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  ‘No,’ replied Psimon. ‘We still have a few hours to kill. I’ve booked us a room so that we can freshen up and relax for a while.’

  ‘Where abouts?’ asked Steve switching on the GPS unit and working his way through the menu.

  ‘I thought you preferred the paper kind.’

  ‘Just tell me where we’re staying psyche-boy.’

  Psimon smiled and gave Steve the name.

  ‘Not exactly the Royal Palms, is it?’ said Steve as he grabbed his travel bag from the back seat of the car.

  The Bridge hostel was a small complex of apartments used mainly by yacht crews from the innumerable craft moored up in Fort Lauderdale.

  ‘It’s clean and comfortable,’ said Psimon as they climbed the short flight of steps to the upper floor of the pink coloured building. Their apartment was basic but more than adequate for their means, two bedrooms with a shared bathroom and a small kitchen-dining area.

  Steve took a shower first while Psimon grabbed the chance to lie down on a proper bed for a while. He lay on the comfortable mattress and closed his eyes. Here in the bright Florida sunlight he could almost convince himself that he was safe. But he knew that he was not. Distance was no bar to the evil that stalked him. Still, the temptation to forget the James Randi Foundation and stay in the US for as long as possible was incredibly strong. And yet he knew he could not do it… knew he would not do it. If he was to die soon then the world should at least know that he had existed, that someone like him had existed. No, he would go back… he would just close his eyes for a while…

  Psimon started from sleep.

  ‘It’s all yours,’ said Steve, tousling his hair with a towel and bending over the street map that was laid out on the breakfast bar.

  Psimon felt a strange kind of disorientation as he picked up the towel from the end of his bed and made his way through the apartment towards the bathroom.

  Steve now had his elbows on the map and was tracing a route with his finger. ‘Yep,’ he said pensively. ‘That will do nicely.’

  He tapped the map with his fingertips and walked over to his jacket. He did not appear to notice the distracted expression on Psimon’s face or the stiffness with which he held himself.

  ‘Here are the keys to the apartment,’ he said, laying them down on the counter. ‘Lock the door when I go out and don’t open it for anyone but me.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Psimon in a voice that seemed to echo in his ears. To Psimon the room was growing suddenly darker as someone on the other side of the world was waking up from a deeply troubled sleep. And with consciousness came the fear; fear so great that it eclipsed everything, even the brilliance of the midday Florida sun.

  ‘To rent a car,’ said Steve as he opened the door to the apartment.

  ‘But we already have a car.’

  Psimon began to tremble.

  ‘You concentrate on the million-dollar challenge,’ said Steve checking his wallet for the money he would need. ‘Leave the escape and evasion to me.’

  He tucked his wallet back into his pocket and grabbed the handle of the door.

  ‘You look wrecked,’ he told Psimon. ‘Get yourself a shower, I won’t be long.’

  And with that he shut the door and left.

  Psimon just stood there, unable to move as the fear crept like a foul smell into his world. ‘Steve…’ he breathed in the barely audible voice of a frightened little boy. ‘Steve…’ he said again as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

  But Steve was gone…

  Psimon was on his own.

  Chapter 12

  He was naked.

  He was cold.

  He was terrified.

  The psychiatrist tried to get up but found that he could not. His hands were tied behind his back and his feet too were bound. A wire gag had been drawn tight across his mouth forcing him to breathe through his nose in short, shallow gasps, and the presence of a soggy, unidentifiable mass in his mouth made him want to retch. He was lying on his side on bare flagstones that felt cold, dank and tacky against his skin. Beside him lay a copy of his book, ‘Silencing the Voices’. The front cover was missing.

  Struggling up through the cloying mire of unnatural sleep he tried to focus his eyes on his gloomy surroundings. He appeared to be in some kind of church or chapel.

  There were church pews, the aisle between them leading to a studded wooden door with a black cross carved into it. With painful torpidity he craned his neck round to look behind him… an altar, a heavy marble altar… a large unlit candle at either end. In the wall behind the altar a stained glass window, the fractured panes of colour rendered dull and lifeless by the meagre light of distant street lamps. And there, on the bare stone walls, hung a large wooden crucifix. But something was wrong. The crucifix looked wrong…

  The psychiatrist stared at the crucifix but his strained vision and groggy mind could not make sense of it. All he knew was that this symbol of love and deliverance brought him no comfort, no comfort at all. He was still staring at the crucifix when a door opened. Not the large main door but a small postern door to the side of the altar.

  The psychiatrist twisted round, his mind igniting with hope and fear in equal measure.

  Hope vanished, the fear remained…

  A man had entered… a large, broad-shouldered man, dressed like a church acolyte in a black cassock and white, lace-trimmed cotta. He approached the altar, head bowed, one hand shielding the small flame of the taper that he carried close to his chest. He reached the central aisle, turned to face the altar and genuflected, his trailing foot coming within inches of the terrified psychiatrist. He rose and, stepping up to the altar, he lit the right-hand candle. Then he genuflected once more before crossing the altar to light the candle on the left. He blew out his small waxed taper and placed it on a wooden table to the side of the altar. Then, from the table he lifted a small silver bell and gave it a little shake; the bright, tinkling refrain sounding strangely obscene in the grim confines of the chapel.

  The psychiatrist was shaking uncontrollably, arching himself round, trying to keep the sinister acolyte in view.

  The acolyte came to stand beside the prone figure of the psychiatrist who cowered at his feet, too frightened even to look up at his captor. Then suddenly the acolyte bent down and grabbed the psychiatrist by the arms, hauling him from the floor to stand awkwardly before the altar.

  The psychiatrist cried out in pain as the cord around his wrists bit into the flesh, tearing the skin. He felt blood running down his hand, dripping from his fingertips. But he felt something else too. He felt the cord slip in the wetness, felt his swollen hand squeezing through the lubricated grip of the ligature.

  From the corner of his eye the psychiatrist saw the acolyte make the sign of the cross.

  ‘Amen,’ said the acolyte in a deep guttural voice.

  There was a short pause in which the psychiatrist tried to free his hand without drawing attention to it.

  ‘And also with you,’ said the acolyte as if in answer to the blessing from an absent priest.

  With a small mutinous jerk the psychiatrist’s hand came free. He flicked a fearful glance to his side as he tried to work some feeling back into his numb fingers. Then, knowing he had only one chance he clenched his fingers and formed a bloody fist.

  Beside him the acolyte bowed his head and closed his eyes

  ‘I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters…’ he began.

  The psychiatrist held his breath, tried to adjust his balance.

  ‘…that he has sinned through his own faults, in his thoughts and in his words, in what he has done, and in what he has failed to do…’

  The psychiatrist struck with all the force of desperation. His fist made solid contact with his captor’s jaw, snatching the acolyte’s unsuspecting head to one side. The psychiatrist swivelled his bound feet and struck again, another good blow striking home. He aimed a third, feeling the hope well up in his naked chest but his hope
was crushed, as were his fingers, by the massive hand that closed around his fist. He tried to strike with his other hand but the acolyte caught hold of his wrist and drew himself up to his full, intimidating height. The psychiatrist looked up into eyes that were as black and expressionless as coal. He was paralysed by the utter darkness of the man’s gaze.

  For a terrible moment the acolyte looked down upon the psychiatrist with his dead, black eyes. Then with savage speed he smashed his head down into the psychiatrist’s face. The psychiatrist collapsed under the brutal attack as his nose and the orbit of his left eye were broken. The acolyte dragged the semi-conscious man across the floor to the foot of the wall beneath the inverted crucifix. Then he stepped back and disappeared through the small postern door.

  Now, struggling to breathe through the gag and his broken nose, the psychiatrist began to cry, the tears seeping out from his badly swollen eye. With his good eye he looked around to see where his tormentor had gone, praying that he would not return.

  His prayers went unanswered.

  The acolyte returned, and what he carried in his hands made the psychiatrist recoil in horror. In his right hand the acolyte carried a large black hammer; in his left a fistful of long, thick nails. Pathetically the psychiatrist tried to shuffle away but the acolyte caught hold of him and pushed him to the floor. He knelt on his wrist and put one large nail in the centre of his palm.

  The psychiatrist let out a stifled cry, trying in vain to pull his arm free. With his free arm he battered ineffectually at the acolyte’s head and shoulders, then he screamed as the hammer came down and the nail punched through his hand giving a muted ring as it struck the hard paving stones beneath. The psychiatrist began to lose consciousness as the acolyte moved to his other hand. He gave a tortured moan as the hammer fell a second time.

  The acolyte grabbed the psychiatrist’s right arm and pulled him up until his hand was level with the crosspiece of the large wooden crucifix. With one huge hand he held it steady while, with the other, he drove the nail deep into the thick piece of solid oak. He repeated the procedure with the psychiatrist’s left hand and stepped back.

  The psychiatrist was now unconscious once more. Hanging limply from the inverted crucifix his body formed a grotesque mirror to the depiction of Christ that hung on the wall above him.

  Lucifer looked at the heretic, the imagery not going unnoticed. He put down the hammer and returned to his place before the altar. Then he bowed his head and continued with the service that had been so inexcusably interrupted.

  *

  ‘I thought I told you to lock the door,’ said Steve as he re-entered the apartment carrying a bag of food that he had picked up from a nearby store.

  He shut the door and looked round the room. Seeing no sign of Psimon he started for the bedroom, then he stopped in his tracks, the brown paper bag falling from his grasp.

  ‘Oh shit!’ cursed Steve as he caught sight of Psimon.

  Psimon was leaning unnaturally against the wall, head bowed, arms stretched out wide, the backs of his hands pressed flat against the wall. And in the centre of each hand a blood-black bruise that looked fresh and intensely painful.

  ‘Psimon,’ said Steve coming to kneel before him. ‘Psimon, can you hear me?’

  Steve reached up to help Psimon into a more comfortable position. His legs were not even straight beneath him and Steve could not see how he was holding himself up. He put his hands under Psimon’s armpits and began to take his weight.

  As Psimon’s hands came away from the wall he drew a rasping breath and collapsed into Steve’s embrace.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Steve lowering him gently to the floor.

  Psimon began to sob.

  ‘Psimon, it’s okay. I’ve got you now,’ repeated Steve trying to reassure him but Psimon clutched at Steve’s chest, turning his face up to look at him.

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed Steve at the sight of Psimon’s face. He looked as if he had taken a good beating. His nose and brow were badly bruised; his left eye almost closed with the swelling.

  ‘He crucified him,’ sobbed Psimon. ‘Oh, God, Steve… he crucified him…’

  ‘Who, Psimon?’ he asked. ‘Who did this to you?’

  ‘Not me,’ protested Psimon trying to push away from Steve. ‘Him!’ he said with conviction. ‘He crucified him!’

  Steve felt his blood run cold. Despite his years of dealing with violence he felt suddenly out of his depth.

  Psimon slumped back against the wall while Steve knelt before him.

  ‘He’s going to kill me,’ said Psimon with dreadful certainty.

  ‘No!’ said Steve reaching out to gently cup Psimon’s chin. He stared at Psimon, looking directly into the clear grey depths of his unblemished eye. ‘No, he is not.’

  ‘Then you must,’ said Psimon.

  Steve’s jaw bunched and he closed his eyes. ‘Not this again,’ he thought.

  ‘But you would,’ pleaded Psimon. ‘If it was the only way to save me from him… you would, wouldn’t you Steve?’

  Steve opened his eyes to look at Psimon once more. He said nothing. He still refused to accept this nonsense about killing Psimon and yet there was a hardness and unflinching resolution to his gaze that seemed to offer Psimon some comfort

  ‘Thank you,’ said Psimon and finally his breathing began to calm.

  ‘You can’t,’ said Steve a half-hour later when he had tended to Psimon’s injuries and they were sitting together at the breakfast bar.

  ‘Yes I can,’ said Psimon, putting down the ice pack and stuffing the last piece of a cinnamon and raisin bagel in his mouth. He winced as he brushed a few crumbs from the bandages that Steve had applied to his bruised hands.

  ‘Just call them. Tell them you’ve had an accident.’

  Steve could not believe how quickly Psimon had recovered from his earlier state of distress. He also found it impossible to believe that Psimon’s injuries were the result of something that had been done to someone else on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. And yet…

  ‘No,’ said Psimon draining his can of Pepsi and rising somewhat unsteadily from his stool. ‘We take the million-dollar challenge in…’ he looked at his watch. ‘…just over half an hour.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ pressed Steve.

  ‘Absolutely,’ insisted Psimon. He reached for his canvas bag but Steve shouldered it for him.

  ‘Besides,’ said Psimon with a glint in his one good eye. ‘I can’t wait to see James Randi’s face when he signs over that cheque.’

  Steve shook his head as they started for the door. ‘You’ve a wicked streak in you, young man,’ he said.

  ‘You have no idea,’ replied Psimon with a smile.

  ‘How can you smile?’ asked Steve. ‘With all this going on… how do you stay so damned cheerful?’

  Psimon stopped in the doorway and looked back at Steve.

  ‘Have you ever known someone who lived with constant pain?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Steve remembering his mum in the last few years of her life.

  ‘And did she ever smile?’

  Steve closed the door to the apartment.

  ‘All the time,’ he said as he turned the key in the lock. ‘All the time.’

  Psimon smiled and nodded gently. Then together they descended the steps, climbed into their hire car and headed for the James Randi Educational Foundation, an institution whose very existence was based on the premise that true paranormal phenomena could not be shown to exist.

  They were about to learn otherwise.

  Chapter 13

  ‘We should have turned right there,’ said Psimon turning in his seat to look down Davie Boulevard on which the Randi Foundation was situated.

  ‘Chill out,’ said Steve watching the road ahead of them. ‘We’re just taking a small detour. We’ve plenty of time.’

  There was a note of confident satisfaction in Steve’s voice that Psimon found pleasing. He settled back in his seat content to leave his fate in S
teve’s hands. He felt no desire to ‘know’ where they were going. He was enjoying the fact that Steve knew what he was doing. That was enough.

  For a few minutes they continued north up South Andrews Avenue before taking a right and stopping outside a multi-storey car park. Steve pulled into the side, unbuckled his seat belt and dug in his pocket for some loose change.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said, looking at Psimon to make sure he was okay with that.

  Psimon gave him a nod of reassurance and Steve climbed out of the car. He walked quickly towards the parking lot and disappeared inside. Psimon waited. He saw two cars enter the lot and one emerge from the exit, the security barrier rising smartly to let it pass. Then before he knew it the car door opened and Steve swung inside. He opened a small compartment in the dashboard and tucked a printed card inside. Then he started the car and checked his mirror.

  ‘Okay, Uri Geller…’ said Steve, pulling a neat one-eighty in the middle of the road, ‘…time to do your stuff.’

  The foundation was smaller than Steve had been expecting. He had anticipated something on the scale of a university or hospital but it turned out to be fairly modest building with white walls and a terracotta tiled roof. There was a large red sign to the side of the building…

  201 James Randi Educational Foundation

  They were met in the reception area by a tall man in a red shirt.

  ‘Psimon?’ ventured the man glancing down at his watch. ‘You’re right on… Jeez, what happened to you?’ he exclaimed when he raised his head to look at Psimon properly.

  Steve interjected before Psimon could say a thing.

  ‘Kids and motorbikes… what can you say?’ he said with an awkward laugh.

  ‘Yeah, sure...’ said the man distractedly. Then to Psimon, ‘Are you okay? Can we get you anything?’

  ‘No. Thanks. I’m fine,’ said Psimon. His smile looked painful and lopsided, his black eye and swollen nose gave him the appearance of having been recently mugged. He held out one bandaged hand. ‘It’s Jeff isn’t it?’