Free Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee

the same
letter-numerals. He touched the screen again, for Today’s Lucky Stone. It was Emerald . The alert had
heightened, from blue to green. Nothing had come up on the radio, TV or other
legitimate news outlets, which he had also been checking fairly regularly. This
afternoon his new schedule began, and he was due back in Trench Street around 9
a.m. tomorrow. He considered contacting Latham now. But if Latham had decided
there should be contact, it would probably have happened, and had not. And
first thing this morning, even before going out, Carver had again run through
the existing files on his computer, particularly the file on The Third Scar . Everything was
there, nothing seemed altered or obscured, in any way. He retained therefore
his permit, and could study and work on them as normal. Which implied he was
not, then, (was he?) suspect.
    Carver
went down to the kitchen and put bacon in the steel pan to fry. His body was
hungry and the smell pleased it, although his mind moved uneasily elsewhere.
    The
woods, an hour and a half after dawn, had been empty of anything unusual, let
alone informative. He had not really anticipated much else. The image of the
black-camouflaged man, however odd it had appeared, had been real, concrete, a
fact. Its behaviour, its apparent tricks of visibility and vanishment might even
be due to some coincidental, quirky but logical happenstance. For could it –
he – have been certain anyway he was under surveillance? The intruder was most
probably a nobody up to nothing at all.
    But
should Carver inform Latham of the man in the woods?
    It
seemed more prudent, and less edgy, to tell Latham in person tomorrow.
    Carver
would need though to drop in on Robby J, say that he had kept an eye
out, and had noted somebody around.
But Carver thought he would add the man was most likely a wildlife-spotter.
(Maybe he even was.) The main thing in any case was to deter Johnston from
calling in the police, which could cause muddle, some kind of cluttering up,
either of the perfectly innocuous – that might then turn resentful (the
wildlife-fan becoming nasty and summoning  his mates once the law had gone) – or,
if the source were other, untidy any genuine evidence.
    Carver
knew, despite the untampered-with files, despite his being let go, free it
seemed as air after Latham had played him the surreal recording, that all
curious follow-up events could well have their source in Mantik.
    Without
quite being shown it at first, a leash might be on Carver now. Loose fitting
enough it felt he could do as he wanted. Yet just now and then, almost to be
glimpsed from the corners of his eyes, felt as it tapped, gentle, noose–like, on his
neck.
     
    Going back
through the wooded lane, heading for Johnston’s cottage about 10 a.m., Carver
found automatically he still scanned from side to side. But of course there
was nothing, as there had been nothing valid detectable by him during his
initial search. If available, he would have found it then. Instead he had noted
the slight disturbance created by animals and birds, and further along one of
the pub returnees, who had piddled up a tree then lost his footing and broken
some branches, leaving a thread from trousers or jacket snagged there. The ground,
aside from the area by the peed-on tree, was unmoist, and had taken no imprint
of footware. Leaves were down everywhere also, covering and artistically
blending. Even where the male figure had stood immobile for such a long while,
over twenty-five minutes, no notable impression marked the earth. Nor had he broken a single
twig. Not even with that one impressive step that sequentially and utterly hid
him.
    Robby
J was up and making tea in his kitchen.
    “Hi,
Car. Can I offer you some of this disgusting brew? No. Wise choice. Christ
knows what they put in these T-bags now. Dung and senna pods from the taste.”
    Carver
relayed the edited version of last night’s vigil, and the verdict (hardly ‘Any
Judge’s Main’