Post_Traumatic Disorder by Dr. Amazing

This is a work of fiction. Tomb Raider and Lara Croft are both trademark and copyright of EIDOS Interactive and Core design. All other characters are copyright of the author.
I would welcome your comments, (complimentary or critical), which can be addressed to: dramazin@alphalink.com.au

This story is a sequel to the Swimsuit Contest and, applying logic, should be read after it. To do otherwise would probably ruin both stories for the reader. This story contains violent and sexual content (but far less than its predecessor) and is suggested for mature readers (15 and over).
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Chapter 1. An Eccentric Englishman.

Lara Croft was uncharacteristically nervous while she waited for Falshingham's servants to inform her host of her arrival. She moved around the foyer, studying the statues that stood in wall recesses. They were beautifully crafted, some of them priceless, all of them indicators of her host's wealth and taste.
'He keeps his gargoyles hidden,' she thought, more aware of Falshingham's eccentricities than most of his visitors would be.
She shuffled her feet restlessly, eager to speak with her host. The waiting annoyed her despite the luxury of the foyer. She did not sit in the plush sofa provided; she was too uneasy for that. Patience was a virtue she had not been blessed with, but it was more than that. Ever since her last adventure she found it hard to relax. Whenever she stepped outside her front door she found herself irritable and edgy. Although she had visited Falshingham often before and had thoroughly enjoyed each visit, she was nevertheless anxious to conclude her business here and return home.
"Lara! Lovely to see you again!"
Eric Falshingham's deep voice boomed from the top of the staircase, startling her.
"Lovely to hear you Eric," said Lara ruefully, rubbing her ears.
Falshingham moved down the stairs, chuckling to himself. He moved gracefully, with the agility of a young man, despite the grey hairs on his head. He wore an immaculate dark suit and he was carrying a rolled up magazine in his left hand.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked her up and down. She was wearing a short skirt and a tight T-shirt, highlighting her curvaceous figure. She did not object to Falshingham's attention: she was proud of her body and her host's gaze was full of admiration, rather than desire.
"And what brings a celebrity like yourself into my humble home?"
Lara frowned. This was not his usual greeting. "Celebrity?"
He smiled and unrolled the magazine in his hand, showing her its cover. It was Sports Incorporated's Swimsuit Edition and Lara saw Peter Chifley's prize-winning cover photograph: a picture of her.
In the photograph she was lying, on her stomach, across an ancient altar. Her bikini-clad breasts were pressed against the altar runes, creating an impressive cleavage. The angle of the photo also showed her trim waist and firm behind. She was smiling into the camera, her eyes gleaming seductively.
Lara reacted to the photo as if struck. There was a sharp intake of breath and she paled visibly.
Falshingham quickly rolled up the magazine. "My apologies Lara. I did not mean to offend you."
He knew as he said them that his words were inaccurate. She did not look offended, a look he knew well enough; she looked frightened. He found the concept of Lara Croft being fearful almost unbelievable.
Lara set her mouth in a tight line. "Well, since you've brought it up, it was my adventure in photo modelling I came to see you about." Her tone was wry, but the humour seemed strained.
"Madunai Island? Of course." Falshingham was relieved to see that she had recovered from his faux pas, though he wasn't exactly sure what it had been. "Come into my sanctum."
From her previous visits Lara knew what he referred to. She moved with him to the back to the staircase, where Falshingham opened a small, hidden door. His arm swept forwards in a gesture of invitation and she moved past him onto a narrow stairway. Stone steps spiralled down into a dark, medieval dungeon. It was a stairway to another world. Wall torches lit the area, casting flickering shadows over the room's weird accoutrements. Shackles hung from the dark stone walls. An iron maiden stood like a sentinel near the foot of the stairs: it was closed, hiding its nefarious interior. Near a distant wall stood an ancient wooden wheel, designed like a waterwheel, though the shackles that adorned it revealed that human victims, rather than water, had once been moved upon it.
"I do wonder about you Falshingham," teased Lara.
"And so you should," he replied. "My hobby rarely inspires trust but I assure you that these grim devices are merely to set the mood, as it were."
The pentagram carved into the floor was not as obvious in the dim light as the morbid equipment around it, though it was the best evidence of Falshingham's hobby.
Lara and Falshingham moved over the pentagram into a corner of the dungeon where ancient tomes stood on wooden shelves. "I assume it is information you have come here for?" asked Falshingham.
She smiled. She could hear the frustration in his voice. "Were you hoping I'd ask for a curse to be put on one of my rivals?"
He laughed. "It would be more of a challenge for my talents," he said, "though I admit I am more reliable as a source of lore."
"So… how successful are your curses?" she asked, humouring him.
He smiled a secretive smile. "One hundred per cent successful," he boasted.
"And how many, exactly, have you done?"
He laughed a deep, rumbling laugh. "Ah Lara, you see right through me! I have laid only one curse and its target died within a week, though he was already grievously ill."
"A safe target?"
"Yes, but not safe in the way you mean. My little flirtation with dark magic took little away from a man already terminally ill, a man who had already lived longer than he deserved to."
Lara looked at him silently for a few moments, wondering whether he spoke the truth. To her knowledge he had never lied to her. In previous meetings he had made some incredible statements, had presented some unbelievable facts, most of which had proven accurate and none of which had been completely untrue. Despite his weird hobby, despite his morbid lair, she had come to trust him.
"Do you find such morality a hindrance in the occult arts?" she asked.
"Yes and no," he answered, deadly serious. "It prevents me from doing many things, working the Black Arts, though I study them extensively. On the other hand, without morality to guide me, I am convinced that rather than ruling the occult, the occult would rule me."
She believed she understood. She knew too well how power could corrupt.
"So!" he exclaimed, breaking an uneasy silence with his booming voice. "Do you seek information about what you encountered on your last adventure?"
She nodded.
"Lara, Lara, Lara," he said, his manner that of a stern headmaster. "How many times have I told you that the time to gain insight is before an adventure, not after?"
She shrugged. She knew what he was going to say but she was resigned to hearing it again. It was, she reflected, the price he demanded for his services.
"You study archaeology, you train in your martial arts and you are exceptionally competent, I'm told, with your guns. You prepare yourself in these ways yet you ignore arcane knowledge! And the type of artefacts you seek demand such knowledge!"
She nodded obediently, trying to hide a smile.
"Remember the dagger of Xian? One time you sought me out before seeking the artefact?"
"Yes Falshingham. Your insights were invaluable…"
"They saved your life my dear! If you had not known the dagger's power you could never have defeated the dragon!"
"I agree Falshingham and, believe me, I am grateful. But I cannot always anticipate when I will encounter the supernatural. My last adventure is a good case in point."
"But that is precisely my point. If you cannot know when you will need arcane knowledge, you should always be prepared. If you cannot predict what information you will need, you should learn as much as you can, rather than take only the scraps I give you."
"Looking for a student, professor?" she teased him.
"Well… yes, damn it all! My own daughter is convinced I'm demented. My only attempt to gain her interest was a disaster. We never discuss my hobby now.
"A lifetime of knowledge, Lara, would be a terrible waste, if not passed on. And you have seen enough, experienced enough, to value what I teach you."
She studied his distinguished face in the flickering torchlight, surprised by the intensity in his eyes. She considered his offer. She had often wondered why he had always been so generous with his time, so eager to assist her. In her experience she often discovered such helpfulness concealed an ulterior motive but she could tell from the way he looked at her that he was not motivated by lechery. She now believed she understood his reasons.
A few months ago his offer would have fascinated her. Now she found it daunting.
She sat on the low wooden stocks that served as her usual seat in his sanctum. "Perhaps if you improved the amenities here," she said, temporising.
"Say the word Lara and I'll arrange any refurbishing you desire."
His gaze was unwavering but she could not agree, not now. "I will consider it Falshingham," she said slowly. "I agree with what you've said, but I will need time to decide."
He nodded. His face was not disappointed, if anything he seemed pleased. "A wise response. I would prefer you to be committed to the study rather than only casually interested. I know, from your achievements in archaeology, that you will be an excellent student. And your life experiences will have prepared you to accept things that others would deny."
He smiled at her, a warm, genuine smile in the dank environment. "Well then, tell me about Madunai Island."
Lara's face paled. The dungeon was suddenly quieter, its shadows deeper and more threatening.
He was sensitive to the change in her mood. His face creased in a concerned frown. "Was it so terrible?"
She saw the altar again, saw the skeletal hands breaking through its rippling, unreal surface. She remembered being on the altar, remembered, all too well, the hands scrambling over her body like spiders, clutching fiercely at her body, tearing at her clothes.
She shut her eyes, but it did not help. Crombie's face loomed in her mind, with his lascivious smile and his cruel, grasping hands. And in his eyes was the malevolence of the demon.
"Lara!"
Falshingham's alarmed shout brought her back to the present. The dungeon seemed like home when compared to her gruesome memories.
"I'm sorry Falshingham. I… drifted off there."
"So I saw. Madunai has clearly had an impact on you. If you wish to speak about it, I would be pleased to hear."
He paused but Lara was not yet willing to speak.
"The official story, blaming all the deaths on the archaeologist who went insane… I'm sure there's more to tell."
Lara remained silent and her beautiful dark eyes looked haunted.
Falshingham sighed. "Of course, if you would prefer not to divulge Madunai's secrets, I will instead provide any specific information you need."
"There was a demon," murmured Lara, almost too soft to be heard. "A demon summoned centuries ago by the Cadachac priest-king Manacha. It was able to possess any one of us and it decided it wanted me; wanted to be me."
She paused and took a steadying breath. "It took control of some of the others on the island and forced me to fight them. I killed one of them, before I knew what was happening. Its intention was to weaken me, until it could take control of me, inhabit me, without any resistance.
"I tried to destroy its altar, the source of its power, or so I thought. But the altar was alive! Hundreds of souls, sacrificed to the demon, were imprisoned within it. Crombie, possessed by the demon, threw me onto the altar. And the hands grabbed me…"
She paused, not sure if she could continue. "They started to drain the life out of me. If not for Peter…"
"Chifley, the photographer?" he asked quietly, not wanting to press her.
"If not for him, I'd have lost my life, my soul."
"The Madunai reports list him as missing, presumed killed. His victory in the Cover Photo contest is regarded as a posthumous award."
She nodded, unwilling to say more about Chifley. "I need more information on the demon."
His eyes lingered on her lovely face for a moment, worried by the condemned look on her face. He turned then to his bookcase and pulled a tome from a shelf and turned its musty pages. "Cadachacs," he muttered, his distinguished face creased into a frown. "You certainly come up with some esoteric questions Lara. They were wiped out by the Incas six centuries ago and little, if any, information on their mysticism survived."
"There was a room in the Madunai temple, with walls covered by representations of their gods. It looked more Egyptian than anything else, with half-beast, half-bird creatures."
"Not unusual. Did the demon give any clue as to its true form?"
"No. It did not care whether it occupied a man or a woman. It was as excited by the prospect of being me as it was about…"
She fell silent and the memories of the altar came flooding back, uninvited.
Falshingham began to understand what had happened to her on Madunai, why it had wounded her so badly. His frown deepened.
He turned back to his bookcase and lifted a panel of wood in its face, revealing a recess containing a computer terminal. He booted the system and Lara found herself smiling in spite of her dark mood.
"An internet connected dungeon?"
"Yes, I know it ruins the ambience of the place, but it is too useful to do without." He was relieved to see her smile.
"So your books hold nothing of use?"
"Nor does my brain. Another continent, six centuries ago, an extinct race-how difficult do you want to make it for me?"
"Don't fret Falshingham, most people have not even heard of the Cadachacs."
He was typing an E-mail message and she noticed that it was addressed to about six addressees, all of which had unusual, mystical pseudonyms. "Pen pals?"
"Others who share my interest, one of whom may have more to offer. I'll not name you, of course, but with the mention of Madunai they will probably realise whom the information is for."
"They've heard of me?"
He laughed his rich, deep laugh. "Lara, you totally underestimate your fame. Even before this Madunai photo business, my colleagues have followed your career with great interest. You've encountered phenomena that we can only dream of."
"And you believe one of them might help me?"
"We may get more information on the Cadachacs," he replied thoughtfully, "but we may not need it."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm considering what you've told me Lara. It raises one of the Great Questions of mysticism. Do the gods and the demons draw their power from the belief of their supporters, and die as religions die, as science takes our faith? Or are they more substantial, with power of their own making?"
He watched her closely while he waited for her reply. She realised that he was testing her, to see if she had the potential to study his lore.
"The latter must be true," she replied. "None of us on Madunai were aware of the Cadachac demon, let alone believers in their religion, yet he was real enough."
"True, but I suspect faith is still an important element in their power."
"How? This demon had not been worshipped for centuries but it was very powerful. Believe me, I have the scars to prove it."
She nonchalantly showed him the wound on her shoulder, where she had been cut by one of her attackers.
He frowned at the sight of it, knowing that she bore other wounds that were less visible, but deeper.
"How does your question relate to the Madunai demon?" she asked.
"We don't know enough about the Cadachac religion to identify what god or demon their priest-king may have been trying to summon…"
"Trying to summon? I assure you that he succeeded."
"Bear with me Lara. This demon has been summoned from the netherworld, responding to Manacha's incantations, but it may have had little or nothing to do with the Cadachac religion."
Lara looked doubtful. "You mean this demon was waiting in the… netherworld, as you call it, waiting for a summons to our world, and willing to pretend to be whatever the caller wanted."
He frowned, disliking her scepticism. "Not exactly. It harks back to the question we just addressed. So many early religions had similar deities. The Romans really stole their religion from the Greeks, simply renaming the gods: Jupiter for Zeus, Mars for Ares, and so on. Since this creature you encountered existed despite the loss of the Cadachac religion, it may be that it can be identified as part of the pantheon of another religion."
"I'm not sure I understand you. You're saying that these creatures, inhabitants of the netherworld, exist independently of the religions that worship them. So what happens when religions fade? Do they choose a new name from the pantheon of a continuing one?"
"In essence yes. One being may have several names, different guises in different temples. These creatures are evil Lara, I'm sure you've learned that. They would probably reply to any title, in order to gain entry to our world."
Lara frowned. The concept of such creatures discomforted her, though, after her recent experience, denying their existence was no longer possible.
"So how can we identify the one that I fought? It could be any mythical being worshipped by pagan religions."
"Did it reveal much of its nature? Did it say anything that might give us clues?"
Lara started to think back over her adventure, then decided against doing so. They were memories she did not enjoy. "Any clues? Other than the fact that it was able to move from person to person like a ghost?"
He ignored her sarcasm. "You're right. The way it behaved is the best clue of all. I will need some time to research it but there may be histories of other such occurrences, perhaps involving your demon."
"Not my demon, please. I'll leave the research to you, but there's one question much more important than the question of its identity."
She paused, took a deep breath, then continued. "The demon inhabited Chifley, at the end, but it could not control him. Peter then kept the demon inside him, wouldn't allow it to change hosts, in order to stop it from using anyone else to attack me."
Her voice faltered for a moment and he realised that she was on the verge of tears.
She pressed on. "He then swam out to sea, taking the demon with him, saying he intended to swim for the mainland, fifty kilometres away. My question is, with the power of the demon in him, forced to help him in order to survive itself, could he have survived?"
She looked at him for a moment then turned away, but not before he had seen the pain in her eyes. She was frightened of his answer, still afraid of the creature, but in her eyes was also a longing, a desperate hope.
So Peter Chifley had been more than a friend.
"If you're asking me did he survive, I can't tell you Lara. But if you're asking could he have survived, then definitely yes. Thugs on PCP are capable of superhuman feats, so with the strength of an ancient god within him, anything is possible."
Lara smiled and much of the shadows around her eyes vanished with the smile. "Thank you Falshingham. You don't know how much you've helped me."
"I think I may be able to help you more yet," he said quietly. "Tell me Lara, have you been having nightmares?"
Her brow furrowed. "How did you know that? Are they something to do with the demon? Is it still connected to me?"
"No Lara, something more mundane, I believe. When I showed you the photo of the altar, did you have a flashback?"
"Flashback?"
"A vivid, unwanted recollection of the altar, the place of your suffering?"
"Yes. What…?"
"And have you been on any other archaeological trips since Madunai?"
"No, none. Enough mystery Falshingham! You seem to know something I don't. What's been happening to me?"
"Let me first remind you that, to the world outside, I am a respected surgeon. As such, perhaps, I am not the best qualified person to make the diagnosis, but your case has all the classic symptoms."
"Will you stop waffling on?!? Is there something wrong with me?"
"Lara dear, you have a condition called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."
She snorted in disgust. "Not funny Falshingham. You had me worried for a moment there."
"You're correct Lara. It is not funny. It is deadly serious, as am I."
Lara was angry and did not try to disguise the fact. "You think I'm stressed--traumatised--over what happened on Madunai? That's ridiculous… and insulting! I've been in life-threatening situations more often than you've had hot dinners and I've never let them get the best of me!"
He was not cowed by her rage. "But this was different, wasn't it? You said as much yourself. This time you almost lost your soul. And don't think I'm questioning your courage Lara. With what I know about the life you've led, I'd be a fool to ever question that. But this isn't about courage, my dear, at least, it's not caused by a lack of it. Sometimes, all the horrors we see, all the sights and experiences we store away in the "too awful" basket, become too much. The basket overflows. We can't shut the images out any more."
His words, rational and authoritative, were having their effect. She began to realise he was correct.
"You have all the symptoms Lara. You have unwanted flashbacks to the trauma that precipitated your problem. You have heightened levels of anxiety, agitation and sleeplessness. You are reluctant to return to any area that would place you in a similar situation."
"Hold on, what do you mean with that last sentence?"
She looked at him with an alarmed expression. He had never seen her look more vulnerable but he did not soften his answer. "Unless you overcome this problem Lara, you'll never be able to continue with the lifestyle you've chosen. You'll become the housebound English noblewoman you swore you'd never be."
"That's a bit much Falshingham! I just need a little time to recover, to recharge my batteries."
"It's three months since the Madunai incident. You have been on no other adventures since then. I'm told you actually rejected a job for the British Museum…"
"How on earth do you know that?"
"Professor Brecht knows that we're… friends and he was concerned about you when you refused the work."
"You've been talking about me? Discussing my mental health?"
"Lara, please! He was concerned, as I am. If we are friends Lara…"
"That's highly debatable."
"If I have helped you in the past, then let me help you now. This problem won't go away of its own accord. It will only get worse. You need help…"
"Psychiatric help? Is that what you mean?" She was livid.
"Well… yes. I know it's not…"
"Forget it Falshingham! I've been to shrinks before and I'll never do so again!"
"You've been… before?"
"Don't worry, I'm not a secret psycho, no matter what you and Brecht may think." She paused, trying to calm herself. She was angry, yes, but she knew that Falshingham was not deserving of her anger.
"After the plane crash, when I got home, my parents were worried about me. I wasn't 'their little Lara' any more. They insisted I see a psychiatrist--two in fact--to sort myself out. But there was nothing wrong with me. The plane crash had 'sorted me out', rather than the reverse.
"And what would your psychiatrist do anyway? Spend months listening to me, nodding sagely, waiting for me to realise I was screwed up by this bloody demon? I won't go through that, I don't have the time!"
"What else is so urgent that it can't wait, that it takes precedence over your mental health?"
"Mental health," she scoffed. "Listen to me Falshingham. You've just told me that Peter Chifley, the man who was willing to give his life to save mine, might still be alive. If he is, the demon is alive too. What is that, if not urgent business?"
He looked at her sternly, like a schoolmaster. "Yet it's been three months and you've done nothing. You've only come to visit me to ask if he might be alive. That's not like you Lara. The Lara Croft I know would have gone straight to Peru, searching for her… lover."
She did not protest his labelling of Chifley, so he persisted. "It may be debatable whether or not I am your friend, but there is no debate about my concern for you. You must not ignore this Lara. Tell me honestly, if I had tickets to Peru, here in my hand… would you be able to use them?"
She glared at him, hating what he was doing. Tears welled in her eyes. "Honestly? No."
She turned away and he allowed her time to stifle her tears, knowing how she hated to reveal any weakness. When she spoke again her voice was quiet and regretful. "I was honest also when I spoke about psychiatrists. I dread going through that almost as much as I dread Madunai. Isn't there any other way?"
He suddenly felt terribly old, though he did not know why. "It's not really my field Lara. There are medications…"
"Oh, great! Lara Croft, queen of the zombies!"
"Not that bad, I'm sure. You really need to see someone… professional, to determine the best form of treatment."
"You mean I should see a psychiatrist to ask if I need to see a psychiatrist. I think I know what the answer will be."
She turned back to him and he felt older still, seeing her beautiful young face plagued by doubts. "But you're right that I have to do something," she said. "The nightmares are getting worse. I hate going to bed, knowing that I'm going to see Madunai again, find myself back on the altar again. I spend half the night in my gymnasium, working out. I'm probably in the best shape physically that I've ever been, but mentally…"
She bowed her head. "It was an effort just to get myself here today. I am afraid to go out! Me! Afraid to step outside the door!"
She raised her head and looked directly into his eyes. "I can't live like this Falshingham. I'll see a psychiatrist if I have to, but isn't there any other way?"
He pursed his lips. "There might be… Come upstairs with me."
She followed him up the stairs, out of the dungeon and into his mansion. He guided her to a lounge room where she sat on a deep couch, much more comfortable than the stocks she had been sitting on down below.
Falshingham had taken a small notebook from a desk and was thumbing through it. "There is a therapist that has an excellent reputation for treating patients with P.T.S.D. I have her number here, somewhere."
"A psychiatrist?"
"No, she's a hypnotherapist. Aah, here it is."
"Hypnotherapist? As in, "you are getting sleepy, very sleepy"?"
"Don't be so negative Lara. Hypnosis has been very successful in treating a range of problems, especially nervous disorders like yours."
"Oh, what a relief! I've got a nervous disorder, not a psychosis."
"Doctor Emily Parsons is her name Lara, and she can help you. She may be able to achieve in a few weeks what would normally take several months."
Lara opened her mouth to protest but Falshingham displayed an exasperation he'd kept hidden until now. "For God's sake Lara! You admit that you need help but you want to avoid psychiatrists. This is your best choice. Dr. Parsons has a marvellous reputation. She's more of a magician than I am, if the reports I've heard are true."
Lara glared at him, surprised by this rare outburst.
He continued to speak, his voice calmer. "Let me speak to her, explain the situation, and make an appointment for you. If it doesn't work out, or the hypnosis concept offends you, then you can proceed no further. But please, let me do this much for you."
She nodded once, more nervous about the idea than she wished to admit.

Chapter 2. An Unorthodox Therapist.

The following day Lara entered Dr. Parson's reception area, keeping a tight rein on her anxiety. She was constantly fighting the urge to turn around and race home, knowing that such a defeat might finish her.
She was relieved to see that the reception area did not look like a doctor's waiting room. There were stylish paintings on the wall and long, comfortable couches were provided rather than chairs. There was no table littered with old magazines, instead a television displayed the day's soap opera. The area had a clean smell, but not the antiseptic air she associated with doctors and hospitals.
Although the reception area was hospitable Lara was grateful that the receptionist ushered her directly through to the doctor. She had not been looking forward to waiting. She made a mental note to thank Falshingham for his arrangements; perhaps he even deserved an apology for how she'd spoken to him.
The doorway to the doctor's office opened and Dr. Parsons stood beside the door. She was not much older than Lara and was an elegant, attractive lady. Lara detected a brief expression of disdain on her face when she looked at Lara's tight T-shirt and figure-hugging jeans, but the doctor quickly disguised that with a bright smile.
"Welcome Lara. Eric Falshingham has told me all about you. You're somewhat late for your appointment. Would you like to come straight through?"
"Thank you, yes," said Lara, trying to match the woman's casual grace.
She moved through a doorway into an office, furnished with a desk and chair and simple wall prints, where the first thing Lara saw was the low couch. It was well upholstered but it made her feel anything but comfortable.
"You can sit if you prefer," said Dr. Parsons, "but it's often easier to lie down."
"Easier for whom?" Lara asked irritably. She was annoyed that she had visibly reacted to the couch: she did not normally reveal so much of her thoughts.
The doctor laughed at her question, then said, "Eric warned me you could be somewhat irascible. It is usually easier for my patients to lie down, not easier for me."
Lara remained standing. "And what, exactly, do you have planned for this 'irascible' patient?"
Dr. Parsons did not reply immediately. She moved behind her desk and sat looking up at Lara. "Eric tells me you have been having trouble dealing with a recent, life-threatening event. Do you wish to tell me about that?"
"I'd like you to answer my question first."
Dr. Parsons smiled a condescending smile. "If we are dealing with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, as Eric has suggested, then my usual approach would be to place you in a hypnotic trance, and, while you are deeply relaxed and anchored to safety, we will walk through the experience together, giving you the chance to deal with it, to take control of it."
Lara stood glaring at the doctor, her fists clenched by her sides. She battled against an indecision that was atypical of her. The idea of revealing her most private fears to this woman was awful. The prospect of being put in a trance, of putting her life in the doctor's hands, was repugnant. Leaving the office and retreating to her home was attractive, but she knew it was the worst option.
She lay on the couch.
"Good, good," said Dr. Parsons. Lara could not shake the impression that the woman was sneering at her. "You've taken the first step to recovery."
The doctor moved her chair from behind the desk, then sat beside the couch. "I know this will be difficult for you, but I need you to describe the events that have caused you so much trouble."
"Not so difficult for me as it will be difficult for you," said Lara, looking up at her.
Dr. Parsons hid her irritation, but it was visible in her eyes. "Difficult for me? In what way?"
Lara's lips curled in the hint of a smile. "I don't think you're going to be able to believe what I tell you."
"You'd be surprised at what I hear, Lara. May I call you Lara?"
Lara shrugged. "Why not?"
"And I would prefer that you call me Emily. Are you ready to begin?"
Lara nodded warily. Although the doctor was doing all she could to put her at ease, she remained aware of the woman's condescension.
"I was asked to enter the Sports Incorporated swimsuit contest, for the annual cover photo."
"Which you won," said Dr. Parsons.
"Yes," said Lara flatly. The doctor may have been trying to show her interest, but winning the contest was not an achievement Lara was particularly proud of. "The real reason I entered was to see the Cadachac ruins on Madunai island…"
Lara began to tell her story, her eyes on the ceiling. If this revelation was necessary then she wanted it over quickly and she did not want to see the scepticism in the doctor's eyes. When she spoke about the demon and its possession of others and their attacks on her, she could almost feel the doctor's cynicism.
She hesitated, unwilling to speak about the altar, especially to an unbelieving listener.
"Go on," urged Dr. Parsons gently. "There is more to tell and it is important that I am aware of the circumstances. Everything you tell me is, of course, confidential."
Lara turned her head and looked at her, her gaze sharp and clear. "Why bother? Right now you're probably thinking that Falshingham should have sent me to a psychiatrist after all."
The doctor smiled a bright smile, highlighting her beauty. "The thought had crossed my mind." She then returned Lara's gaze with her own blue eyes. "I think we had best clarify my position on this now. Eric warned me that your story might stretch credibility somewhat, but it doesn't matter much whether I believe you or not. Whatever the trauma, my task is to reduce its impact on you. I will work with what you tell me."
Lara closed her eyes. She did not enjoy revealing her fears to anyone, let alone someone who admitted they did not believe in what she had been through.
"You were going to tell me about the altar," urged the doctor. "You stopped as soon as you said the word. Is that where it happened?"
"That was the worst of it." She closed her eyes, feeling as trapped now as she had been then. What choice did she have, but to trust this woman?
"The altar was alive, teeming with grasping skeletal hands. I know you won't believe that, I would find it hard myself, but when they grabbed hold of me…"
She shuddered, shocked by another flashback. She sat forward, her eyes opened wide in irrational fear.
"It's all right Lara," said the doctor calmly. "You're safe."
Lara sat up. "This will not work Doctor. I apologise for wasting your time."
The doctor put a hand on her arm and said, "Don't leave. I can help you, if you'll let me. You need say no more now, I believe I know enough of the event now to guide you under hypnosis."
Lara studied the doctor's expression. "How can you guide me, when you don't believe in what happened to me?"
"Let me worry about that. Now lie down."
She hated it, but she obeyed. She knew that she needed the doctor's help.
"I'm now going to place you in a hypnotic trance. This will feel, to you, like simply going to sleep. I need you to cooperate with me, in order to make the trance happen."
Lara nodded her agreement.
"Now look at my pen, Lara."
"Aren't you meant to use a pendant?"
"Anything shiny will do. It's just a point to focus your attention. Now look at my pen, look closely. See how it shines. Watch it shine. Listen to the sound of my voice. You are focusing on the pen, but your eyes are getting tired. Your lids are getting heavy. There is a great weariness on your shoulders. You need to sleep. It is safe to sleep. You are drifting off now, too tired to stay awake, but you continue to listen to my voice."
It took less than two minutes to achieve a hypnotic trance. Lara lay on the couch, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and regular.
"You feel deeply relaxed and completely safe. You are in a place where you feel completely safe. There are no threats here, you are at peace."
"At peace," murmured Lara, as if the word had no meaning for her.
"Where are you Lara? Tell me what you see."
"Home. I'm at home, the manor."
"And you have always been safe here?"
"Always. Argue with Father sometimes. But safe."
"That's good. It's very important to have a place to feel safe."
Lara was smiling. "Safe," she murmured.
"Now we will travel from your home Lara, we will travel to less friendly places."
Lara's smile faded and her brow creased with concern.
"We will be able to return home at any time. If you are threatened, if there is danger, we can always return here, to where you are safe."
Lara's expression relaxed. "But it is important that we travel elsewhere, to confront the fears you have. None of the dangers we meet can hurt you now. They may frighten you, but they cannot hurt you. Do you understand?"
"Cannot hurt me," agreed Lara.
"I will be with you all the way. I will not allow you to come to harm. Do you understand?" Unseen by Lara, the doctor smiled a vicious smile.
"You will be with me."
"And while I am with you, no harm will come to you. You will be safe."
"Safe," repeated Lara.
Dr. Parsons sat back in her chair with the smile of an assassin. She had established the parameters of her treatment and had access to her patient's subconscious. She revelled in the power she wielded. She was sure she could help Lara overcome her problem and there was no reason not to have a little fun with the uppity melon-breasted tart beforehand.
"We're going to Madunai Island Lara."
Lara frowned. "No. Not to Madunai"
"I will stay with you. You will be safe."
"Not Madunai. Not safe."
"It is important to go there. You must overcome your fear. Do you want to be afraid?"
"No."
"If we do not go to Madunai, you will always be afraid of it. I will be with you. We can always retreat to your manor, if you feel unsafe."
"You will be with me?"
"Yes. Are you ready?"
Lara's frown deepened but she murmured, "Yes."
"What do you see now Lara?"
Lara's eyes moved behind her eyelids, scanning her mindscape. "We're on the island. There's no-one here. I'm alone." There was an anxious edge to her voice.
"I am here Lara. You cannot see me but you can hear my voice."
"I hear you."
"Nothing is threatening you?"
"No. It's safe."
"Take some deep breaths. Good. Do you feel ready to go on?"
"Go on?"
"We need to go to the altar."
Lara was shaking her head. "No. Not the altar. Not safe."
"You will be safe with me, I will stay with you." Again she smiled her vicious smile.
Lara's face tightened with a stubborn resolve. "Let's go then."
"Tell me what you see."
"I'm going through the archway, down into the dark. I don't have a flare to light the way."
"You do have a flare. See it shining?"
"Yes, I do have a flare. I can see the corridor walls now. They're bare here. The murals are deeper."
"Let's go deeper."
Lara's determination was visible in her lovely face. "We're moving through the corridors. We're going down, deeper in the earth."
"Is anything threatening you?"
Lara's head turned from one side to the other. "No threats here. It's down at the altar." She grimaced. "It's waiting for me."
"We need to go there Lara. We need to confront it."
Lara took some deep breaths without being told to. "Let's go then."
"What do you see?"
"The theatre of the altar is lit. Jack left the lights running. The altar looks normal. There are no hands."
"Good, good. Is there anything threatening you?"
"Nothing I can see. But I know it's waiting."
"We have to go in Lara. I will go with you."
"I'm inside the theatre. I can't see the demon but I know it's near."
A film of perspiration appeared on Lara's brow though her voice was steady.
"We need to go to the altar. You must confront your greatest fear."
"I'm going down the stairs. The altar still seems normal."
"You're doing very well Lara. I am with you. Approach the altar."
Lara was silent for a few moments, then spoke anxiously. "I'm at the altar. I still don't see him."
"Him? Who is he?"
Perhaps we'll get to the bottom of this demon fantasy now, thought the doctor.
"Crombie. The demon is in Crombie. He's here! Oh god, he's here!"
"What is he doing?"
"He's fighting me! He's so strong! The demon is in him."
"He can't hurt you Lara. I am with you."
"He's throwing me onto the altar! The hands! The hands are back! They're grabbing me, clutching me. Oh god! They're tearing at my clothes!"
Lara was squirming on the couch, her face a mask of terror. Dr. Parsons sat back in her chair and said nothing. She smiled a cruel, knowing smile. I thought as much. This is a rape we're dealing with. This demon story is just the way her subconscious has dealt with it.
Lara was screaming, her body writhing against imaginary restraints. "Emily! They're hurting me! Emily!"
Dr. Parsons smiled again. It's for your own good you uppity bitch. Reliving this will make you remember what really happened and then we can deal with it. And besides, I like to watch you squirm.
Lara arched her back, struggling to escape the phantom hands. "I can't get free! He's going to rape me! He's going to inhabit me! Help me!"
Dr. Parsons was fascinated by Lara's struggles and amused by her anguish, but she was more fascinated to learn what was happening in her patient's mind's eye.
"Who is going to rape you? Who did this to you?"
"Crombie! The demon in Crombie! The hands of the altar are holding me for him!"
This living altar fantasy is certainly persistent, thought the doctor. "It is Crombie who rapes you?"
"No. No, he doesn't. I'm free of the hands. Peter is here, distracting him. I'm pushing Crombie onto the altar."
"So you were not raped?"
"No, no, I'm all right. I threw him into his own trap. I'm all right."
"You are safe?"
"I am safe," said Lara, her face creasing in a huge smile. "I have won."
Dr. Parsons frowned. The bitch is bloody well treating herself. "We will return to your home now."
"Yes, I'm home again," reported Lara.
"And soon you will wake and feel refreshed. Feeling better, you will decide to make another appointment to see me. You will sleep soundly tonight with no disturbing dreams. You will feel great faith in me and my treatment and will return for your next appointment, on time."
"I will return," agreed Lara.
"I will count to ten and you will gradually return to wakefulness. You will not remember what has happened during your trance, but you will remember my instructions. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
The doctor counted down from ten to one and Lara, on cue, opened her eyes.
"Whew! I feel like I've slept all day. How did it go?"
"You did remarkably well. We're making real progress. Do you feel more relaxed?"
Lara smiled, testing herself. She felt as serene as an alpine lake. "Emily, I think your therapy has helped me already. When should I see you again?"
Dr. Parsons smiled. " I can see you on Friday at 10 a.m."
Lara stood, feeling poised and confident, feeling, in short, like her old self. "Friday at 10. I'll be here."
Lara left the doctor's office.
The doctor moved her chair back to her desk and leaned back in it. She tapped her gold pen against her lips for a few moments then leaned forward and pushed a button on her desk phone. A number automatically dialled. After three rings a deep male voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Carl? I think I have another special for you. Have you heard of Lara Croft?"

Chapter 3. An Unscrupulous Businessman.

Carl Van Damon made money from various sources, most of them illegal. In his elegant Italian suit he looked like a mafioso and would not be displeased to be described as one, though the British police regarded him as little more than a clever thief. They underestimated him. He was a predator and this showed in the devilish way that he studied Lara's unconscious form.
"You can look but don't touch," cautioned Dr. Parsons when she noticed his interest.
"Are you sure she can't hear us?" he asked.
"I have instructed her to listen only to my voice, and only when I address her by name. She doesn't know anyone else is here."
Lara lay on the couch, where she was, she had thought, getting her fourth therapy session within ten days. She wore a skirt and loose fitting blouse, garb that was unsuccessful in concealing her curves.
"You wouldn't think it to look at her," said Van Damon, "but this girl took down three of my men, without raising a sweat."
"So you have met?"
He smiled a cruel smile. "I suppose you could say that. We weren't formally introduced, or anything of that nature. She just pointed a gun at my head and told me to scarper."
"And you did?" Dr. Parsons was amused by the prospect of the brawny crim being ordered about by the woman who was her patient.
"I did," replied Van Damon. His smile suggested that he now found the incident amusing, but he was not one to reveal his true emotions. "I would not still be alive today if I had not learnt when to cut my losses and retreat. There's no doubt it's the same girl. She wore a tighter outfit…"
The doctor turned up her nose. "Yes I know. She dresses like a Spice Girl. I suggested, during our last session, that she dress more demurely when she comes here."
A pity, thought Van Damon, as he looked back at Lara. Still, there was no mistaking the swell of her breasts beneath the blouse, and the skirt revealed her strong, tanned thighs…
"So you do not object to having her work for you?" asked the doctor, interrupting his salacious study.
His smile widened and his eyes glinted with a secret maliciousness. "It will not be me that objects. I don't think she would agree to work for me in a million years, or for a million dollars."
"You underestimate my talents Carl," boasted the doctor.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Never, dear lady."
She rewarded him with a smile. She knew he was an untrustworthy scoundrel, but he was a handsome untrustworthy scoundrel. And he paid well.
The doctor moved her chair beside Lara and said, "Listen to my voice again Lara."
Lara's eyebrows rose for an instant, the sign that she was listening.
"You will soon be offered a job by Carl Van Damon."
An expression of disgust crossed Lara's face. The doctor smiled at the sight of it and Van Damon, as always, kept his own irritation concealed.
"You will accept the job. You will perform the task that he assigns you, without protest."
"Don't… like… Van Damon," Lara murmured.
"Nevertheless you will work for him. You will regard it as a wonderful opportunity to test your new-found confidence. You will serve him to the best of your abilities."
"I will serve him, to the best of my abilities," agreed Lara.
Van Damon was impressed. He decided not to conceal his admiration. "I thought you could not make someone do anything they did not want to do?"
"A glib reassurance that serves hypnotists well. Do you think the idiocy that stage hypnotists make their subjects perform is what those subjects want to do?"
"So you could make her walk off a cliff?"
"I wouldn't go that far but it might be possible. If she were given strong enough hypnotic suggestions, making her think it was safe to jump the cliff, or to convince her that it was the only way to escape a worse peril… It is possible. Do you have any particular cliff in mind, Carl?"
He wagged a finger at her. "Oh doctor, you are wicked!"
But not half as wicked as myself, he thought.
"In this case, I have suggested that your job offers her the ideal chance to test herself, to regain her confidence. In the past two sessions I have established the need for her to find such an opportunity, so she will now be compelled to take it."
"Brilliant!" exclaimed Van Damon, knowing how much the doctor enjoyed praise. "But there is one problem."
"Yes?"
"When the task is complete, what is to stop her changing her mind about me?"
The doctor smiled. "Oh I haven't changed her mind about you. It's only the job she will look favourably on."
"Very droll." Van Damon smiled but he was not amused. "I would prefer not to have to kill her at the end. She may prove useful again. I was hoping that you could establish a post-hypnotic command word, so that I can maintain her obedience if she rebels against me."
The doctor narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "You know more about hypnosis than you've been letting on, don't you?"
"I've learned much since meeting you," he answered cleverly. "I think it would be best to explain what this job will involve. We, Lara and I, will be in some isolated corner of the world, with nothing to help us if things go badly, with danger ever present. Under such extreme circumstances, isn't it possible that your conditioning of Lara may fail? Without such conditioning she would kill me in an instant, and believe me, she is more dangerous than she looks now."
The doctor looked closely at him, trying to read his true intentions. He was, as always, inscrutable.
The doctor shrugged. She cared little what he did with the Croft bitch. She turned back to the couch and spoke. "Lara, listen to my voice. When you hear the word serendipity you will obey any command the speaker of this word gives you. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
The doctor nodded her head at Van Damon, then tilted her head at the rear door of her office. He stood and moved in the direction that she indicated, realising that the session was about to finish.
When he had left the room Dr. Parsons spoke again. "Soon I will count down from ten to one and you will wake feeling refreshed. You will feel capable and competent. You will remember all the instructions I have given you, you will remember to obey the speaker of the word serendipity, but you will not remember anything else from this session. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
The doctor performed the countdown and Lara opened her eyes.
"Whew! I feel like I've slept all night! How long was I under?"
"About half an hour."
Lara smiled at her, a warm, genuine smile. "I feel better than I have for months. I should thank you doctor. I know we got off to a bad start, but you've helped me tremendously."
Dr. Parsons shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. She felt an unfamiliar twinge of guilt, but it was brief. "Do you feel ready to return to your… career?"
"Yes. Yes I do. Only a few weeks ago I'd have been unable to even think of it, but now I'm ready."
The doctor rose to her feet, signalling the end of the session. "Don't hesitate to call me if you have any more problems," she offered, without a hint of irony in her voice.
Lara stood also. "I'm confident I won't need to. Thank you again."
Lara left the office and Van Damon emerged from the back room. "You must have given her instructions I didn't hear," he said with sarcasm. "She was actually trying to be friendly."
The doctor sat at her desk and started writing a number on a piece of notepaper. "She'll get over it. Here's her number. Call her today, before she goes off on some other foolish jaunt."
The doctor was smiling a strange smile. "What amuses you?" he asked.
"I was thinking that giving out a patient's phone number would be considered unforgivably unethical to my colleagues. I don't know how I'll sleep tonight."

The phone call came soon after Lara arrived home. Winston announced the call and surprised her with the name of the caller.
"Carl Van Damon!" she exclaimed. "What the hell does he want?"
She picked up the phone and cautiously said, "Hello."
"Lara Croft?"
"That's me."
"Hello Lara. It's Carl Van Damon here. I hope you remember me."
"What a surprise. I would have thought you would hope I'd forgotten you."
She could hear laughter down the phone. "Yes, I suppose we got off on the wrong foot."
"You have a gift for understatement. You sent your men to kill me, because I recovered the Aztec Crown before they did."
"A mistake Lara. One I wish to rectify."
"What was the mistake? That you sent goons to do a job that was beyond their ability? Or that you failed to kill me?"
"The mistake was that I did not hire you in the first place to recover the artefact."
She laughed. "What makes you think I would work for you?"
At the other end of the line Van Damon began to wonder if Parson's hypnosis had failed. None of his doubts were conveyed in his strong, steady voice. "I believe I will soon find out, because I have a job for you. If you want it."
Lara smiled but her laughter was stifled before it left her mouth. She found herself intrigued by his offer. "Why me? You must be desperate, to approach me with this."
She hasn't actually said no, thought Van Damon. "For just the reason I've stated Lara. I learn from my experiences, and the Aztec Crown experience taught me that you were the best… artefact recoverer… in the business."
"I didn't know artefact recovery was a business."
"The two of us, working together, could make it one."
The idea of working with you makes my skin crawl, thought Lara. She was surprised, for a moment, that she hadn't said the thought aloud. Instead she said, "You have my attention. What have you got?"
"African Jungle--Congo Basin. A man staggers into a small remote village, half-dead from his wounds. He lives long enough to rave about a lost temple, deep in the jungle, full of treasure. Interested?"
'How can I even be considering this?' she thought. Van Damon is a bloody crook.
But she found herself saying, "Intriguing. And how did the man come by his wounds?"
"An intelligent question. He says the temple is full of traps and monsters."
"Monsters?"
"He was not an educated man, who knows what he meant. He might have been frightened by a mask on the wall."
"A mask on the wall would be unlikely to kill him Van Damon."
"Only one way to find out, eh?"
'Damn it, the job is perfect!' she thought. It would give her a chance to test herself, to make sure she had recovered from her illness. And though she objected to working for Van Damon, there was a precedent. She had worked for Natla, hadn't she?
"I'll bite Van Damon. Let's meet to talk out the details."

Chapter 4. La Grand Pousseur.

Van Damon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. La Grand Pousseur was, without doubt, not his usual first class travel.
The barge he sat on was one of several being hauled west along the Congo River by a powerful tugboat. The weather was impossibly humid and the jungle crowded the banks of the river. Islands of water hyacinth floated over the deep waters. As he watched, he saw a crocodile slither from the north bank into the river.
He did not need to look at the banks to see crocodiles. There were two on the barge he and Lara shared with about a hundred other travellers. At least these crocodiles had their jaws wired, but they were an uncomfortable reminder of the dangers around them.
And the music was driving him mad! The native travellers seemed interested in only two things, Primus beer and noise. The racket they made with their primitive instruments could hardly be called music. The cacophony was accompanied by clucking chickens, shrieking pigs, braying donkeys and noises he had not yet identified. They kept going all through the night, as if sleeping on the tarpaulin-covered cargo of the barge was not already difficult enough.
"It's called culture, Van Damon," said Lara, observing his discomfort with amusement.
"What do you mean?" he asked irritably.
"What you are experiencing--it is called culture."
"More like culture shock," he retorted.
They had arrived in Congo a week ago and his respect for Lara's abilities had grown with familiarity. He had travelled extensively himself, but compared to Lara he was a novice. Since the overthrow of Mobutu's government Congo had been trying to make their country attractive to tourists, but it remained one of the most dangerous countries to travel in. Whether it was the corrupt guards at Kinshasha airport, the greedy taxi drivers of the cities or the fellow travellers they met she always knew how to handle the situation. She had bribed the guards, charmed the drivers, and intimidated anyone who did not respond to her other ploys. Nothing seemed to faze her. They had managed only "bird bath washes" for the past week but she looked as gorgeous as ever. In fact, she was more beautiful here, surrounded by chaos and squalor, than she had been in London. She was enjoying the journey, thriving on the adventure and, all in all, putting him to shame.
"Are you sure this is the best way to our destination?" he asked, concealing his irritation with difficulty.
"It may not be the fastest, but it is the best. I've been wanting to take this barge ride for years."
"Not the fastest?" He paused for a moment, aware that his voice had risen in volume. "We are not on a scenic tour Lara."
"And you don't need to be here at all. You could have waited in Kinshasha."
"I thought I might come in handy."
She laughed at him. "Van Damon. I've been doing this for ten years, for the most part on my own. Where exactly were you going to come in handy?"
He smiled a vicious smile. "This might be a good time to tell you that we may have competition for this site."
Her laughter evaporated and she glared at him. "Wrong! If we have competition a good time to tell me was at the outset."
"I'm not sure that we have any. I've only heard a rumour."
"Which is?"
"Someone has hired the Carter brothers."
"And their name supposed to mean something to me?"
Van Damon frowned. "They're better known in my… business circles, than they would be in the archaeology field."
"I take it that means they're criminals."
"They're cowboys and they're dangerous. There are three of them: Chet, Michael and Tony, all with police records as long as your arm. Their policy is shoot first, ask questions later. And they are the reason you need me with you."
Lara frowned. "Then this might be a good time to tell you something."
He waited for her to continue. "I don't want you coming to the site with me, Van Damon."
"But these men are dangerous! And they probably have a head start on us."
"Listen to me Van Damon. Point one, you say you're not sure that these men have become involved. Point two, if these men are not archaeologists they're probably never going to find the site. Point three, if I encounter them, I will deal with them myself.
"I don't want you at the site. The man who discovered it died as a result of the discovery. It sounds like the place is booby-trapped, and in that situation I don't want to have to worry about what traps you might be setting off beside me."
"May I remind you that you're working for me," he said coldly.
"My job is to recover what I can from the site, not to get you killed."
"You're overly proud of your abilities. What if you get killed, or wounded? You may wish I was with you after all if you're lying down some pit bleeding to death."
"What an optimistic outlook! Believe me, Van Damon, I can look after myself."
As if on cue, a large drunken African man staggered up to them and leered at Lara, his eyes running up and down over her figure. He grinned a foul-breathed grin, then spoke excitedly in French to Van Damon.
"What did he say?" asked Van Damon.
Lara smiled roguishly. "He thinks I'm your woman and he is offering you two hundred dollars American for some time with me."
Van Damon looked up at the unshaven, unkempt man who stood near them. "Ask him for three hundred," he said, teasingly.
Lara spoke in fluent French. Initially the African smiled broadly, but as she continued his smile faded. A few moments later he turned sheepishly and walked away, staggering over the uneven tarpaulins.
"What did you say?" asked Van Damon.
"I agreed to his offer, then explained exactly what time with me would involve."
"Not an attractive prospect?"
"Not for him, apparently."
The alarm on her wristwatch sounded. She pulled some repellent from her back pack. "Time to renew your cover," she advised him.
"I'm sick of the stuff. It makes me smell like a chemical factory."
"Would you prefer malaria? Or perhaps the bite of the tsetse fly will help you get the sleep you've been complaining about?"
He looked at her with admiration. She was thriving on this. She couldn't be getting any more sleep than he was, yet she remained fresh and alert. The harsh conditions, the chaos, the crowds of people, all of these were part of the experience for her, part of the adventure.
He knew he could not match her in this. He was relieved, if the truth were known, that he would not be accompanying her to the site. He wished he had not decided to travel with her. He would have been wiser to remain in Kinshasha, or in Kisangani, where they had boarded the barge. Her passion for travel, her ability to make progress despite all hindrances, her damned competence put him to shame. It was infuriating.
He toyed with the idea of trying his post-hypnotic command. Serendipity. He wondered what joy he could gain from the word. Could he have made her go with the African? How far would Parson's hypnosis force her to go?
"What's so amusing Van Damon?" she asked, observing him more closely than he had realised. "That's the first genuine smile I've seen on your scheming face."
"I'm just looking forward to the end of this adventure," he said. He was surprised to find that he had spoken the truth. "I am sure the spoils of victory will be sweet."

Chapter 5. The Carter Brothers.

Lara had left Van Damon behind four days ago, leaving him ensconced in a primitive hotel in Dhoji. She had taken a jeep as far north as the trails ran then had abandoned it yesterday. She would reach her destination only on foot.
She was wearing her customary garb: a brief but sturdy pair of shorts over a blue-grey leotard. Her hair was tied back in a long braid. Her backpack was filled with her essential needs and her holstered pistols were strapped to her thighs. She swung the machete in her hand from one side to the other, clearing a path for herself through the thick rainforest. Her clothes suited the humid environment, but her progress was slow, especially since she was not sure where her destination lay.
The discoverer of the buried temple had staggered into a village north of Dhoji, and Lara's search had begun there. The dying man had given garbled instructions as to where the "demon's lair" lay and she had followed them as best she could. Now it was just a case of hacking her way through jungle until she found further clues.
The machete swung through the last of a stand of foliage and Lara moved though it into a small clearing. She could hear monkeys chattering in the trees above her and the raucous cries of wild birds. She was getting weary, and she began to wonder how the dead man had found such an elusive site. She sat on a fallen tree trunk and pulled a canteen from her pack. She drank deeply from it, careful not to spill any. She had seen no freshwater source since leaving the village and wasn't sure if she would trust such a water supply anyway.
Evening was approaching and she considered resting for the day. Her evening meal might only be dry rations, but she was hungry.
Then from a short distance away to her right she heard a low grunt.
Her right hand drew her pistol before she even thought about it. She replaced her canteen in her backpack, considering what she had heard. It might have been a human sound, or it might have been a gorilla. Whatever it was, it was big, and it was nearby.
Her pistol in her hand she edged forward, finding a gap in the foliage to her right. She pushed slowly through it, on the alert for any sound or movement. She entered another small clearing, ringed by thick jungle. She paused for a moment, searching for any sign of what might have made the grunting noise. She heard only what she had heard for days, the chattering, screeching jungle wildlife. She saw no movement but her eye was caught by something glittering in the centre of the clearing.
She moved forward, her pistol still at the ready, her eyes continuing to scan the surrounding jungle. When she reached the object she saw that it was a tin dinner plate.
"You'd better drop that gun, honey."
The voice came from her left. She swung there to see a man emerge from the fronds that had concealed him. Over his lean but muscular frame he wore a short-sleeved shirt, denim jeans and boots. He shaded his face with a cowboy hat. He held a handgun, aimed at her.
"And don't go thinking about firing it, darling," said a voice from behind her.
She turned again, to see a second man, similarly dressed, emerge from hiding. He also aimed a powerful handgun at her.
"Don't be foolish," said a third voice. A third man, younger than the other two, emerged from her right.
She was in the centre of their triangulated fire. They could shoot freely at her without the risk of hitting each other. It was a well-laid trap and she had blundered right into it.
"Put it down, honey," said the first man. "You don't want to test our patience."
Lara knew she had no choice. These men were professionals. They demonstrated this not only with the effectiveness of their trap but also with the way their eyes, and their guns, remained focused on her.
She dropped her pistol to the ground, cursing herself silently. Lured by a grunt and beguiled by a tin plate; she had made it very easy for them.
"Now put your hands behind your head."
She studied him for a moment. There was a casual smile on his face and ruthlessness in his eyes. She knew the type. He would kill her without a second thought if she defied him. These were the men Van Damon had warned her about.
She put her hands behind her head, instantly aware of how it made her breasts thrust forward. This fact was not lost on her captor, who smiled as he stared at them.
"You're Lara Croft, aren't you?" he asked.
Famous for all the wrong reasons, she thought, trying to suppress her growing anxiety. Still, it was for this reason that she often wore provocative outfits. If Van Damon had been with her these men would probably already have shot him. If she were unattractive to them, perhaps they would shoot her too. Despite the steamy, dirty jungle, despite the danger that lurked, she could see undisguised lust in the eyes of her captor. She hated it, she hated the fear that it inspired in her, but she knew that she might well be alive because of it.
She kept her silence, while the man behind her started to bind her hands with thin cords. "Why do you say that Chet?" asked the man tying her.
Chet shook his head in patient disdain. "Mike, you never cease to amaze me. How many other white women would be here, looking for the temple, with a body like hers?"
"And I assume you are the Carter brothers?" she said, trying to effect an air of disdain. It was difficult to do, feeling as frightened as she did. It was not like her, but she could not deny that her situation was threatening to make her panic. Every turn of cord around her wrists was like a twist in her stomach.
"I'm surprised you've heard of us," said Chet. "We're new to the exploration game."
"Well it was in criminal circles that I'd heard of you," she said, wishing she felt as casually confident as she sounded.
Mike had tied her hands firmly, then tied the cord through one of the loops of her braided ponytail. Her hands would remain where they were until she was untied.
"Get her weapons," instructed Chet, who appeared to be the leader of the trio.
Mike reached around from behind her and unbuckled her holster belt. He then untied the strings on her thighs, his hands lingering far too long on her tanned legs. Then his hands reached around to her breasts, grabbing one in each hand and saying, "What about these bazookas Chet?"
Lara froze. For a moment she was back on the altar, reliving her worst nightmare, helpless and terrified, with evil hands clutching at her. Then she remembered how she had survived that trauma, as she would survive this.
Mike was playing with her breasts, aiming them at his brother, as if they were weapons.
This was intolerable! She didn't care if they shot her--she would not allow them to humiliate her.
She swung around, crashing her elbow into Mike's cheek. She followed up with a knee into his groin and, as he fell, groaning, she swept a kick into his face.
She turned quickly to face her other opponents. 'One down and two to go,' she thought and was glad to feel such aggression again. For that moment it no longer mattered that bullets might tear into her, she was herself again.
To her relief she saw that Chet had holstered his gun and was advancing on her with his fists clenched. Perhaps he had decided that, with her hands tied, he would not need his gun to deal with her. Or he might have decided he wanted to keep her alive, a prospect that was not altogether comforting.
She chanced a quick look over her shoulder at the youngest man. His gun was, unfortunately, still in his hand.
Then Chet was on her. "You bitch!" he yelled, swinging a fist at her face.
With her arms tied she was unable to block the blow and had to retreat from it instead. She stepped backwards then turned on the ball of one foot to sweep a kick into Chet's stomach. He grunted in pain but keep coming at her.
"I'm going to teach you some respect," he growled.
"Respect for what, exactly?" she retorted.
She ducked her head away from his next punch but it still impacted on her shoulder. She staggered back a few paces, then somersaulted sideways, landing on her feet. Chet hesitated for a moment, surprised by her athleticism, then advanced on her again.
She turned her back on him, as if preparing to flee, then swept her foot back in a sweeping low kick. She connected with Chet's thigh, knocking him sideways but not stopping him.
She tumbled forwards then to the side. Her gymnastic evasions were moves that she practised almost daily, but she did not practice them with her hands tied behind her head on an uneven jungle surface. She felt clumsy and awkward, but she could not allow Chet to get close to her. She had to maintain a distance that would allow her to use her legs because if the combat came to close quarters her tied arms would be no match for his fists.
She rose to her feet with the sick realisation that she had lost track of the third man's position. She had no time to seek him out; Chet was advancing on her with his fists clenched. One good head kick might be enough to finish him.
She pivoted on the ball of one foot and her other leg struck out at his face. To her horror his hand was as swift as her leg, and he caught her by the ankle.
"You're in trouble now, aren't you darlin'?" he taunted her.
He took a step backwards and she was forced to hop forward to remain upright. If she fell he would finish her.
"Now isn't this fun?" he teased. "A new dance step, eh?"
He stepped back again and she hopped forward. A white-hot rage swept through her. There was only one way out of this.
She pivoted her body down and swept her other leg up at him. She connected with his face but there was no leverage in the kick and little power. She did succeed in making him release her foot but she crashed forward onto her left shoulder.
She stifled her cry of pain and rolled over, knowing that she hadn't hurt him badly enough to stop him. He was on top of her in an instant, grappling with her waist. She managed to roll again, getting on top of him, but he continued to hold her by the waist, his body pinning her legs.
She arched backwards, trying to gain some leverage, but she couldn't free herself.
"Give it up honey!" he said, laughing. "What can you do now? Pummel me with your tits?"
She brought her forehead down onto his nose, feeling it smash beneath her attack. Chet's eyes misted in pain, then lost focus as he lost consciousness.
'Two down, one to go,' she thought.
Then a cataclysmic pain erupted at the back of her head and she slumped forward, joining Chet in oblivion.

Chapter 6. Canary in a Cage.

The first thought that Lara became aware of was surprise that she was still alive. Then, as her myriad pains awoke with her, she wondered whether or not she should be glad for that fact.
The pain in her head was intense and nauseating. She had been hit in the head before and had often boasted that she had a thick skull, but this pain made her wonder if her skull was fractured. The third brother must have hit her with the butt of his gun. From past experience she knew the headache would be with her for a least a week, if she lived that long.
She had bumps and bruises all over her from her recent struggle, but as she shifted her weight the sudden agonising pain in her arms made her groan. Her arms were still tied behind her head, for hours now, and the pain from them made her headache seem trivial.
"The Croft bitch is awake," she heard someone say.
Her head was still foggy and she was unclear about where she was. She opened her eyes. She was lying on her side on the ground with the jungle all around her. The light had changed somehow and it took a few moments to realise that it was now morning rather than evening. Had she been unconscious that long? That was not a good sign.
Of more immediate concern was the sight of Mike bending over her with a savage smile on his face.
"Back with us sweetheart?" he said, his voice angry and his eyes vengeful. "You're going to wish you'd never woken up."
Without warning his foot swung into her stomach. She had no chance to steel herself for the assault. The breath was knocked from her body and she gasped for air.
Mike grabbed her arms, hauling her to her feet and pushing her back against a tree. The pain in her arms, as some circulation returned to them, was awful. She grunted, still struggling for breath, trying to disguise the distress she was suffering.
Mike was staring into her eyes, his own face bloodied from her attack on him, his nose broken. She took some grim satisfaction from that.
"You'd better get used to hurting, bitch, because making you hurt is my new career," he said, his voice rough with anger. He drew back his fist to punch her.
A strong arm grabbed his wrist. Chet appeared in her blurred field of vision.
"No Mike. We need her undamaged."
"Too late… for that…" she gasped. She was trying for sarcasm but she sounded pathetic to her own ears.
Mike's anger still smouldered but he obeyed his brother. He lowered his fist and took a few steps back.
Chet looked at her now and she could see hatred in his blackened eyes also, though he controlled it better than his brother. "We have a little task for you, Miss Croft."
"You mean, other than being a punching bag for your psychotic brother?"
Mike snarled. Chet looked at her with grudging admiration but his eyes were merciless.
"You may still get to play that part, honey, but I have something else in mind."
She straightened herself, recovering slowly from Mike's attack. "You want me to find the hidden temple."
Chet smiled. "No, Miss Croft, we've already found that."
Lara's eyes widened in surprise, then her pulse quickened with alarm. If they'd found the site, why were they keeping her alive?
Chet was amused by her concern. "You know anythin' 'bout mining, honey? You hear how, in the old days, the miners would take a canary in a cage down deep in the mine, along with the miners? It was like an alarm system. When that canary turned up its toes, they knew there was a gas leak, and they knew to get outta there."
He leaned into Lara and grabbed her chin, turning her face up to his. "You're our canary in a cage, darling. That's the job we've got for you."
She knew what he meant. They intended her to lead them into the site, so that any traps inside would be set off by her, aimed at her.
Working for Van Damon did not seem so strange any more. Compared to these bastards Van Damon was a purebred saint.
Chet grabbed her elbow and pulled her away from the tree. She stumbled forward, then regained her balance and walked in the direction he indicated. She maintained her dignity despite the discomfort of her tied arms and the fact that she was probably walking to her death. Mike and the third brother walked behind her, the former with a vicious smile still on his face.
She did not reveal the fear she felt. Her mind was racing, searching for a solution to her predicament. As they walked she became aware of another problem, less serious but the none the less urgent.
"Here we are," announced Chet.
They stood in front of a low, vine-covered hill. A dark entrance was just visible behind the foliage.
"We found it yesterday but didn't charge in like fools," said Chet. "The last visitor is dead, and we don't plan to be. That's your job."
Lara glanced at the entrance then turned to Chet. "That's all very well, Chet, but you'll have to untie me first."
Chet laughed. "Not likely honey. We've seen what you can do with your hands tied so we're not going to let this wildcat loose to have another crack at us."
"Well you'll have to," she insisted. "First of all, I have experience with trapped sites, probably more than anyone else in the world. You need my expertise. And I am not going in there with my hands tied. I'll need to hold a flare, I'll need to feel the walls, I need all my senses working if I'm going to find them and avoid them."
"You don't seem to understand, honey. I don't want you to avoid it. I want you to find the trap by setting it off."
"I just hope it's something grisly, like stakes in a pit," added Mike.
"Charming," muttered Lara. She addressed Chet. "I think it's you that doesn't understand. As I've said, I know about these sites. There will be more than one trap. If I am killed by the first one, then you'll be killed by the next. You need to keep me alive."
Chet considered this in silence. She glared at him, unwilling to make her next admission, but forced to. "Also," she said, "I need to pee."
Chet laughed. "I guess so," he said.
"Well I can't do it with my arms tied."
Mike was brutally unsympathetic. "Let her wet herself. What does it matter? She'll be dead soon."
Chet disagreed. "You say the place will have several traps?"
"Yes, they always do."
"O.K." Chet took some cord out of his pack and formed a noose from one end of it. He looped it around Lara's neck and tightened it until it pinched her skin. She glared at him while he did this but did not attempt to stop him. She knew that he would insist on some form of restraint. He looped the other end around his left wrist, tying it firmly to himself. He nodded to his brothers, indicating that they should draw their guns. He then untied her hands.
"Aaargh!" As the circulation returned to her arms they felt like they were being pierced with hot needles.
"Huh! Arms gone to sleep," muttered Mike.
"No, please don't concern yourself," she muttered sarcastically through gritted teeth. She hugged her arms, rubbing them, trying to ease the pain.
"How about behind that fallen tree?" suggested the third brother.
"So he does speak!" said Lara peevishly.
"Young Tony isn't slow, he's just shy. What are you talking about Tony?"
"Behind the tree," the younger man repeated. "She can… you know… and we can still see her upper half so she can't run off."
Chet smiled and turned to Lara. "I told you he was smart."
Lara didn't argue. Chet allowed her enough rope to get behind the tree Tony had indicated. She relieved herself then returned to her captors. She moved more easily with her hands untied and felt much better with the pressure relieved from her bladder. Also, she knew that she had won some important concessions from the dangerous brothers. The situation was still grim, but they were going to enter territory more familiar to her than to them. With her hands untied, there would be opportunities for her.
And they knew better now than to try to manhandle her body again. They knew she would not tolerate it.
"I'll need a flare," she stated crisply.
Chet gave her one from her own backpack. She pulled a tab at the end of it and it flamed into life. "Archaeologist's flare--one hour burn," she told them. With it in hand she moved back to the temple entrance.
She cautiously pulled away the vines that concealed the entry. The brickwork of the opening was immaculate, despite the centuries that it had been hidden.
"Kongo Empire," she muttered as she examined it.
"Spare us the history lesson Croft," said Mike. "That's not what we're here for."
She ignored him. She could not see anything that might trigger a trap in the entry so she slowly stepped inside. The brick walls continued deep into the hill and she followed them one step at a time, her flare lighting several paces in front of her.
She soon realized that the temple was not built into the hill, as she'd thought initially, but the temple was the hill. It was enormous!
Stone statues stood at regular intervals down the walls of the corridor. They depicted ancient Kongo warriors, armed with shields and spears, or the fearsome witch-doctors who had goaded them to war. She studied them as she moved slowly down the corridor, scanning everywhere for danger. Then she saw the first trap. A less experienced eye would not have seen them, but the walls immediately ahead of her had small holes in it at chest height. She knew what they were, especially here in pygmy country.
"What are you looking at?" asked Chet. He and his brothers were following her, each holding a flare in one hand and a gun in the other.
"Blowholes for poison darts," she answered. "There'll be a trigger for this nearby."
She studied the floor. "See? The centre stone is not cemented as tightly as the others. It's mobile. Step on that and the darts fly."
"Why don't you show us?" urged Mike.
Chet ignored him. "Well done. This must have been what killed the last visitor here."
"I don't believe so," replied Lara. "He must have got further than this. He died raving about gold and monsters and we haven't seen either of them yet. I suspect he was keeping close to the wall and got past the trap through sheer good fortune."
"But he did die from poison, they say," said Tony.
"So, as I've said, there are other traps," said Lara. She did not mention the possibility that the discoverer of the temple triggered the trap on his way out, rather than on the way in.
"So lead us past this one, canary," ordered Chet.
She stepped forward, keeping close to the wall, avoiding the centre flagstone. The brothers followed her footsteps exactly.
She edged forward, all senses alert. Her headache had eased, perhaps because she had something else to focus on, perhaps because her arms were free and there was less tension on her neck. Despite her ongoing peril, she was beginning to enjoy the exploration of the temple. Damn it, she was beginning to enjoy the danger too.
She paused a few paces down the entry corridor and smiled. She raised her flare toward the roof. "See that?" she asked her captors.
She was amused by their stupified expressions. "What are we looking for?" asked Chet.
"You're damn lucky you've got me here," she said vehemently. "You can't see the glint of metal up there?"
"Oh, yeah," said Mike, but she doubted that he could.
"Let me demonstrate," she said, glad of the chance to demonstrate her superiority. She knelt down, found the trigger thread and pulled on it.
A huge, scything blade swept across the corridor, imbedding itself in the upper corner of the opposite wall, becoming barely visible again.
"Phew!" gasped Tony.
"What a shame," said Lara. "That could have been made for you Mike."
Mike snarled. "Not while you're our canary. I'll see you dead before you see me getting' hurt."
Lara did not provoke him further. She moved forward to the end of the corridor, where a T-intersection occurred.
"Give me the tape out of my backpack," she demanded.
Tony was wearing the backpack. He opened it and extracted the desired item.
She took it and taped her flare to the corner, then asked for a replacement flare. "We need to illuminate the way out, in case we need to leave in a hurry," she explained.
"You still don't get it do you, canary?" taunted Mike. "You won't be leaving. Once we've got the gold, and know where all the traps are, you're history."
Lara glared at him. She could not remember hating anyone as much as she did this brutal, ignorant man. "Then you will need a history lesson, after all."
"Is that a threat?" laughed Mike.
Lara ignored him. Too much provocation would make him dangerous, even though she'd now established her value to them.
She moved to the left, holding her flare high. The next trap was easily visible to them all. A dark, deep pit lay across the corridor.
She knelt at the edge of the pit. Sharp stakes aimed up from the base of the pit. "Collapsing floor," muttered Lara, observing tile fragments between the spikes. "The discoverer of the temple must have triggered the trap but survived it."
A difficult thing to do, she thought. If it had been her that the floor collapsed beneath she could probably have leapt quickly and powerfully enough to reach the other side, but most would be pierced by the deadly spikes below. How had the native discoverer survived all the traps she'd found?
Hands gripped her arms and pushed her forward, tilting her into the pit. She could not maintain her balance and the spikes loomed large in her vision. But the hands did not let go of her arms and, after a few uncomfortable seconds, they dragged her back to her kneeling position.
Mick released her, laughing at his joke. "Just a taste of what's in store, canary," he taunted her.
Her face was flushed with rage and her pulse raced from the sudden terror. What a bastard!
"You'd better hope one of these traps take me," she said with quiet venom. "Otherwise I'll make sure you never get out of here alive."
"Bring it on, honey," he teased, raising his hands in a boxing stance. "I would love to go a few rounds with you, with no bloody surprise attack this time."
"That's enough Mike!" commanded Chet. "Croft, you jump across first."
"Make sure you give me plenty of slack," she responded. "I don't want to get pulled up short, and you don't want to be dragged in."
He paid out the full length of the cord then she directed the brothers to stand to one side. She paced back a few steps, then ran at full speed to the pit, launching herself just a few inches from its edge.
She carried the distance easily. She quickly considered slipping out of her noose and running, but knew that she would not be given enough time to do so.
Chet soon joined her on the far side of the pit, then Mike and Tony. She then led them forward, flare held high in her hand.