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The Case of the Left Hand of Thoth
by Mark Hodder (2006) Chapter One Paul Gunner Misses a Meeting They approached Paul Gunner, the elderly President of Holloway-Stoddard Industries, at the airport at eleven in the morning, grabbed his arm, and surreptitiously injected a drug into it. ‘A needle projecting from a ring worn on his third finger,’ thought Gunner as a strange warmth flooded into his skull. He became compliant and mumbled “Whatzuh matter?” as his head fell forward. “Just come with us please, sir. You’ve been taken ill.” The men were tall and bulky and dressed in black suits. The speaker, the largest of the pair, had a short beard and an open collar. The other was blonde and pale and brutal-looking. He wore a loud, tasteless tie. Gunner allowed them to lead him out of the airport and into the car park. He deliberately stumbled and swayed, mumbling incoherently. They stopped by a white van with tinted widows and opened the back doors. “Whuh?” drawled Gunner. “Up you get, sir — into the ambulance.” He was hoisted into the van and slumped onto a mattress in the back. The bearded man climbed in beside him and pulled the doors shut. His colleague got into the front and started the engine. As the vehicle began moving, Gunner allowed his head to roll slightly. The drug was stronger than he’d predicted and his cranium felt inflated like a big balloon. From beneath half closed eyes, he examined the bearded man. He saw manicured nails and well cared-for skin; meticulously trimmed facial hair and large hazel-coloured eyes. The suit was expensive and specially tailored to disguise the bulge beneath the left arm. ‘Dangerous,’ thought Gunner, ‘Very dangerous!’ He groaned loudly and slurred, “Muzzin miss meetin. Godda fly t’ Noo Yurk.” “Quiet now,” said his guard. “You won’t be going to New York today but you can phone your secretary later and she’ll reschedule for you.” “Gurrr,” said Gunner and pretended to lapse into semi-oblivion. Then it occurred to him that he wasn’t really pretending, so he made a concerted effort to focus his mind by trying to calculate how far they were travelling and in what direction. The movement of the van made his jowls wobble. It felt peculiar to have an old face. After a journey of maybe less than two miles, a sharp turn was followed by a sudden stop and the engine died. He concluded that they were still on the outskirts of the airport. “Keep your eyes closed,” said the bearded man. Gunner complied. He heard the doors yanked open. His ankles were grabbed and he was pulled halfway out of the vehicle, helped to stand, then manoeuvred and lowered into a wheelchair. It was pushed up a ramp and he felt the quality of the air change as he entered a building. “Fnurrr,” he murmured. Gunner was wheeled along a straight corridor but the narcotic made it feel like he was sliding down a lengthy spiral. “Nearly there, sir.” From the corner of his slitted right eye, he saw a plain cream-coloured wall and a linoleum-covered floor. He was pushed past three metal doors, marked Room 1, Room 3 and Room 5, then in through a fourth: Room 7. As far as he could see, the room beyond was completely empty. The bearded man steered him across it and in through another door. Gunner caught a glimpse of a table before closing his eyes fully as the wheelchair came to a halt. He was lifted out of it, shifted to his left and lowered into a chair. This was pushed forward until he felt the edge of the table gently nudge against him, just below his breastbone. From in front, a deep, oddly melodious voice said, “Thank you. Please leave.” He heard the bearded man move away and out of the door which clicked shut. Forty seconds of silence followed. He smelt cigarette smoke and sensed eyes upon him. From behind, a gentle tread brought someone up to the back of his chair. Cold, dry hands closed on either side of his face and lifted his head into an upright position, holding it still. Beneath the grasp, the unfamiliar elasticity and wrinkling of his face felt horrible. “Open your eyes, Mr Gunner,” said the velvety voice. He slowly raised his eyelids and allowed his pupils to remain unfocused for a few seconds before finally looking directly at his kidnapper. The man sitting opposite was cadaverously thin; emaciated, in fact. Blotched, bloodless skin stretched over a long narrow face; the lips were pulled taught over yellow teeth and seemed fixed in a mirthless grin. He was wearing a white laboratory coat. The man’s eyes were slightly slanted and such a pale grey as to seem almost white, like a wolf’s. They held immense power and, as Gunner looked into them, he felt his attention irresistibly locked into place. “Ah,” sighed his skeletal host, “I see that you’re with me.” “Wuz wrong?” mumbled Gunner. “Am I ill?” “Don’t worry Mr Gunner. You’ll be perfectly fine. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Doctor Quaestor.” Gunner began to feel nauseous as the drug battled with the protective agents he’d swallowed three hours previously. He tried to slump forward but the hands on his face held him fast. Quaestor lifted a cigarette and took a deep drag. When he continued speaking, the smoke billowed out from his nose and mouth: “Mr Gunner, you understand that I care for you welfare? You recognise my concern for your wellbeing? Can you see in my eyes that I’m your friend?” ‘Hypnosis,’ thought Gunner, and his psychological countermeasures automatically fell into place. “Yezz,” he said. “Good. I’m very pleased to hear that. I only want what’s best for you. And it will take some treatment. You’ve had a very bad attack. You’ll be with us for two days, at least. But there’s really nothing to worry about. We’ll have you right as reign in no time at all.” Gunner licked his lips. His mouth felt dry and the room was slowly somersaulting around him. The man opposite was an unbelievably powerful mesmerist. Gunner had encountered the art many times in the past but never had he felt so threatened by it. “First things first,” oozed Quaestor, “I believe you were due to fly to New York for a meeting?” “Um. Yezz. Meeding.” “Well, I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible. You’ll have to reschedule. Look at me, Mr Gunner; I’m going to make everything alright, yes? Speak clearly please.” “Yes,” said Gunner, keeping his eyes fixed on the lupine gaze. “Yes, everything’s alright.” “So, the first thing we need to organise is your timetable. I suggest you telephone your secretary and have her set a new date for the meeting — let’s say five days from now. That’s the 19th. What do you think? I’m right. aren’t I?” “Yes.” Doctor Quaestor reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a mobile phone. “Now,” he said, “I want you to speak clearly and naturally. No slurring or mumbling, you understand? Can you manage that?” “I understand,” said Gunner. “I want you to call your secretary and make the arrangements as we’ve agreed.” “I will.” “Can you hold your head up?” “Yes.” “Here you are then. Just reschedule the meeting and tell her that you’re having private medical treatment, that it’s an emergency and a personal matter, and that you’ll see her again on the 18th and will fly to New York on the 19th or thereafter. Understood?” “Yes.” The man standing behind him removed his hands and Gunner allowed his head to wobble slightly as if he were struggling to keep it stable which, in fact, he was. Quaestor slipped the mobile across the table and Gunner picked it up. He held it in his palm and slowly started dialling with his thumb, concentrating hard. He angled it so that the screen reflected the man behind. Gunner saw a shockingly white face, white hair and pink eyes and nearly dropped the phone in shock. He recognised the features but knew he must be mistaken, for they were those of a man who’d died during the Second World War. He finished dialling and raised the mobile to his ear. “Look at me while you talk, Mr Gunner,” ordered the doctor. The dial tone buzzed three times before a young female voice answered: “Hello?” “Hello Miss Williams,” said Gunner, staring into Quaestor's eyes, “I have a problem.” |