are above suspicion. And it couldn't be the Weavers. That leaves Travis, Tang and me. Of course, there's still Meeks, but he's not from Riskell. I guess Finnar's still a possibility, too." He laughed, shortly. "Somehow, I can't see an Arcturian goofing up the way this guy has, though. With all the murder attempts, only one of 'em's succeeded."
"I still think the guy's a nut," Terrence put in.
"I'd like to see everybody after dinner," Mark said. "We can talk as much as we like, without an audience. Maybe we can come up with a few things before my partner gets back." He glanced at Weaver. "If it's all right with you, sir? In the sixth floor conference room?"
Weaver nodded and one eyebrow slid up. He eyed Mark thoughtfully for several seconds while Linley watched his sharp brain adding together odd facts, saw him reach a conclusion and saw realization burst in his mind. His shields snapped into place. Mark met Weaver's gaze and deliberately raised one of his own brows. The Admiral gave a short bark of laughter, changed hastily to a cough.
Weaver had figured it out, Mark thought, but that was because he had information the others lacked. It didn't matter. He'd never really suspected Michael Weaver, anyhow.
The lights flickered and the windows lit up suddenly with a vivid glare. A moment later, the building trembled slightly, as thunder rumbled.
"Here comes the storm they've been promising us," Anna said. "Listen to that wind!"
They were silent. Over the lively strains of the Polynesian music, they could hear wind whistling around the building.
Mark stood up. "Back in a minute." He headed across the room toward the door marked "Restrooms".
The men's room was deserted when he entered. Mark scanned quickly to verify the fact, then went to the videophone on one wall. He made a quick call to Chris Pahaui, made certain arrangements, then called Alan on their private line. Alan answered, listened to his reasoning, discoveries and instructions, added a few of his own, agreed to check on the information that Mark needed and to make the call Mark wanted him to make, and broke contact. Linley washed his hands and headed back to the table.
The lights flickered again, and once again thunder rumbled. Rain was slapping against the windows. Mark re-seated himself and picked up his fork.
The fire dancers were getting ready to perform, and there was a rustle of anticipation around the room. Thunder crashed suddenly and the room was plunged abruptly into complete darkness, except for the lurid glare of the dancers' torches. There was a generalized gasp from the members of the audience and somewhere, a child screamed.
The emergency lighting came on, pale and ghostly. Mark continued to eat as thunder rumbled and rain sheeted against the windows. "Sounds like Shallock in the summer."
"I've been to Shallock a few times." Weaver said. "I can't see why the Jils are so fond of it. Violent place...floods and earthquakes."
"Earth has its share of floods and earthquakes," Anna observed, prosaically. "California is famous for quakes."
"Is it?" Mark said. "Yeah, now that you mention it, Alan's told me that. The big quake happened there the day he was born."
"2259? Yeah, that was a big one." Baker spoke unexpectedly. "I was there."
"*Were* you?" Quade glanced at him. "What was it like?"
"A bad shaker." Baker's face looked harsh in the dim light. A lightning flash punctuated the sentence. "I was about twenty at the time, going to military school." He stopped.
"Go on," Mark said. "What happened?"
Baker looked away. "The building I was in came down like a house of cards. I was trapped under a table with broken building all around me. I could smell smoke, and my leg was broken. I figured I was done for." He stopped again and took a bite of salad, chewing thoughtfully.
"What happened then?" Anna asked. "Go on, Lee. We never knew all this."
"Well," Baker said, "I wasn't alone. A young man was trapped there with me -- one of my classmates. Sort of your Harvey Milquetoast type of guy -- named David Bettes. I didn't know him very well. He took care of my leg and kept me as comfortable as he could, and tried to dig us out. He couldn't, though, and we were trapped there for more than a day. Sharing something like that --" Baker's face had become grim. "It changes a man. We became good friends. A couple of aftershocks hit, and more rubble came down on top of our table. I panicked. Dan calmed me down. He told me that he was sure the rescuers were nearby. He was right, too. Less than an hour later, they got to us and took us to the hospital. Dan wasn't hurt -- just hungry and thirsty and tired. He came to see me every day, and we were close friends for the rest of the time we were in the Academy." Baker took a drink from his glass.
"Where is he now?" Quade asked, interested.
"Dead, probably," Baker said. "The Patrol grabbed him fifteen years ago. He was a psychic."
Silence, for the slow count of ten. Terry stirred restlessly. "Is that how you came to join the Underground?"
"Yeah. I tried to help Dan and the Patrol beat me to a pulp and left me behind. The Underground arrived a few minutes after they left. They picked me up; I've been a member ever since. I set out to even my score -- and Dan's."
Mark let out his breath. "Too bad about your friend. Are you sure he was killed?"
Baker didn't look up. "I suppose he must have been. What else? The Underground was a lot smaller, then, not as well organized. We couldn't locate Dan again and no one's heard from him since. But the Jils had him, so he must have been."
Most likely, Linley thought. Now that he was a psychic, he found he liked Baker. The sharp, distant exterior concealed deep hurts. Mark doubted that he had ever been a very likeable individual but appearances, as he well knew, were more than a little deceptive.
"How about the family?" he asked.
"He had an older brother," Baker said. "And three sisters. One sister was caught -- the middle one. The mother and father got away. They're all one one of our Sanctuary worlds now, except one sister: Caroline. She's my wife. She still hasn't given up on Dan -- keeps hoping we'll find him, someday. I hope she's right."
"Are the parents psychics?" Linley asked.
"The father -- and three of the kids: Dan, Laura and Caroline."
The story made Linley shudder. A family of seven: five children, three of whom were psychics, and two of those children had died at the hands of the Jils. The father, and one psychic child, Baker's wife, had survived. Those had indeed been bleak days for Terran psychics; no place to hide and no one to help, except an infant Terran Underground that couldn't possibly be everywhere ...
The meal was concluding. Mark leaned back in his chair, finishing his beer and watching the fire dancers. Lightning slashed across the sky, rain rattled against the windows like bullets and thunder exploded overhead, nearly drowning out the strains of the music. For a second, the emergency lighting flickered, too. Were they going to be reduced to candlelight for the evening's confrontation? He hoped not. This couldn't be put off, and he had to get the killer into a place that could be sealed off without arousing suspicion. A brainstorming session ought to do it.
"More coffee, anyone?" A pretty girl in Polynesian dress stood beside the table, coffeepot in hand. Mark refused and so did the Weavers. Baker and Dean accepted. The fire dancers continued their rhythmic swaying. Wind screamed around the building, and somewhere there was a terrific crash. Something had given way in the gale.
*Mark,* Alan's voice said suddenly in his mind, *I have some information for you. It happened right where you thought it did.*
Mark listened to the details without comment, keeping his gaze fixed on the fire dancers to cover the telepathic communication, until Alan's report concluded.
*Thanks, partner,* he said. *I guess that about clinches it.*
*I guess so.*
*Good work, Mark,* Wanda's telepathic voice said.
*Thanks. Everybody got their cues?*
*Lieutenant Greene and his men are alerted,* Lyn's mental voice reported. *And Pahaui is ready to seal off Sixth on cue.*
*Good. Give him the signal as soon as the last person enters the conference room.*
*Got it,* Alan said. *It's your show, pal. Make it good -- but for Pete's sake, be careful!*
*Careful,* Mark said, seriously, *is my middle name.*
The fire dancers were concluding their performance, amid enthusiastic applause. Mark stood up. "Everyone about finished?"
Everyone was. Weaver also rose. "Colonel Linley has requested that we all meet him in the sixth floor lounge." His gaze took them all in, including Finnar and Meeks. "Everyone be there within ten minutes, please."
**********
Chapter Sixteen
By the time Linley reached the sixth floor, he could hear the wind, louder still, shrieking around the building. Man! Talk about your old, classic murder mysteries! This could have come right out of one. All of the old chestnuts, including "It was a dark and stormy night". Even the emergency lighting seemed dimmer here than it had downstairs. Nerves, he told himself. Everything was all right. The murder case was solved.
Apparently, the room's privacy screen was not included in the emergency generator's hookups, for he felt no change as he entered the area it had covered this morning. A single guard stood at attention before the door. Mark spoke to him softly.
"Be on your toes, and keep your blaster on 'kill' 'til we've got our killer under wraps. Got it?"
"Got it, sir." The young man met his eyes, briefly. "Backup is waiting nearby."
"Good." Without another word, Linley opened the door and entered the conference room.
Quade, Terrence and Dean were already there. A moment later, Finnar and Tang Fu arrived, together. They found seats at the conference table. The door opened as they were sitting down and Baker entered, followed by the Weavers and Jim Francois on a pair of crutches. Baker carried his murder mystery, tucked under one arm. Last of all, Henry Meeks appeared and took the remaining chair, directly opposite Mark, and as far from Finnar as he could, Linley noted. Evidently, their disagreement had still not been resolved.
Thunder crashed suddenly, and Mark barely avoided jumping out of his skin. Better get this show on the road, he decided, before he completely spooked himself out. He rapped on the table with his stylus for attention.
He needn't have bothered. Everyone was looking at him. A quick, clairvoyant scan told him that his efficient partner had already been here. There was a fully charged blaster in the drawer facing him.
"Okay, everybody," he said, "I've got a few things to say before we get down to business, so let's come to order."
"Colonel Linley has the floor," Weaver said, unnecessarily.
"Thank you, sir." He glanced at Meeks. "Mr. Meeks, do you have Mr. Osgood's papers, his notes for the conference, any log or diary he may have kept?"
Meeks looked surprised. "As a matter of fact, I do. I meant to return the diary to his parents."
"I'd like to see it, please. And his notes for the conference. There's a chance we might find something in them that could tell us why he was killed. Can you get them for me?"
"Now?"
"If you would," Mark said, firmly.
"Certainly." Meeks got to his feet. "It will take only a few moments." He went toward the door. Mark turned back to the group.
"I'm going to tell everyone exactly what General Westover and I have been doing, and what we've found," he said. "If anyone has anything to add, or any questions, feel free to ask them. As you all know, we've got an urgent situation here. We can't keep the island isolated forever."
The door closed behind Meeks. Mark crossed his mental fingers.
"We were called here," he began, "because of an attempt to kill Jim Francois. Since our arrival, there have been three more murder attempts, and one success ... Thurmond Osgood III."
Dean interrupted. "Do you *know* that was a murder, Colonel? It appeared to be a drowning."
"Oh, it was a drowning, all right," Mark admitted. "But it was an arranged drowning. Someone held his head forcibly under water long enough for him to drown."
There was a buzz of conversation, quickly silenced.
"Do you have any proof of this?" Admiral Weaver asked.
"Yes, sir, we do," Mark said, firmly. "For one thing, Osgood's body temperature. It was considerably lower than the temperature of the tub. Dead bodies floating in hot tubs don't get cold. He was stored someplace cold -- possibly one of the hotel freezers -- in an attempt to confuse the time of death. Second, there were two, tiny bruises on the sides of his neck, but no other marks of any kind. Third, when he was found, he was wearing his swimming trunks -- and yet, General Westover and I searched his room this morning, and those trunks were in his top drawer. We noticed, and remarked on them because of their color. I believe," he parenthesized, straight-faced, "that it's called 'nude pink', by Adrian of Paris."
Baker snorted. The Arcturian looked blank. "I do not understand."
"Terran culture," Weaver explained. "Only the very rich and fashionable are expected to wear such colors; rather an imitation of the Jilectans, I believe."
The Arcturian's crest rose slightly. "I zink I understand. In many cultures, certain colors or styles of dress are acceptable in one social stratum, but not ozzers."
"That's basically correct," Mark said. "I wouldn't be caught dead wearin' pink swimgear --" Somebody laughed, shortly. "But they're probably pretty standard for Osgood's group. Anyway, we noticed the trunks. And, we noticed something else. His pajamas, robe and slippers were missing."
"I don't see the connection," Quade said.
"That entire suite," Mark said, "was sealed off, and yet, the trunks vanished. The hotel central comp's records show that none of the doors were unlocked, at least not by an electronic key or any other electronic device that would unlock the door via standard comp central control -- and thereby leave a trace -- from the time we searched until Osgood was found. But, someone got in, because the trunks were taken and placed on Osgood's body before he was thrown in the hot tub, to make it look like an accident. Only one kind of person could have opened that door without leaving a trace."
Quade swore softly, and Dean's eyes widened.
"A psychic!" he exclaimed. "A telekinetic!" His gaze swung instantly to Francois. "Well, you little --"
"But, whoever it was tried to kill Jim, too!" Colonel Terrence stared at the psychic. "It doesn't make any sense!"
"It wasn't me," Francois said, quietly.
"Then, who the devil could it have been?" Dean stood up, his face a mask of hatred. "You're the only damn psychic in the committee -- unless you're going to tell us it was Colonel Blake, or one of the Westovers."
"It couldn't possibly have been Colonel Blake," Baker said. "She isn't a telekinetic. You'd better explain, Linley."
"I'm going to," Mark said, firmly, "as soon as everyone stops jumpin' to conclusions and lets me finish.
"We'd just figured out the stuff about the trunks when the attempt was made to kill us with an overloaded blaster. Alan and the others took off right after that and left me with my backup psychic to keep tabs on things."
"What backup psychic?" Baker demanded.
"Nobody's business but his," Linley said. "He took Alan's place temporarily. Together, we managed to locate Osgood's missing nightgear -- packaged up and in the mail. It's at Police Headquarters, now. Somebody, presumably the murderer, had tried real hard to clean 'em, evidently not knowing that silk don't wash well. Osgood was fighting for his life when he died, and scared out of his wits."
"How do you know?" Dean asked, mystified.
"Because he messed his pants, stupid!" Baker snapped. He glanced at Francois. "Osgood was a big guy, Linley. I don't see how little Francois, here, could have fought him and won. He --" Baker broke off suddenly with a sharp intake of breath. His shields snapped up.
Baker had figured it out, Linley thought. The man might not be very likeable, but he was no dummy.
"He couldn't have, of course," Linley agreed. "Yet, the killer *is* a psychic, because the murderer tried to kill my backup psychic with a psychic energy bolt. That was when the killer's mind was felt for the first time, and it confirmed our suspicions."
Quade's and Terrence's shields went up, then Tang Fu's.
"Only one kind of psychic would be physically strong enough to hold a man of Osgood's size and strength under water long enough to drown him," Mark continued, "without leaving any other signs of violence on the body."
"A Jil!" Dean breathed. "But, how could a Jil be here? He'd be too big to pose as a human!"
"Not if the Jil was a female," Mark said, quietly. "And I've just received the signal agreed upon, earlier. Mr. Meeks is under arrest. That's why I sent him out. I had to get him -- her -- on the sixth floor without arousing suspicion, then separate her from potential hostages. But, I didn't dare risk her escape -- even if she took the lot of us hostage."
He stopped talking abruptly. In the silence that followed, someone rapped gently on the door. It opened. Alan Westover stood there, accompanied by Lyn and Wanda Blake.
"Everything all right in here?" he asked, brightly, glancing at the stunned faces of the people at the table.
**********
Chapter Seventeen
The tableau came suddenly to life.
Terry wiped his face with the back of his hand. "Man, Linley, when I realized what you were saying --"
Weaver cleared his throat, started to speak, then cleared it a second time. "A sleeper agent," he said, hoarsely. "She must have been surgically altered to pass as a Terran, years ago, and slowly worked her way into Terran Military Intelligence. It wouldn't take much -- just the hands. The right clothing would cover the rest. Faked health records... She must have simply established herself as a natural shielder by never releasing her shields, to protect herself from Terran psychics. And it almost worked."
"She could have destroyed us all!" Baker croaked. "If not for you, Westover --"
"Not me," Alan contradicted. "Mark figured it out by himself."
"Why do you suppose she killed Osgood?" Anna Weaver asked, slowly. "What better way to draw attention to herself?"
Mark had been thinking about that ever since he had realized who and what Thurmond Osgood's killer must be, and he answered her.
"I'm not sure, Admiral, but I can make an educated guess. You're right; it wasn't a very smart move, especially for someone as intelligent as this Lady is. I think Osgood's murder wasn't planned. I think something happened that demanded his death right away. If she'd had time to plan, we'd probably have never caught on at all."
"What do you suppose it was?"
Mark almost shrugged, but stopped himself in time. "We'll probably never know for sure, but when we left Meeks and Osgood that night, Osgood was furious with us, 'cause Lyn had raked him down good. I noticed when we searched his room, that the lock on the door between the rooms was broken. He might have decided to talk to Meeks about it and gone in without warning. If he caught the Lady with her clothes off, or something, she'd have had to kill him to keep her secret."
"Poor Osgood," Lyn said, softly.
Mark wisely refrained from comment. "Anyhow, tonight, while we were at dinner, at my request, Alan checked the bathroom in Meeks' old room," he continued. "Lyn had done it before, but she isn't a psychometrist, and there was no physical evidence to find. But Alan did find something. That's when we knew for sure that Meeks was the one we were after."
His partner spoke up. "There were traces of fear, recent violence and death. Osgood was drowned with his face in the sink. If I'd waited much longer, I might not have found it. As it is, the evidence wouldn't stand up in court, but now it won't need to." He paused. "In a way, we owe Osgood something. If it hadn't been for his murder, the Terran Underground would have been finished."
Terry nodded, still looking shaken. "It looks like you figured it out pretty well, Mark. But, there's something I don't understand. Why did the Lady try to kill Jim? Her history of being a natural shielder would have protected her from any mind probe attempts from him. Why did she do it?"
"Maybe she saw him and panicked?" Quade suggested, uncertainly.
"Not *that* Lady," Baker said. "She had us all fooled, and she wasn't the type to panic. Any ideas, Linley?"
"You're right, Terry," Mark said. "Once she was here on the Maui and had discovered that Terran Military Intelligence is the force behind the Terran Underground, her best move would have been to lie low and behave herself until she could pass on what she knew. Then, someone tried to kill Jim Francois. That must have been quite a shock. Here comes a team of special investigators to check things out and make it hot for her."
"Hold on! Hold on!" Baker was on his feet. "What are you saying, now? That we've got *two* murderers here?"
Dean stood up beside him. "That makes no sense, Colonel! None of us would try to kill a fellow Undergrounder! It must have been the Lady!"
"It wasn't," Mark said, grimly. "Think about it. The difference in the crimes. Osgood's murder was quick and quiet. If it hadn't been for the attempts on Jim and on us, probably no one would have guessed that it wasn't an accident. But, the murder attempts were different. Every one of them was clumsy, and involved almost insane risks. I'm positive that if Meeks had made up his -- or her -- mind to kill Jim, he would be dead, now." He paused. "Alan, would you take over, now? You're better at this sort of thing than I am."
**********
(tbc)
