This is a Due South/Highlander crossover, featuring the character of Amanda, from Highlander: The Series, and several characters from Due South, most notably Benton Fraser & Ray Vecchio. Rated NC-17 for graphic polyamorous sexuality (M/M/F). If you're considered a minor in your community please do not read this. If you're narrow-minded or easily offended, you may want to take a pass as well. Characters property of Alliance & Rysher (no, NOT used by permission, are you kidding?), everything else is OURS. ;-D

In this timeline, the events of Highlander: The Raven have not yet occurred. In the Due South timeline it takes place sometime after "Victoria's Secret" but before "Burning Down the House."

Thanks to our beta-readers, Marina Bailey, Debra Ann Fiorini, Mary Alice Davis, Cathy Downes, and any others I may have neglected! Comments to kellie@www.mrks.org and julia@io.com



The One That Got Away
© 1999, Kellie Matthews & Julia Kosatka

        As the queue wound its way toward the entrance to the museum, Amanda was brought up short by the fact that there was a brand-spanking new addition to the security system since the last time she'd been there. There was now an x-ray machine through which all bags were being sent, and a metal detector to screen the patrons. She went cold. Damn. There was no way her 'accessories' would pass unnoticed through those devices. But there had to be some way to get her equipment into the museum, she had to have them. Otherwise she wouldn't be able to disarm the security system later in the evening after the place closed down. There were several uniformed security folk gathered around the equipment, and that gave her an idea. If she could somehow get them to let her through . . . .
        Looking around, her gaze fell on a worn place where the carpet had buckled up a little under the influence of one-too-many steam cleanings. A tiny smile curved her mouth, and she shifted position a little toward it, then she put her hand to her forehead, shakily, as if she were unwell. Some of the people closest to her in line noticed and looked at her curiously. She let out a tiny moan, and rubbed her forehead again. Again, more interest focused on her. Good. As the line moved forward she pretended to trip on the worn carpet and stumble, then fall. Gracefully, so as not to flash her Givenchy panties to all and sundry, she went first to her knees, then on down to the floor.
        Immediately there were people at her side, exclaiming worriedly and calling for help. She feigned disorientation and tried not to sneeze as dusty carpet fibers tickled her nose. Almost immediately two sets of trousered, male legs appeared in the narrow field of vision beneath her lowered eyelashes. She heard an odd, snuffling sort of sound to her left, but couldn't look that direction without giving away the fact that she was completely aware of her surroundings. Through her lashes she could see that one set of legs was encased in high boots, and above that, black wool trousers with a broad yellow stripe up the leg. Good. A uniform meant it was one of the security people.
        She let her eyelids lift slowly and looked up enough to register that what she'd first thought were trousers tucked into boots were, in fact, jodhpurs. Now that was truly bizarre. Who wore jodhpurs any more? The edge of a longish jacket came into view next. It was impossible to miss, being just about the brightest scarlet she'd seen on this side of the Atlantic. Scarlet? Definitely not one of the security guards. She lifted her gaze to the face above the uniform, and momentarily felt as breathless as she was pretending to be. The man was gorgeous! Not exotically Duncan-gorgeous, or geekily Methos-gorgeous, or older-man Joe gorgeous, but uniquely attractive. This one managed to be absolutely stunning while at the same time being completely ordinary.
        He was definitely not someone who spent hours in a gym and tanning spa. He wasn't particularly tall, or buff, but he had a sweet, boy-next-door sort of charm. He was clean-shaven and clean-cut, his hair dark, thick, and distinctly wavy, though worn quite short. His mouth was almost angelic, but it was his incredible eyes that caught her attention the most. They were the oddly indeterminate color of a newborn’s, a color that could be blue, or gray, or even green, depending on the light. They also held something of an infant’s trusting innocence, through strangely, an almost world-weary wisdom as well. The combination was bemusing. Realizing she was staring, Amanda dragged her gaze away. After all, it wasn't like he was the first good-looking man she'd ever met.
        "Are you ill, ma'am?" Boy-next-door queried somewhat obviously, studying her with concern as he knelt beside her.
        "I-- I–" she stammered, not entirely feigning her confusion. She should have had a story ready. "I'm not sure. I was feeling a little dizzy," she paused and lifted a shaking hand to her face. "Then all the sudden, I opened my eyes, and was–" she gestured helplessly toward the floor. "Here."
        She gazed disingenuously into her rescuer's guileless eyes and saw no hint of disbelief. A snort of derision from close by told her that the other man was not so easily convinced. She decided to improve her story.
        "I just flew in from Paris yesterday, I guess the jet-lag on top of recovering from the flu was just too much. I shouldn't have come out today, I should have stayed in my hotel and rested."
        "That would probably have been advisable," the red-coated man agreed, his voice calm and soothing. "Influenza isn't something to be taken lightly. However, perhaps I may be of some assistance?"
        How formal, she thought, looking past him toward the museum entrance. "I don't know," she said dubiously. "Do you think there's there any place I could sit down for a few minutes ? I don't want to be a bother to anyone," she turned up the charm, all but fluttering her eyelashes.
        Again the other man made a rude noise. Amanda shot a puzzled glance at him. He was tall, thin, and balding, with a very large nose and shrewd gray-green eyes. At the moment he was looking at his companion with an oddly long-suffering expression, and Amanda took a moment to assess him. He was wearing a good quality suit that could have used some tailoring to make it better fit his lanky frame, but had thrown a nondescript trench coat over it and something about the combination shouted "cop" at her. Of course, the man in the uniform was a cop, too, just not an American one. She wondered what a Mountie was doing in Chicago.
        The snuffling sound came again, and she turned, startled to find herself nose-to-nose with a very large white dog. Or was it a dog? She'd seen lots of dogs in her day, but she'd also seen her fair share of wolves before they'd been hunted to the brink of extinction. This definitely looked more like wolf than dog, except for that too-curly tail. The animal didn't seem aggressive, though, just curious. She stayed still, letting it sniff her as it pleased. Thankfully it was too well-trained to stick its nose in her crotch like some dogs did. After a moment it looked up at the Mountie and whined again. The Mountie cocked his head curiously, looking from her, to the animal, and back.
        "Really?" He asked, as if speaking to the animal.
        The wolf-dog whined again, and gave a very quiet bark.
        "Hmmm," was the Mountie's only response. Amanda was intrigued. He was clearly talking to the animal, not to her. And from the exchange, not only was the wolf talking back, but they understood each other. Fascinating. What had it said about her? She looked up at the Mountie.
        "He's a wolf, isn't he?"
        An expression of surprise flitted across the Mountie's face. "Yes, he is. Half, anyway. Not many people realize that."
        Amanda smiled. "He's beautiful."
        The wolf yipped, and the Mountie flashed a smile, so quickly gone she wondered for a moment if she'd imagined it until he spoke and she heard humor in his voice. "Dief thinks you have good taste."
        She laughed. "Deef? Is that his name?
        "It's Diefenbaker. Dief for short."
        "Dief, eh? Well, I'm sure he does think I have good taste." She thought he had good taste too, in owners, anyway. She looked up at Dief's human. "Please, could you help me up?"
        Looking a trifle embarrassed, as if he should have thought of that himself, the man assisted her to her feet. As soon as she was up, she swayed a little, as if she were going to fall again. Instantly he lifted her off her feet and into his arms. She instinctively put her arms around his neck for stability and heard a collective sigh go through the females who waiting in line to get in. Amanda had to bite her lip to hide a smile. She could relate. She could definitely get used to this kind of treatment. She couldn't remember the last time a man had done something so old-fashioned for her.
        Just as she had hoped would happen, the Mountie carried her around behind the x-ray equipment, bypassing the security system. The cop and the wolf-dog followed them. None of the guards objected as he carried her into a small lounge just past the security checkpoint where he placed her gently on a couch and then stepped back, straightening his uniform tunic.
        "Is there anything else I can do for you, ma'am?"
        "Perhaps a glass of water? I think that might help."
        The Mountie nodded. "Quite likely, in fact. Dehydration can be a side effect of both illness, and long flights."
        He headed for the door, and the cop looked at her for a moment, then toward the departing Mountie. She got the feeling he was holding an internal debate with himself, then he headed after the Mountie, leaving Diefenbaker sitting at her feet looking at her curiously. Looking around the room, it was obvious that it was an employee break-room. The small refrigerator, coffee-maker, and microwave oven testified to that. Not a place likely to be searched. Quickly she pulled her 'bag of tricks' from her handbag and stuffed it down between the cushions of the couch, then took her lock-pick kit from her jacket pocket and pushed it into the crevice as well, then she lay back, arranging herself artfully, displaying her legs to their best advantage. Dief whined, and she put a finger to her lips.
        "Now, Dief, don't tell on me, okay?" Dief yipped, and she smiled, reaching out to ruffle his thick fur. "Good boy."
        In the hall outside, she heard hushed voices and eavesdropped shamelessly.
        "I know, Benny, but believe me, I know what I'm talking about. Just stop being nice to her, and for God's sake do not smile at her, okay? You've done enough as it is!"
        "What have I done, Ray?"
        "You were yourself, that's all. But you know what that does to women."
        "I do?" The Mountie sounded distinctly puzzled.
        The other man, she surmised he must be 'Ray,' sighed.
        "No, you don't. You never do. Never mind. Just do what I tell you, okay, or she’ll be following you home."
        "Yes, Ray."
        A second later the Mountie and the cop stepped back into the room, the Mountie bearing a paper cup which he extended to her solemnly. She took it and sipped at the cool water, sighing. "Oh, that's much better. Thank you so much . . . er . . ." she looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised, and he got the hint.
        "Constable Benton Fraser, ma'am, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. This is Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago Police Department."
        "A Mountie, in Chicago?" While she wasn't surprised to learn that the man in the trench was a cop, it still seemed odd to find a uniformed Mountie on this side of the border.
        Fraser straightened and put a hand behind his back, looking for all the world like a schoolboy about to recite an assignment. "Yes, you see I first came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of my father . . ."
        "And he's still here as liaison to the Canadian consulate." Vecchio interrupted. "Unfortunately the story takes exactly two hours to tell, and we were due elsewhere about ten minutes ago, so if you don't mind, we'll be on our way."
        Amanda allowed herself to look a little hurt, and then covered it. "Of course, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be any trouble. But you've just been a real lifesaver, Constable Fraser. I certainly owe you."
        "That is probably somewhat of an exaggeration. While I am not a physician, I believe I can safely say that your life was never actually in danger. You should, however, consider seeing a doctor if you continue to feel vertiginous. And it was no trouble, ma'am," he assured her. "I'm sure you would have done the same for me."
        Amanda tried to imagine herself sweeping Benton Fraser off his feet and carrying him anywhere, and had to work hard not to giggle. Of course, if she did sweep him off his feet, the place she'd carry him would be the nearest flat surface. She smiled up at him, not hiding her interest. "Yes, Constable, I'm sure I would have."
        She extended her hand to him, and he shook it firmly. She suppressed another smile. Most men would have taken the opportunity to kiss or caress her hand. Not this one. Ray's conversation with his friend out in the hall began to make more sense. Apparently Constable Fraser was completely unaware of his not inconsiderable charm. The innocence in his gaze wasn't feigned. My, my . . . that was definitely a temptation. Training a man could be such fun . . . but no, she had a job to do. Reluctantly she let go of his hand and looked at both men.
        "Thank you again, Constable. I really do appreciate your assistance. I don't know what I would have done without it," she said, with absolute sincerity.
        "Thank you kindly, ma'am."
        "Please, call me Amanda. Ma'am makes me feel like an old woman."
        Vecchio dragged his admiring gaze from her legs and looked into her face with obvious amusement. She beamed at him, accepting the compliment he hadn't spoken.
        "And thank you too, Detective Vecchio. You've both been such a help to me."
        Vecchio's homely face lit up with a startlingly sweet smile. "Anytime, Amanda. If you're ever in the neighborhood, look us up."
        She smiled back. "I may just do that. Have a nice day, boys."
        They bid her goodbye, and left the room. Amanda could clearly hear Vecchio grousing at Fraser as they moved away.
        "'You should see a doctor if you continue to feel vertiginous'?" Vecchio repeated, sounding incredulous. "Where do you get that? Nobody talks like that! Is that a Canadian thing or just a Mountie thing?"
        Smiling, she gazed after them, thinking nostalgically of a time when that scarlet wool would have been used in a tight, short Hussar's jacket that showed a man's assets to their fullest instead of in a long, a concealing tunic. She had to admit, though, that the jacket's high collar with its black tabs and golden medallions did set off Constable Fraser's jawline nicely. Ah well, time didn't stand still no matter how much she sometimes wished it would. She had work to do, and a deadline to meet. People were depending on her.


* * *

        Diefenbaker had just finished wolfing (literally) down his breakfast and Fraser had just set his freshly washed mug into the drainer beside the sink when he heard a perfunctory knock at his door, then it was flung open to admit an agitated-looking Ray Vecchio. Fraser frowned, concerned. It was unusual for Ray to actually park his beloved Riviera in this neighborhood, so whatever had prompted the visit must be important.
        "Hello, Ray, is there a problem?" Fraser asked, puzzled by the breach of tradition.
        "I thought I ought to come up and show you this." He held out a newspaper.
        Fraser took the paper and glanced at the story the paper had been folded to display. His eyebrows lifted and he looked back at Vecchio. "Oh, dear."
        "You got that right. Hell of a way to start the day. I sit down at the table, take a sip of my coffee, and bam, the headline smacks me right between the eyes. As soon as I saw it, I had to figure I knew who it was, since we all but gave her the damned key. Five will get you ten that little jet-lagged birdie you took pity on as we were leaving the museum yesterday is the same person who helped themselves to an Easter egg worth a king's ransom."
        "I believe in this case it would be more accurate to say it was worth a czar's ransom."
        "Whatever," Ray said impatiently. "In any case, it looks like we may have been conned into being accessories to grand theft."
        Fraser gazed at his friend in dismay. "And she seemed like such a nice person," he said, though he knew that didn't excuse his breach of instinct.
        Ray sighed, shaking his head sadly. "Yeah, well, where women are concerned we both know you haven't got the sense God gave a goose. But I shoulda realized something was up. She looked way too great to be sick."
        On reflection, Fraser had to concede his friend was correct. The woman hadn't looked ill, in fact she'd looked exceptionally well and very attractive, in a gamine sort of way. With her slight stature and dark hair cut short around her almost elfin face, she was not the kind of woman that usually interested him at all. Although, come to think of it, there was something about her that reminded him a little bit of Inspector Thatcher.
        He normally liked tall, strong women with long dark hair, but he had to admit to himself that he'd felt a stirring of interest, especially after Dief had made known his approval. He frowned, thinking about that. Usually Dief's instincts were better than that, too. He went to the closet and got out his uniform tunic, pulling it on and buttoning it. "I must go to the authorities, Ray. They will want to question me."
        Ray looked at him like he was crazy, something he did fairly frequently. "Whoa, whoa, whoa there, big fella! You ain't goin' nowhere. Knowing you, you'd show up and confess to assisting the thief and end up behind bars before anyone thought to ask you any other questions. No, we're not gonna do that."
        "But, Ray, if my actions led to the theft, I must. . ."
        "You must help me catch this chick and get that egg back."
        Fraser considered that for a moment, and brightened. It did seem like the logical solution. "Excellent idea, Ray. I suggest we start at the airport."
        Ray looked at him blankly. "The airport?"
        "Indeed. We know her first name, and we know she arrived on a plane from Paris two days ago. From that information, we may be able to garner more."
        Ray looked distinctly dubious. "How do we know she wasn't lying to us?"
        "We don't, but either way, whatever information we discover may be useful."
        Ray thought about that and nodded. "Okay, you got a point. You know, what I don't get is how come if she was gonna go to all the trouble of getting in, and turning off the security system, how come she only stole one? With a whole exhibit full of equally expensive and transportable possibilities, she only lifts one damned egg. Why?"
        "Actually, Ray, it's not uncommon for art to be stolen on commission. A collector desires a specific piece, and they hire someone to get it for them. That may well be the case here."
        "Some people have too much money," Ray said rolling his eyes. "Come on, Benny, let's get going."


* * *

        Amanda stood and gazed out her hotel-room window at the excellent view of Lake Michigan, and sipped her champagne. Celebration might be a trifle premature-- after all, only part of the plan had so far succeeded, but she had a good feeling about things. She had the egg, and she'd made contact. Now all she had to do was wait. She was sure that DeBoer would be contacting her soon. He wouldn't risk losing his 'baby.' She did have a niggling twinge of regret about those cops she'd suckered. If it had just been the tall skinny one she probably wouldn't be having an attack of conscience, he was clearly worldly wise and cynical, but the thought of the disappointment that would fill Constable Fraser's eyes when he realized what she'd done gave her pause.
        She looked at her glass and sighed, setting it down though it was still half-full. Between thinking about Fraser, and imagining how Duncan would react when he heard about her little escapade, she couldn't quite enjoy her victory. It had taken him a long time, but Duncan had gotten to her over the years, infecting her with his dratted morals. Even though this particular theft was in a good cause, she still felt guilty. Damn. She stood up and made her way over to the closet, sorting through her clothes to find something to wear. She didn't want to sit around feeling guilty. She'd go out and see the sights, do some shopping, maybe find a nice restaurant and have a decadently fattening lunch. Anything besides sitting here feeling guilty for trying to do something good, even if her methods were a little unorthodox.
        She finally decided on her coffee-colored linen pantsuit with an ivory silk tee, and had just finished dressing when her cellular phone rang. She knew exactly who it was. No one but DeBoer had the number. She'd bought the phone for the express purpose of making calls to and receiving calls from him, and would dispose of it once that use was complete. Smiling cattily, she picked up the phone and turned it on.
        "Hello?"
        There was a short silence as DeBoer absorbed the fact that she was female. She knew that would surprise him. He was from a time that thought women should be seen and not heard . . . though frankly that era had existed only in his mind. He'd just never realized it.
        "Who is this?" He demanded roughly, his accent mostly generic now, but with a hint of the distinctive throatiness and glottal emphasis that recalled his long-ago Dutch origins.
        "Ah, ah, ah!" Amanda scolded. "That kind of attitude won't win you any friends. Stefan DeBoer, I assume?"
        "You know damned well who I am! Where's my egg?"
        "Have you looked in your refrigerator?" she teased.
        Her jibe was met with an expletive. She remained silent, waiting him out.
        "What do you want?" He finally demanded after he figured out she wasn't going to make the next move.
        "Four million dollars in US funds, on deposit by noon on Friday in a numbered Swiss account."
        "Four million?" DeBoer sounded incredulous. "No way," he said flatly. " I couldn't get that for the damned thing on the open market!"
        "No, you couldn't. But then again, you wouldn't just be paying for the egg. You'd be paying me to keep my mouth shut about the phony provenance you've cooked up for it, too. After all, you don't really want the world to know exactly how you obtained it, do you Stevie-boy?"
        There was a moment of silence. "What do you mean?"
        "I mean Russia, nineteen-eighteen."
        There was a longer silence, then: "You're one of us," he accused.
        "One of whom?" Amanda queried innocently.
        "Who are you? I’ll have your head for this!"
        "I really don't think so. Not unless you like scrambled eggs."
        He sputtered at that, but after a moment he settled down. "How do I know you'll give it back?"
        "You don't, but can you take that chance?"
        He thought that over and she could almost hear the steam coming out his ears. She waited.
        "Let me think about it." he growled finally.
        "Certainly. You have twelve hours to think, or I contact my backup buyer," she said, and hung up, smiling. This was going to work. It was really going to work.

* * *

        At the airport, Ray made himself unobtrusive while Fraser managed to get copies of flight manifests out of two different airlines, without a court order. All he did was ask. Nicely. Of course, the fact that both of the people he asked were female made that outcome pretty much a foregone conclusion. Although he'd gotten used to it over the years, Fraser's effect on women really was nothing short of magical. Ray kept hoping it would rub off on him but it never did. At one point he'd thought it was the uniform, but experience had later proven that wrong.
        Armed with the flight manifests, they had returned to the station so Fraser could use Elaine's computer to check with Interpol. Lieutenant Welsh spotted them on the way in, and impatiently gestured them into his office. Ray slunk in, followed by Fraser, who closed the door as Welsh sat down and leaned back in his chair, a fake smile affixed to his face.
        "So nice of you to join us today, Vecchio," he said sarcastically. "Did you forget we generally like to start the day a little earlier around here?"
        "Sir, I'm afraid Detective Vecchio's late arrival is entirely my fault." Fraser said, before Ray could speak.
        Welsh sighed. "What is it this time? You had to run faster than a speeding locomotive? Jump tall buildings at a single bound? What?"
        Fraser looked momentarily puzzled, but he attempted to answer anyway. "No, sir, we were at the airport, not the train station, nor were there any tall buildings involved, unless of course you count the airport control tower, in which case . . ."
        "It was a joke, Fraser," Welsh interrupted. "Never mind."
        Fraser nodded. "Yes sir."
        "So, what were you doing at the airport when you should have been here? We're going nuts on this museum thing. In case you hadn't heard, someone lifted some kind of egg worth a couple mil from there last night."
        "A Fabergé egg, sir." Fraser informed him. "Originally created in 1914 as a gift for a former Czar of Russia, this particular egg was cut from a single large piece of rock crystal and is ornamented with precious metals, gems, and enamel-work. It is believed to be the only surviving example of a Fabergé egg on which platinum was used as well as gold. As customary with such eggs, this one contained a 'surprise', in this case a miniature representation of the Winter Palace, hence it's nickname, the Winter Palace Egg. At last estimate it was worth is two point four million dollars, US funds, of course."
        Welch's eyebrows barely lifted. Ray guessed he was getting used to Fraser's uncanny ability to come up with case-related trivia from his vast store of useless knowledge.
        "So, I take it you two were aware of the theft?"
        "Yes sir," Ray said. "In fact, that's why we were at the airport."
        That got Welsh's attention. He leaned forward in his chair. "Is that a fact? What made you go there?"
        Ray looked at Fraser, who fixed his gaze on a point just past Welsh's shoulder, locked his hands behind his back and spread his feet, assuming a 'parade rest' position.
        "Yesterday Detective Vecchio was kind enough to assist me at the museum as I evaluated security for the scrimshaw exhibit which contains many pieces on loan from the Canadian government. After we had completed that task and were leaving the museum I insisted that we stop for a moment to give aid to a woman who had apparently become ill while standing on line for the 'Treasures of the Czars' exhibition. As part of this assistance, I carried her into an employee lounge just past the security gates, and I obtained a glass of water for her. . ."
        Ray noticed that Welsh's eyes were starting to glaze over, and apparently so did Fraser, because for once he decided to speed up the explanation.
        "To be brief, in retrospect, sir, after hearing of the theft, I became concerned that the woman I assisted may have thus been able to gain access to the museum without going through security, and indeed may have done so for nefarious purposes, although Diefenbaker assured me she was a good person."
        Welsh shook his head, gazing at Fraser with weary exasperation. "You know, Constable Fraser, sometimes I can't quite decide if you're an asset or a liability." His gaze shifted to Ray and his eyes narrowed. "And you, Vecchio. You just let him do this?"
        Ray gave his lieutenant a wry grimace. "Come on, sir! You know what he's like. He helps old ladies across the street, he says 'please' and 'thank you' to bus drivers, one time he even bought every single box of Troop 441's Girl Scout Cookies because one of them told him their sales were down. Being nice is habitual with him. It's gotten so I don't even think about it."
        "You'd better start thinking, then. So, why the airport?"
        "The suspect mentioned that she had arrived from Paris the day before, and she gave us a first name. We went to the airport to see if we could get access to the flight manifests."
        "And they laughed in your faces and asked to see the court order, right?" Welsh said, chuckling.
        "Actually, sir," Fraser reached into his cartridge case and removed several neatly-folded sheets of paper which he held out to Welch. "They were very obliging."
        Behind Fraser's back, Vecchio sketched a female form in the air with his hands, and Welsh rolled his eyes.
        "I just bet they were," he said, waving away the copies. "So what did you find out?"
        "Three different women named Amanda arrived at O'Hare the day before the robbery on flights originating in Paris. We were about to research the names when you requested our presence."
        "So what are you waiting for?"
        Ray turned and headed for the door. "We're on it."
        "Oh, and Vecchio, we got copies of the security tapes from the museum, if you want them."
        Ray nodded, and followed Fraser out to Elaine's desk, watching over his shoulder as he accessed Interpol's link and began typing in his queries on Amanda Woolf, Amanda Clark, and Amanda Stevenson. While they waited for the requests to be processed, Ray got the cart with the portable TV-VCR on it and dragged it over to the desk where they started looking at the tapes, fast-forwarding through several hours worth until they got to the part where Fraser carried Amanda past the security gate. Her head was turned away from the camera, tucked in against Fraser's chest so her face was completely obscured. Ray swore, and looked at Fraser, who met his gaze with a rueful expression.
        "It would appear that she was careful not to be seen," Fraser said.
        "She's a pro, all right," Ray agreed. He scowled, tapping a pen against his thigh for a moment, then he looked at Fraser. "Why don't you sketch her? We could use that to make up some flyers for distribution."
        Fraser looked dubious. "Well, I don't know, Ray. My talents are rather meager."
        "Look, Benny, just because you're not Michelangelo doesn't mean you can't turn out a recognizable sketch. I've seen you do it before. Just give it a shot."
        Fraser picked up a pencil from the desk, turned over a sheet of department letterhead and started to sketch. Ray watched, shaking his head as with just a few lines Fraser managed to create a recognizable likeness of the woman from the museum. He suggested her short, dark hair with a few shaded strokes, emphasized the curve of her mouth with a slight smudge from a fingertip, then stopped, looking at it critically.
        "The jawline is a bit off, don't you think?"
        Knowing Fraser wouldn't stop asking him until he found something wrong with it, Ray looked, and nodded. "Yeah, just a little. I think maybe it should be more triangular."
        Fraser erased a line, changed it slightly, then handed the drawing to Ray. "There. It could use more chiaroscuro, but do you think it will serve?"
        Did he think it would serve? If Ray hadn't known better he'd have suspected the Mountie was fishing for a compliment. He'd seen worse drawings in galleries. He forced himself not to roll his eyes, reminding himself that Fraser couldn't help it. It was just the way he was. "It's fine, Benny. It'll work great."
        A beep from the computer signaled an incoming message and Fraser turned to the screen, reading rapidly.
        "Hunh," he said after a moment.
        "Hunh, what?" Ray prompted.
        "Two of the women checked out, both have valid passports. The third, Amanda Woolf, seems to have been traveling on forged papers. Hand me that sketch, please?"
        Ray handed it over, and Fraser nodded his thanks as he placed it face-down on the scanner. A few moments later he was sending an electronic copy of the sketch off to Interpol, and adding some details about height, weight, and such, as well as about the crime to aid in a search for a name to match the face. That done, he lifted the sketch from the scanner and looked up to where Elaine was hovering, wanting her desk back.
        "I'm sorry we're taking so long, Elaine. Do you think you could have a few copies made of this?"
        Elaine took it and looked at it. "Sure, Frase. She's very pretty. Who is she?"
        "That's what we're currently attempting to ascertain. She may be a suspect in the museum theft."
        Elaine's eyebrows climbed. "A woman did it?"
        "Possibly. We don't know yet. At this point we just want to talk to her."
        Elaine nodded. "I'll get those copies."
        Fraser smiled. "Thank you kindly."
        As she walked away, Ray sighed, shaking his head. "Fraser, it's her job to do that kind of thing. You don't have to say thank you."
        "Politeness never hurts, Ray." Fraser said mildly, then turned his attention back to the VCR.


* * *

        Fraser watched the tape intently, looking for any sign that might indicate the woman had an accomplice in the crowd, but saw nothing. As he watched, he heard Lieutenant Welsh call Ray's name, and was vaguely aware that his friend had wandered off. He rewound the tape and watched again as he carried the woman past the security checkpoint. He sighed, shaking his head. He had been warned many times about assuming the best rather than the worst about people. Perhaps he should be more suspicious, but it just seemed so, well, so impolite. Next to him, Dief whined softly, pressing his head against Fraser's knee. Looking down, he saw that the wolf was regarding him with concern.
        "No, Dief. I don't suppose I'll be changing my stripes at this late date, although I do wish I had thought to take her through the gates rather than around them." He suddenly remembered that Diefenbaker had seemed to approve of the woman, and he frowned. "You're not entirely blameless here, you know."
        Dief made a little groaning sound and looked away, embarrassed. Fraser smiled a little. "Yes, she was, wasn't she? Ah well, water under the bridge."
        A beep from Elaine's computer brought his attention back to the monitor. It was the report back from Interpol. Computers certainly had made certain aspects of police work far more efficient. Downloading the file he'd received, he opened it and read the report with some consternation. Sending the file to the printer, he clicked on the graphic that had been attached to the report and as the image loaded he became aware that Ray had returned and was looking over his shoulder at the screen.
        "Looks like our girl, doesn't it?" he said, studying the image.
        "I will admit, the resemblance is striking, however the woman in that photograph can't possibly be the same one we saw in the museum yesterday."
        "Why not?" Vecchio asked.
        "Because that photograph was taken over twenty years ago. The woman at the museum yesterday was no older than the woman in the photo. Besides, according to this report, Amanda Darieaux died thirteen years ago."
        "Who?"
        "Amanda Darieaux. The woman in the photo. She was killed in a fall from a seventh story window during the commission of a burglary on 12 January, 1981. It's in the report." Fraser retrieved the printed copy and handed it to Ray, who scanned it quickly, scowling.
        "Well, that's weird." Vecchio said a moment later. "You gotta admit, she looks just like our suspect."
        "Technically, our suspect resembles this woman rather than vice versa, since she is the younger of the two. Perhaps they are related, is there any family listed in the report?"
        Ray looked, and shook his head. "No, no one. That doesn't necessarily mean there wasn't any, though. So, you think maybe this is mom, and our girl is just following in her footsteps?" At Fraser's nod, he grinned. "I didn't think they had 'take your daughter to work day' twenty years ago, but hey, I guess maybe she was a forward thinker."
        "I did notice something else in the report," Fraser said, ignoring Ray's flippant comment. "The pseudonym our suspect used to enter the country, 'Amanda Woolf,' is one that Amanda Darieaux also used. Perhaps we might be able to locate her using one of the alternate aliases in the Darieaux file."
        "It's a thought, it's definitely a thought. And if we can find her, then Mr. DeBoer will be one happy camper."
        Fraser lifted his eyebrows. "And Mr. DeBoer would be?"
        "The guy who's missing an egg. Guess that's better than his marbles, eh Benny?"
        Ben frowned, feeling left out. "I don't recall hearing about this person before."
        "That's because I just got off the phone with him before I came over here to see what you had."
        "Ah." Fraser's feeling of exclusion faded. Clearly Ray simply hadn't had time to mention the fact. "He called you?"
        "Well, he called Lieutenant Welsh, who had me talk to him. Oh, and you'll like this, Ben. He's Canadian. You're legit on this case."
        "The owner of the purloined egg is Canadian?" Fraser asked, to be sure he'd understood correctly.
        "You takin' hearing lessons from Dief? Yeah, he's Canadian. He loaned the egg to the museum for the show, but he lives across the Lake, on a private estate outside Sault Ste. Marie on your side of the border."
        "I see." That development did tend to legitimate his involvement. "Did he have any idea who might have taken the egg?"
        "Not a clue, but he did seem real interested in getting it back."
        "Understandable."
        "He asked us to keep him informed about any developments."
        "It seems a reasonable request."
        "Yeah, I guess," Ray said, frowning slightly, staring blankly at the image on the computer.
        "Is something wrong, Ray?" Fraser asked, picking up on his obvious discomfort.
        Ray looked at him, and shook his head, still frowning. "I got a weird feeling about this guy. Can't quite put my finger on why. As soon as I told him we had a possible suspect he got pushy, wanted to know who, and what she looked like. Not that that's surprising, but . . . I don't know. Something felt wrong."
        Fraser studied him for moment, concerned. "I would tend to go with your instincts, Ray. If you feel that something is amiss, you're probably correct."
        "Yeah, but what?"
        "Perhaps we should find out. Did you get a first name?"
        "Um, yeah. I think it was Steven, or Stephan, or something like that."
        Fraser turned his attention to the keyboard for a moment and typed a query. "There. Perhaps we'll find something that will put your mind at ease."
        "Or not. Like you said, I got a nose for trouble."
        "I didn't comment on your nose, Ray."
        "Fraser," Ray said warningly.
        Fraser looked at him innocently. "What, Ray?"
        "You know what."
         "Yes, Ray." Fraser bit the inside of his lip to keep the smile at bay, enjoying the byplay. Ray was the only person who understood his somewhat quirky sense of humor. Everyone else simply assumed he was always serious. Elaine returned with a small stack of photocopies and handed them to Fraser.
        "There you go, Frase. Are you going to be much longer here?"
        "Just a little bit, Elaine, long enough to check some search results. I hope that's not a problem."
        "No, no problem. Well, I guess I'll go get some coffee, then. If you need anything, I'll be in the break room. Want me to bring you anything?"
        "No thank you, Elaine. I'm fine. If anyone asks for you, I'll let them know where you are."
        "Thanks." She stood for a moment, looking at him, then sighed slightly, shaking her head as she turned away, heading for the break room.
        Vecchio shook his head. "Oh man, she's got it bad."
        Fraser looked at his friend, concerned. "Elaine is ill?"
        Ray laughed. "No, I wouldn't say that. You really do amaze me, Fraser. I've never known anyone so oblivious in my entire life. Women fling themselves at you with monotonous regularity and you just don't notice!"
        Fraser looked after Elaine's retreating figure in consternation. "Elaine was throwing herself at me?"
        "With a little encouragement she would."
        "Oh." Disconcerted, Fraser returned his attention to the computer and pulled up a web-browser. "I'll check for news reports about Mr. DeBoer while we wait on an official report."
        Fifteen minutes later, after receiving and printing the Interpol report, along with a bunch of web-citations, they retired to Vecchio's desk with a larger stack of paper on the owner of the egg than they had on their suspected thief.
        "This is weird," Ray said, after reading through it. "There's nothing on this guy before 1972. It's like he didn't exist until then."
        "Perhaps he changed his name?" Fraser asked.
        "Maybe," Ray said absently, still reading. "Man, he sure seems to have his fingers in a lot of pies. Most of his money is in petroleum and mining. Has had a lot of bad press, too, especially about this one site." Ray pulled out several pages and handed them to Fraser. "Here, you look at these. I have no idea where it is, other than someplace in Canada."
        Fraser took the pages and glanced through them. "I know this area, it's in the MacKenzie district, north of Yellowknife. It's not all that far from Inuvik." He read further, and started to frown. "Ray, this is terrible! A uranium mine in that area would cause unconscionable levels of environmental damage!" Fraser exclaimed, aghast. "I can't believe the government let this happen!"
        Vecchio sighed, shaking his head. "Fraser, governments do whatever they have to in order to make a buck. You know that as well as I do. I suppose it does explain why my 'spider-sense' was tingling, but in any case, this is all beside the point. We're looking for a stolen egg, not an environmental pirate."
        Fraser sighed and acknowledged that. "You're right, Ray, I just hate to see things like this happening. It's a sparsely populated, and very poor area. Many people may not even realize what's happening there."
        "Somebody does, or there wouldn't be any protests for papers to write stories about, right? Back to the case at hand, any ideas where we should start looking for our thief?"
        "Actually, I do have some. Considering the obvious quality and expense of her clothing and accessories, I would suggest that we check the nicer hotels in the city. My guess is that we'll find her at one of them, probably one with somewhat of an 'old world' reputation, considering her European connections."
        "Good thought, Ben. Let's go."
        Fraser picked up his hat and stood, looking around. "Dief?"
        There was no sign of the wolf, and Fraser sighed, starting to search. He looked under all the desks, behind all the files, and in three offices before he located his companion in the break room. When he saw Fraser, Diefenbaker hid under a table, and Fraser frowned, crouching down low so the wolf could see him speaking.
        "We're leaving. Are you coming?"
        Dief whined, and Fraser sniffed the air suspiciously. "Is that chocolate I smell?" He straightened and glanced around the room. On the floor, half hidden by the soft-drink machine, was an empty doughnut box. He sighed and looked at the wolf sadly.
        "Dief, those doughnuts were purchased for consumption by the police, not by you. Besides, you know chocolate makes you sick."
        The wolf's response was another whine, and Fraser shook his head in disgust. "Come on. And this time let me know if you need to stop. Ray won't thank you for regurgitating in his car again."
        He left the room, Diefenbaker at his heels, and joined Vecchio at the door. "One question, Ray?"
        "Yeah, Benny?"
        "What exactly is 'spider sense?'"

* * *

        Shopping palled quickly, and though Amanda found a lovely little Russian café near the Loop for lunch in honor of her latest acquisition, its exotic decor and live balalaika music didn't distract her from her nerves or her guilty conscience. Eating alone always made her feel a little sad, too. She was a people-person, and didn't like to be alone. She sipped her lemon-infused vodka, picked at the blini with caviar and salmon, and finally gave up, paid the bill, and left.
        Catching a taxi to the waterfront, she walked along the lake shore, her thoughts drifting back to the two cops at the museum. What on earth was a Mountie doing working with a Chicago cop? Or had they been working together? Fraser had said Vecchio was his friend, not his partner. Perhaps they'd just been at the museum to see one of the exhibits. She had just about talked herself into that when she realized that if that were the case, the Mountie wouldn't have been in uniform. No, he'd clearly been there in some at least semi-official capacity.
        She frowned. Why on earth was she still thinking about them, well, aside from the obvious reason? She should be planning how best to use the money when DeBoer caved in and gave it to her. The donations would have to be made anonymously, of course, and she would have to break it up, giving smaller sums to several appropriate charities. Although she would have preferred to give it all to the Children's Fund, a lump-sum donation of four million would draw too much publicity, and if he heard about it, DeBoer might eventually connect it with the theft of the egg. That was the last thing she wanted. The kids who relied on that money needed care, not publicity and a pissed-off Immortal poking around in their business.
        Although, publicity in general about what he was doing wouldn't be bad. Maybe she could donate some of the money to some university to do a very public study. It would also be a good idea to make sure some if it went toward environmental remediation. Otherwise the land would stay poisoned for years, affecting not just the current generation, but many to come. She wondered if there was any way to 'donate' some to a government official to make sure DeBoer didn't get his permits renewed next time they came up. That would certainly be amusing.
        She smiled, thinking of how angry DeBoer would be if people started making some real waves for him. It really was worth the thought that she wasn't going to keep a penny of the money she got from him. She began to see how Duncan got hooked into being such a do-gooder. It felt nice to know she was helping people. Not that she would ever admit that to the Scot, of course. He would never let her live it down. Especially if he found out it was because of the kids. She just didn't want him to know how big a soft-spot she had for kids. That whole mess with Kenny had almost tipped him off, but she'd managed to make it seem less incriminating than it really was.
        Kenny. She sighed, thinking about the young Immortal she'd once befriended. Maybe if she'd been more like Duncan, then Kenny wouldn't have turned out the way he had. She hadn't instilled enough moral sense in him. Of course, how did one manage to teach someone that killing was wrong, when there were people with swords out hunting for them on a regular basis? No, she might not have been the best influence, but she certainly hadn't been the worst, either. Somehow the thought didn't cheer her.
        She found a bench and sat down, staring at the cold, gray waters of the Lake Michigan, feeling a little cold and gray inside, herself. Sometimes it was tough being what she was. Other people had parents, and kids, and friends to grow old with. Not growing old had a way of short-circuiting relationships before they even had a chance. And with the rare exceptions like Duncan, Richie, and Methos, having Immortal friends tended to be a bad idea. She sat by the lake for a long time, until the breeze got a bit too cold for comfort and a storm seemed to be blowing up from the west. She was about to head back to The Drake when her cell phone rang, startling her.
        Quickly she snatched it out of her pocket, extended the antenna, and opened the connection.
        "So, have you made up your mind?" she asked.
        "I'll pay it," DeBoer growled.
        She resisted the urge to scream "YES!" and pump her fist in the air like some demented sports fan. "I thought you might," she said evenly. "If you're ready to wire the funds I'll give you the account number." A numbered Swiss account, of course. Untraceable.
        "First I want proof that you do indeed have it, and that it's undamaged. After all, this could be a bluff. You could have heard about the theft and decided to run a scam."
        "Fair enough. Give me a fax number."
        "What?"
        "A fax number. I'll send you confirmation via fax."
        "I want to see it in person."
        Amanda laughed aloud. "Just how dumb do you think I am? No way."
        DeBoer sputtered and balked for awhile longer, but he finally gave in and gave her a number, as she'd known he would. He wasn't the kind who would ever let any of his possessions out of his grasp for long. She wrote down the number and hung up. Putting away the phone, she walked briskly back toward the hotel. It was only a few blocks from the park and the walk would give her time to think, to plan.
        She passed a Walgreens with a sign advertizing cameras, and went inside. Fifteen minutes later she was on her way again, this time burdened with an inexpensive Polaroid camera, a three-pack of film, and a Chicago Sun-Times. Everything she needed to create a little art project. Whoever said Immortals weren't creative? She was still smiling as she walked into the lobby at the Drake, and was halfway to the elevators when something registered on her. A hat. A Smokey-the-Bear sort of hat. The uniform under it was olive-brown today instead of scarlet, but the hat was unmistakable. Next to the man in the hat was a guy in a trench-coat, and at their feet was a white-coated canid.
        A little warning shiver went through her. The cop and the Mountie. Why were they here? Were they looking for her? Had they guessed? Shit. They were facing the clerk behind the counter and hadn't noticed her yet, she could slip past them, up the stairs, grab her stuff and be gone before they knew it. But skipping out would be a dead giveaway and would send them after her in earnest. Rebecca had once told her it was best to hide in plain sight. That was just what she would do. It would cost her a little time, but that was something she had in spades. She walked straight over to the registration desk..
        "Detective Vecchio? Constable Fraser?"
        They turned as one, surprised expressions on both faces. Vecchio hastily folded up something that looked like a sketch of her. Amanda smiled, not altogether feigning her pleasure. Seeing Benton Fraser would always be a pleasure.
        "It is you! I thought it was! What are you boys doing here? Looking for me?"
        They looked at each other, and she bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling as Fraser raised his eyebrows at Vecchio as if to say 'you think of something.' Vecchio did.
        "Hey, there you are! We've been all over town looking for you. Fraser insisted, he was worried about you, wanted to see if you were okay. Sorry we had to duck out on you like that, but duty called."
        Amanda shot a glance at Fraser who looked torn between wanting to correct his friend, and realizing he really ought to be agreeing. If she hadn't seen Fraser's face, she would almost have believed the cop. Clearly Ray Vecchio was a first-class liar. She'd rarely met anyone of her own caliber before. In the end Fraser said nothing to refute the cop's statement though the lie clearly didn't sit well with him. His discomfort was almost comical. Well, at least she had the answer to her question. She'd been right, they did suspect her.
        "You guys are so sweet!" she gushed. "Really, I'm fine now, a good night's sleep did the trick. I've been out sightseeing and shopping today," she held up her bags so they could see them, the Saks bag a peculiar contrast to the Walgreens one. "I bought a camera so I could take some pictures." Amanda chattered on in an innocent, affectless manner, as if they were old friends. They looked a little confused by her apparent pleasure in seeing them.
        Noticing a group of people heading up to the tearoom, Amanda had an idea. "You know, I'd love to do something for you, since you were so nice to me. I'm hungry and the tea-room here is world famous. If you're not on duty or anything, would you two like to have tea with me?"
        "Tea?" Vecchio looked a little dubious, then shrugged. "Sure, what the hell. We're not on the clock right now," he shot a quelling glance at Fraser, who had winced when he said it, then continued on. "And it's not like you're offering us a bribe, right?"
        Amanda played offended. "Detective Vecchio, I've never in my life had to bribe a man to spend time with me!"
        He shook his head, his gaze sliding appreciatively downward. "No, I would imagine you haven't, Ms.-- ah, I don't think I caught your last name."
        Damn, what name was she using now? Oh, yeah. "Woolf, Amanda Woolf. So you'll come?"
        Fraser cleared his throat. "I'm afraid Diefenbaker would be somewhat of an impediment to such an undertaking."
        "Put him in the car," Vecchio suggested.
        Diefenbaker groaned, looking up at her forlornly, a hint of hope gleaming in his eyes. How could she turn that down?
        "I wouldn't dream of excluding him. Where there's a will, there's a way. Constable Fraser, do you have a leash for him?"
        "Yes, why?"
        "You'll see. May I have it?"
        Looking puzzled, Fraser took a leash from his cartridge case and handed it to her. She took it, wound it around the wolf like a harness then removed the double-looped shoulder strap from her purse and clipped it to the makeshift harness. Coiling the end around one hand, she pulled a pair of sunglasses from her purse and put them on.
        "Coming, gentlemen?" she asked, as with a soft 'tchking' sound to the wolf she started toward the tea-room. Diefenbaker assumed the lead position as if he'd been born to it, guiding her to the door. As she'd expected, no one gave a second thought to the presence of a 'guide dog' though she never once suggested that was what he was. Fraser and Vecchio followed, the cop chuckling as they were shown to a table. Vecchio took a chair and sat, but Fraser took a moment to seat her in a courtly gesture as anachronistic as he was. Dief curled up under the table at their feet with a contented sigh, out of the way, but remaining with Fraser, who was clearly his 'alpha'.
        "Smooth move, lady. You think well on your feet," Vecchio said admiringly.
        Amanda grinned. "Thank you, I like to think of myself as resourceful."
        Fraser looked troubled. "You do realize that health regulations prohibit bringing an animal into the restaurant."
        Amanda sighed and looked at Vecchio. "Is he always like this?"
        "Always," Vecchio confirmed. "Makes me nuts."
        "I can imagine," Amanda sympathized, then she reached out and patted Fraser's hand. "Relax, Constable. No one's going to arrest your wolf. He's very well behaved, and that's the main reason behind those rules, after all. I could understand excluding a badly trained, nervous animal who might upset things or try to steal food, but not Dief."
        Beneath the table Dief groaned, and Fraser leaned over to look at him, his eyes narrowed. "Yes, you should feel guilty. You may look quite innocent to the unwary, but we both know you stole those doughnuts."
        "I'm sure he feels quite repentant," Amanda said, trying not to laugh. A Mountie who spoke wolf. Or was that a wolf who spoke Mountie? Either way, it really did defy logic.
        At her defense of him, Diefenbaker looked at her adoringly, and she wondered for a moment if the animal actually understood every word she was saying, or just her approving tone. A loud crash from the kitchen as someone dropped a tray made all three humans at the table jump, but the wolf didn't bat an eyelid. Amanda looked at Fraser, puzzled.
        "He's certainly an extraordinarily calm animal."
        The Mountie cocked his head slightly. "Why do you say that?"
        "Most dogs would at least have looked up to see what the noise was."
        "Ah, that. He didn't react because he couldn't hear the noise. You see, Diefenbaker is deaf. He lost his hearing when he pulled me from Prince Rupert Sound, and the water in his ears froze and shattered his eardrums."
        "Ooh, poor baby!" She reached down to stroke his soft fur. "I'm so sorry to hear that!" So much for assuming that he was going by her tone of voice. She looked at the wolf again, then back to the Mountie. "If he's deaf, then how does he know what we're saying to him?"
        "He reads lips."
        She stared at Fraser, then looked at Vecchio for confirmation. He nodded.
        "Don't ask me how, but Fraser's right. Dief reads lips. If he can't see you, forget about commands, he just does what he wants, or whatever the last thing you told him was. Of course, even if he does see you and he doesn't want to do what you want, he just pretends he didn't see you."
        Amanda grinned. "Well, isn't that just like a male?"
        "He doesn't pretend he doesn't see you, Ray," Fraser said earnestly. "He just has trouble with your accent, that's all."
        "I don't have an accent, you do."
        "Well, actually, Ray, you do. Although I'm sure that to you it would appear that I have an accent."
        "You don't think you have an accent? What about that thing you do with your 'oh's'."
        "What thing?"
        "You know that 'ah-oo' thing. Canadians always do that. That Jennings guy on the news even does it, and you'd think by now the network would've hired someone to teach him how not to."
        "That 'ah-oo' thing?" Fraser asked, blankly.
        "You know. 'Ah-oot' instead of out. 'Ab-ah-oot' instead of about."
        "I don't believe that the diphthong is quite that pronounced, Ray."
        "What's a diphthong?" Ray asked. "Sounds like a Brazilian bathing suit."
        Amanda was highly entertained by their banter. It was clear that Vecchio was attempting to get a rise out of Fraser, and succeeding only in getting one out of himself. The Mountie appeared to have been born with a Valium gland, while the cop was about as hyper as one could get and not be on Ritalin. She wondered what on earth had brought such opposites together and was about to be rude and ask when a waiter appeared to take their order. She ordered a pot of tea for herself and the Mountie, coffee for the cop, and assorted goodies to share. Under the table she felt Diefenbaker's tail thump against her leg, reminding her he was there, and she added an egg-salad sandwich to the order. She'd never yet met a canine who didn't like eggs.
        "So," Amanda said after the waiter had gone. "Do you two work together or just play together?"
        Vecchio looked a trifle disconcerted by the question but it didn't phase the Mountie.
        "Generally we work together, though in an unofficial capacity. I facilitate Ray's investigations whenever possible and he has provided assistance to me many times."
        "I have?" Vecchio asked, looking surprised.
        "Of course, Ray," Fraser assured him. "Frequently."
        "First I've heard about it," Vecchio muttered.
        The Mountie looked concerned. "Your assistance has been invaluable on several occasions. I'm sorry if I haven't appropriately expressed my gratitude."
        "Fuggedaboudit," Vecchio said, turning to Amanda. "So, what do you do for a living? Must pay well, whatever it is," he asked pointedly.
        "I'm a location scout," she said, hoping neither of them had aspirations toward acting. "I'm here looking for locations for a film shoot. In fact, maybe you two can help me with that."
        "Sounds like a job for a realtor, not a cop," Vecchio said, doubtful.
        "Actually, no. You're perfect, with your knowledge of the city. You do know your way around Chicago, right?"
        "You bet I do! I was born and raised here," Vecchio said proudly. "Benny's still kind of learning his way around, but I know the city like the back of my hand."
        Benny? Amanda couldn't really picture ever calling the excruciatingly formal Benton Fraser 'Benny.' But then, she wasn't male. "See? Like I said, perfect! What I need most is to find an abandoned church or two."
        Fraser looked interested, Vecchio looked puzzled.
        "A church? What for?"
        "Not just any church. One that's not currently being used. The film is one of those Gothic Horror types, and the climactic scene takes place in an old church or cathedral. The problem is, folks tend to get a little testy about having a film crew disrupting their services, so it's best if it's not currently being used."
        "I can see where that might be a problem," Fraser said, nodding. "You know, Ray, there's the old St. Benedict's. It's been vacant since before I came to Chicago."
        "Yeah, and that place is pretty spooky. Used to scare the you-know-what outta me when I was a kid and we'd go by there at night. Or there's St. Teresa's, but it's farther out."
        Amanda took a small computerized planner from her purse. "Addresses?" she asked brightly. She really did want to know. It was always good to know where a nice, quiet piece of Holy Ground could be found, in case of emergency, and she really wanted to get her little nest egg to someplace safer. She really didn't like carrying around a small fortune wrapped in tissues and buried in the bottom of her purse. It was just asking for trouble.

* * *

        "So, what do you think?" Vecchio asked as Fraser settled himself in the passenger seat and fastened the safety belt.
        "I think we should watch her," he said, looking back toward the hotel entrance.
        "Me too," Vecchio said. "Something feels funny."
        "Agreed," Fraser said, frowning thoughtfully. "Though it seems odd that she didn't seem at all displeased to see us."
        "Fraser, with a couple of notable exceptions women are never displeased to see you."
        "Now, Ray, that's an exaggeration," Fraser protested.
        "No, it's not," Vecchio said, slightly aggrieved. "I swear on my mother's grave."
        "Your mother isn't dead, Ray." Fraser pointed out reasonably.
        "Right. Well, you know what I meant. Anyway, something tells me she's up to something. I mean, first off, this woman wears designer clothes, she stays at one of the most expensive places in town, spends money like she hasn't a worry in the world. So why would someone with her kind of dough buy a cheap little Polaroid camera when she could afford something snazzy?"
        "Well, some people prefer the convenience of not having to have the film processed," Fraser offered, then he fell silent for a moment before his eyes met Ray's and they spoke their thoughts aloud, in unison.
        "She needs the camera to prove she's got the egg."
        "She had a copy of today's paper, too," Fraser said. "She probably plans to use the paper to confirm that the picture is current."
        "That means she's about to make contact with her buyer."
        Fraser nodded, looking distracted. After a moment he looked back at Ray. "Why would someone with Ms. Woolf's obvious affluence need to steal?"
        "It takes money to spend money, Benny. She's got to maintain her standard of living."
        Fraser considered that, and discarded it. "I don't think that's it."
        "Maybe she just likes the thrill of it. She wouldn't be the first rich kleptomaniac I've dealt with."
        Again, his idea was considered, and discarded, Fraser shaking his head with a frown. "That doesn't seem likely, either."
        "What then?" Vecchio demanded, exasperated. "You tell me."
        "What if it's a political statement?"
        "And just how could stealing be considered a political statement?"
        "I was just thinking of what we discovered about Stefan DeBoer. Perhaps she feels that what DeBoer is doing to the environment needs to be recompensed."
        "To her, personally? So that would make her, what, Mother Earth? Give me a break, Fraser. If she wanted to make a political statement she'd have done so when she first stole the thing. I think you're the one who wants to make a political statement."
        Diefenbaker whined, and Fraser looked at him, then sighed. "You're right. I am letting my personal feelings influence my investigation. Still, it is entirely possible that she stole the egg simply in order to ransom it back to its owner, whatever her motive. We may want to communicate with Mr. DeBoer and see if she has contacted him."
        Ray was surprised to hear that acknowledgment, and it took him a moment to realize that the Mountie was replying to him and not the wolf.
        "Good idea, Benny. He pulled out his cellular phone and dialed the station. Elaine picked up, and he barely waited for her to finish her greeting when he started speaking "Hey Elaine, it's Vecchio."
        "Ray, where are you? Lieutenant Welsh has been asking for you."
        "We're over at the Drake staking out our suspect, and I don't have time to talk to Welsh right now. I need the number of that DeBoer guy who owns the egg. It's on my desk."
         Elaine sighed, and he pictured her annoyed look, but she consented to go get it. As he waited for Elaine to find it, he waved his hand frantically at Fraser, who somehow figured out what he wanted and extracted a pen from his jacket. Ray snatched it from him and scrawled the number on the back of his hand as Elaine read it off, then hung up on Elaine and dialed the number on his hand. After three rings it was answered.
        "DeBoer International, how may I help you?" A beautifully modulated female voice answered.
        "This is Detective Ray Vecchio with the Chicago P.D., let me talk to your boss."
        "I'm sorry, Mr. DeBoer is unavailable at the moment. May I take a message?"
        Vecchio rolled his eyes. "Yeah, tell him we may have a lead on his egg and he needs to call me. Here's my number." Vecchio rattled it off and hung up, then looked at Fraser. "Seems real concerned, if he's not even bothering to take my calls."
        "Perhaps he's trying to keep the line free for a call from Ms. Woolf?" Fraser speculated.
        "Yeah, maybe, if he's the intended buyer. She could be selling to anyone. You said yourself that people steal on commission these days."
        "True, I just have a hunch he's the intended target, not the money, per se."
        "One and the same, Benny. It's one and the same."
        "In this case, I tend to agree with you."
        Diefenbaker whined, and barked, staring at the hotel. Ray glanced up and didn't see anything interesting.
"What's his problem?" Ray asked Fraser, who was staring at the hotel with intensity equal to the wolf's. "Ray, that red-haired woman near the taxi. . ."
        Ray took a second look at the woman in question. As he did, the wind whipped open her leather trench-coat, revealing her svelte, black-clad figure and Ray swore, starting the engine. Her hair might be long and red, overlarge sunglasses might hide her face, but he'd recognize her breasts anywhere.
        "It's her. Good work, Dief. Remind me to get you a box of Milk-Bones."
        He pulled out into traffic six cars back from the taxi and followed it easily. It made one stop, at a copy-shop near the University, where she went inside for about five minutes before returning to the taxi. As they took off behind the taxi once more, Fraser looked back over his shoulder, frowning.
        "Ray, there's a black Mercedes behind us."
        "So what? There are hundreds of them in the city."
        "I noticed one parked near us at the Drake."
        "You probably did. People who own Mercedes tend to like to stay in places like the Drake."
        "True. And it may not be the same vehicle."
        "Probably not. Why would someone in a Mercedes want to follow us, anyway?"
        "I don't know, but perhaps we should find out."
        Vecchio looked over at the Mountie and sighed. "Look, we can follow the suspect, or we can do a traffic stop on the Men in Black back there, which would you prefer?"
        Fraser considered, and rendered judgement. "It would be logical to continue to follow Ms. Woolf. If they are indeed following us, then we will eventually end up at the same destination. If they aren't following us, then we would be distracted from our pursuit by stopping."
        "Good thinking. I'll keep following the taxi." He fished out his phone and handed it to Fraser. "You call Elaine and have her get someone to check the copy-shop and find out what our suspect was up to there."
        Fraser complied as Ray drove, and by the time they had gone a few more blocks it suddenly hit Ray where they were going, and he looked at Fraser. "St. Benedict's," he said cryptically.
        "It does appear likely," Fraser said, without missing a beat. "Although we may have jumped to an erroneous conclusion. She may in fact be what she said she was. Why else would she be interested in an abandoned church?"
        "I don't know, but I can't think of any real good reason why she would need to put on a disguise to go make copies and look at real-estate, either."
        "Excellent point."
        "I thought so."
        They drove in silence for awhile. Eventually the taxi pulled up next to St. Benedict's and stopped. Ray drove past casually, circled around behind the building and pulled into an alley where he eased the car into a building shadow and killed the engine. He started to get out, and Fraser put a hand on his harm, holding him back.
        "Wait. She's not going to try the front door, not when it faces a busy street. She'll come around here."
        They waited a couple of minutes, and as predicted, a petite figure came strolling around the corner, looking up at the tall spires of the Gothic structure as if merely sightseeing. She made a quick check right and left, then trotted up the stairs to the arched wooden doorway that had a chain and large padlock across it. She took something from her pocket and bent down, obscuring whatever it was she was doing. After about a minute and a half she dropped the chain and padlock on the step and turned her attention to the door lock. That took only a few seconds work, and then she was opening the door and slipping inside, closing the door behind her.
        As one, Ray and Fraser exited the car, Diefenbaker on their heels. When they got to the door, Fraser leaned down to speak to the wolf.  "Stay, Dief. Watch the door, and if she comes out without us, keep her here till we show up."
        Diefenbaker yipped assent, and skulked over into the shadows. Vecchio wondered if his life would ever be normal again. Quietly they entered the building through the same door that their quarry had just unlocked with a professional's skill. It was dim and very quiet inside, but there was just enough light coming in through the tall, and surprisingly unbroken windows to see that their pursuit was made easier by the single set of footprints which made a clear path in the thick coating of dust that filmed every surface. Fraser walked precisely in Amanda's footprints, scarcely disturbing the dust. Ray found himself doing the same, though he wondered who the hell cared if he messed up dust.
        He glanced heavenward, feeling guilty for even thinking the word 'hell' in a church, even if it wasn't in use. It was still a church, and old habits died hard. He imagined he could smell the faint sweetness of ancient incense in the air, and felt a strange compulsion to cross himself, which he resisted. It was just programming. They came to the doors of the sanctuary, one of which was ajar. From inside the room they could hear a faint scraping sound. Fraser lifted a finger to his lips and eased up to the doorway, then looked inside. Ray did the same.
        Amanda was kneeling in front of the altar, working at it with a small pry-bar. He frowned. He hadn't expected her to be here intent on vandalism. After a moment a stone came loose, and she put down the pry-bar and carefully worked the stone away from the altar and set it aside. She bent and shone a flashlight into the hole, and he could see her teeth flash in a smile as she peered down into the cavity. Picking up her handbag, she removed a small object from it, which she placed inside the recess, then replaced the stone. Stepping back, she put the pry-bar into her bag, dusted off her hands and then frowned as she studied the scene.
        After a second she unwound a scarf from around her throat and used it to dust off the entire altar, then to his surprise made a quick genuflection before looking up at the ceiling and giving a thumb's up gesture. Ray looked upward to see who she was gesturing to, and saw no one. Odd. Was she talking to God? He couldn't imagine who else it might be. Suddenly she gasped and stiffened, looking wildly around the room. Almost simultaneously, Fraser grabbed him and shoved him behind a wooden screen that stood a few feet from the doorway. Before he could demand an explanation, Ray finally heard the footsteps that had alerted Fraser, and apparently Amanda as well, to the fact that they weren't alone.
        The footfalls rang loudly in the quiet, as if someone wanted to be heard, and a figure came into view. It was a tall, strongly built man whose trench-coat flared out behind him like wings as he moved. He stopped in the doorway looking into the sanctuary, affording Ray a good look at him. He had a face like a Nazi from an old war movie, with harsh, aristocratic features and short-cropped, iron-gray hair. His hands were leather-gloved, and the suit and shoes beneath the trench-coat spoke of wealth.
        "I knew you were here, and I knew you were one of us. I can feel you."
        The man's voice was strangely familiar; deep and with a hint of an accent. Ray struggled to identify it, knowing he'd heard it before, and recently.
        "Hey, Stevie," Amanda said, her tone full of haughty bravado. "Nice of you to come, though I have to admit it's a bit of a surprise. How'd you find me?"
        "You were surprisingly careless. I followed the policemen who followed you."
        Fraser shot Ray an 'I-told-you-so' look, and Ray shrugged, trying to pay attention to the conversation.
        "Oddly, they don't appear to have followed you in, I'm not sure why. Perhaps they had to get permission to enter the building, or they're waiting for backup. Not that it matters. When they return, they will find only your body. It's a bad neighborhood. I'm sure that your death will be just another crime statistic, even if the cause is a bit . . . unusual."
        "This is Holy Ground, Stefan, or have you forgotten?"
        "Oh, I haven't forgotten, my dear. But you will have to come out sometime."
        "What makes you think you can take me? It's been a long time since you faced anyone."
        Ray suddenly realized where he'd heard the voice before. It was the egg-guy, DeBoer. How the hell had he managed to track Ray and Fraser down to follow them? They hadn't even checked in until twenty minutes earlier, and by that time they'd been en route here. Had they been followed all day as they attempted to locate Amanda? It seemed the only answer. Ray felt embarrassed that he had managed to miss an all-day tail. He'd never live that one down, if it got out. It only marginally helped that Fraser hadn't noticed either, not until the last little bit.
        Being embarrassed tended to piss him off, and he felt anger rising. Before he could even reach down and unholster his weapon, Fraser put a hand on his arm and shook his head silently when he had Ray's attention. How the hell had Fraser known he was thinking of stepping out and announcing his presence? Sometimes he thought the Mountie must be psychic. With reluctance he nodded his agreement to wait, and mouthed 'DeBoer' at Fraser. Fraser's eyes widened, and then he looked thoughtful.
        "Just because you haven't heard of me taking anyone recently doesn't mean I'm out of practice. There are benefits to being obscenely wealthy," DeBoer said mockingly. "Among them, the ability to dispose of one's enemies without interference."
        There was a short pause, then Amanda spoke again. "Who?"
        "Recently? Let me see if I remember, there have been several. Oh, yes, I remember now. Since midsummer, there were Taliesin, Al-Qataan, Riviera, oh, and Duvall."
        Amanda's breath hissed in a gasp. "Etienne Duvall? But I saw him just three months ago! No one told me he was gone!"
        "As I said, just because you have not heard of something, does not mean that it did not happen. I'm very discreet."
        Ray looked at Fraser, wondering if the Mountie understood the conversation. Fraser shook his head, looking as puzzled as Ray felt.
        "So, what's your name, in case anyone asks me that question, afterward."
        "Amanda. Amanda Darieaux."
        "Ah, yes, the lovely thief. I should have guessed. I've heard of your exploits, though I thought you usually traveled with the Highlander."
        "Sometimes I do, not always. He's a friend."
        DeBoer laughed. "A friend? Come, my dear. We have no friends, at least not of our own kind."
        "You're wrong, you know. It's possible."
        "You say that now, but when the Game calls, you will find otherwise."
        "Like you did, when you took Gregor?"
        This time the caught breath belonged to DeBoer. "How could you know of that?"
        "I have my sources." Amanda said coyly. "I know you let other people soften him up for you, first. Hardly playing by the rules."
        "Sometimes one must make ones' own rules. Gregor had become a liability. He'd started to believe his own press. Always a bad idea."
        "He lived long enough to help you bring down the Romanovs."
        "He was useful there, yes. But that's old news. Where is my egg?"
        "Safe. I faxed you a picture of it, but I guess you weren't there to get it."
        "No, I was here, looking for you."
        "Too bad. Have you made the deposit?"
        "Why would I do that, when I can get it back without spending a cent?" He moved further into the doorway. "Frankly, I'm interested in seeing how you plan to get out of this. In order to leave here, you must pass me."
        "Not necessarily," Amanda said. "There are always alternatives."
        DeBoer laughed, shaking his head, then froze, his gaze on the floor, where Ben and Ray's footprints in the dust diverged from Amanda's and led toward the screen. His gaze narrowed, and before Ray could snatch his weapon from his shoulder-holster, DeBoer tipped the screen aside and leveled a nine-millimeter automatic at them. Slowly Ray let his hand shift to Fraser's arm, as if he hadn't been reaching for his gun. If he could keep the weapon, he might get a chance to use it.
        "Well, well, gentlemen. If you hadn't stepped out of the lady's tracks there at the last, I would never have guessed you were here. How convenient for me, though. Just the leverage I need." Smiling, he gestured for Ray and Fraser to step into the sanctuary. They complied, allowing DeBoer to herd them toward the front of the room, close to where Amanda stood. "See what I've found, Mistress Darieaux? Now, shall we discuss the location of my property, again, or will you force me to take steps to ensure your cooperation?"
        Amanda's face was pale in the dimly-lit sanctuary. "You wouldn't."
        "Oh, but I would, I assure you," DeBoer replied silkily.
        "But this is Holy Ground," she whispered, clearly shaken.
        "So it is, and while that prevents me from disposing of you here, as you know there's no rule which says I can't kill them on the premises."
        Ray saw Amanda's jaw tighten, then she looked at him, and Fraser. Her gaze anxious, and she seemed to be trying to communicate something to them. He had no idea what.
        "No, there isn't, is there?" she said, sounding defeated. "If I tell you where it is, will you let them leave safely?"
        "I'll consider it."
        "There's another church, St. Teresa's. I left it there. I have the address in my organizer, can I get it?"
        DeBoer nodded, his gun still trained on Ray and Fraser. "Get it, but no tricks. "
        "No tricks," she agreed, turning to pick up the bag.
        Ray tensed, preparing to go for his gun. Amanda was up to something, and he wanted to be ready. He knew she hadn't had time to go to St. Teresa's, so there was no way she'd stashed the egg there. He was pretty sure that the item in question was tucked snugly into a hollow within the altar, not four feet from where they stood. The one thing he was sure about was that he and Fraser wouldn't be leaving the church alive, even if she did hand over the bauble. They knew too much now. He still wasn't sure exactly what he knew, but they'd heard DeBoer as much as admit he was a murderer, and that he planned on killing Amanda, too. That alone made them too dangerous to be allowed to live.
        Amanda turned, holding her Polaroid camera, her fingers poised on the shutter button. DeBoer frowned. "What are you . . ."
        She hit the button and the flash went off. In the dimness, it was searingly bright and in that scant instant of surprise it afforded, Ray dove for the floor, shouting "Down!" and reaching for his gun. He heard DeBoer curse, and rolled onto his back, releasing the safety on his weapon just as he saw DeBoer sight on Fraser, who had for some idiotic reason taken it into his head to put himself between DeBoer and Amanda. As Ray brought up his gun, Amanda grabbed the Mountie and turned, reversing their positions, then she shoved him away from her as hard as she could. Fraser fell backward just as the thunderous crack of a gunshot split the quiet, echoing in the stone-walled cavern of the sanctuary. Amanda staggered, and went to her knees, then toppled limply to the cold stone floor. DeBoer aimed for Fraser again, and Ray shot him without a second thought.
        It was a nice, clean shot, and DeBoer fell, his weapon hitting the ground with a metallic clatter. Fraser scrambled to Amanda's side as Ray grabbed his cellphone and called for backup and paramedics. Wrestling Amanda out of her coat, the Mountie's hands came away dark with blood. He flipped her onto her back and started CPR as Ray leaned down to pick up DeBoer's gun, and feel the man's throat for a pulse. Nothing. Feeling rather pleased by that, he checked the clip in DeBoer's gun, and sighed as he realized what it held.
        "Benny," he said quietly.
        Fraser didn't look up from where he was trying to resuscitate Amanda. Ray tried again.
        "Fraser, he was using hollow-points, mercury filled. There's no point in trying to revive her. She's probably got a hole in her the size of Kansas."
        For three more breaths, Fraser ignored him, then finally he sat back and looked down at Amanda's still figure before him. He looked at the amount of blood on the floor, at her half-open, sightless eyes, and an expression came over his face that made Ray hurt for him. He knelt beside the other man, a hand on his shoulder.
        "Benny, it wasn't your fault."
        "Yes, it was, Ray. If I had let you draw your gun and announce your presence when you originally wanted to, none of this would have happened. If I had thought to tell Diefenbaker not to let anyone in, as well as telling him not to let Amanda out . . ."
        "If you'd done that, he'd've shot the wolf." Ray said flatly. "He wasn't the type to wait around for someone to call Dief off. And if I'd gone out when I started to, we'd probably both be dead now. You were right to wait, it was just bad luck he saw the footprints. Look, Amanda knew the chance she was taking. She knew DeBoer had a gun, she knew he was going to kill us. She could have let him do it and had a chance at escaping, herself. Instead she chose to use that flash to distract him, and she chose to put herself in the path of that bullet. She may have been a thief, but she was a good enough person to not want innocent blood spilled on her behalf. Don't dishonor her sacrifice."
        Ray had no idea where he was getting what he was saying, but it sounded pretty good. He'd probably heard it in a movie or something. Fraser closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them again. Ray saw the gleam of tears on his face, but his mouth was set and determined now.
        "You're right, Ray. It was clearly an intentional sacrifice on her part, one that should be respected." He looked down at his bloody hands a little helplessly, and Ray pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to him. Fraser wiped his hands as clean as he could, then reached down to gently close Amanda's eyes. After a long, silent moment, he stood up. "We should continue our investigation, Ray. We're still looking for motives. We'll need to notify the Canadian authorities that they should investigate DeBoer, as well. Clearly the man has been concealing a criminal past."
        Ray nodded. In the background he could hear sirens nearing. Time to see what could be salvaged from this mess.

* * *

        "So, what do you think all that talk about 'holy ground' was, anyway?" Ray asked.
        Fraser turned from watching the crime scene photographer at work. "I'm sorry, Ray, what did you ask?"
        "Both DeBoer and Amanda referred to this as 'holy ground,' like it meant something."
        "Well, it is holy ground. All churches are."
        Ray sighed. "I know that, Fraser. What I meant was why would that make any difference to a thief and a killer?"
        "I don't know. Frankly, it makes no sense."
        "You mean you don't have some old Eskimo story that explains it?" Ray asked.
        Fraser smiled faintly, realizing that his friend was trying to annoy him out of his mood. "Inuit, Ray. Not Eskimo. And, no, I don't. I would have guessed their conversation referred to the concept of 'sanctuary' but that clearly wasn't the case, as DeBoer had no qualms about killing us here, just not her."
        "Which he ended up doing anyway. Weird."
        "Perhaps he felt it would be bad luck."
        "Well, that it was, since he got himself offed too."
        "Quite true. I was also wondering about the references to 'Gregor' and to 'the Romanov's.' Since there is a Fabergé egg involved, one might almost assume that they were speaking of Gregor Rasputin, and the Imperial house of Romanov, but since they seemed to be speaking of people they knew personally, that can hardly be the case."
        "Could be Russian Mafia," Ray offered. "They'd probably love to get their hands on something like what Amanda snatched."
        "Hey, guys?" A uniformed officer who was kneeling next to DeBoer's body waved them over. "Look what I found in his coat. Is this weird, or what?"
        Fraser moved to where he could see that the man held what appeared to be a sword-hilt in his latex-gloved hand. About four inches of blade showed beneath the hilt, the rest of its length was hidden in a special sheath which had obviously been engineered into the coat to hold the weapon. Ray whistled.
        "I've heard of concealed weapons before, but never a goddamned sword. Man, that's gotta make it tough to sit down."
        The other man snickered and Fraser knelt to examine the blade, even more puzzled by the case now.
        "He had a gun, why would he need a sword?" He mused aloud.
        "In this day and age, why would anyone need a sword?" Ray retorted.
        He had a point. Fraser got a pair of gloves from the evidence kit the other cop had brought and pulled them on, then took the sword. It wasn't a reproduction, at least he didn't think it was. There was nothing decorative about the blade, it was simple, utilitarian. The edge was keenly honed, and there were definite wear-patterns on it. There was something about it that felt old, felt used. "I believe this weapon is an antique, Ray. Perhaps DeBoer belonged to some sort of recreationist group?"
        "Nah, I know people who do that. They wear funny clothes and bash each other around in parks with big sticks wrapped in duct tape. They don't carry real swords in trench coats. This guy was nuttier than I thought. Make sure that gets bagged for evidence, okay?"
        Fraser nodded, handing it back to the uniformed officer. He looked over at Amanda, and frowned. Walking past her, he went to where he'd tossed her coat aside when he'd tried to save her life. Was he imagining things, or had there been . . . he nudged the pile of fabric cautiously with his toe and something clanked on the floor. No, he hadn't imagined it. He'd been too upset to wonder about it when he'd taken the coat off her, but now he needed to know. Kneeling, he sorted through the folds until he found what he had half-expected to find. Slowly he eased the long blade free and held it up.
        "Ray?"
        Ray turned, and his eyes widened. "She had one too?"
        Fraser nodded. "Apparently so. It's a different style, but as authentic as DeBoer's. This shorter, wider blade would probably have been more appropriate for someone of Amanda's size and build."
        Ray rubbed his forehead. "So, what have we got here? A couple of maniac fencers? I don't get it, what have antique swords got to do with a stolen egg?"
        Fraser shook his head, equally baffled. "I have no idea, Ray. From their conversation I would say they had not met before, but they did appear to know some of the same people. When DeBoer named his recent victims, she knew at least one of them, and he apparently knew a certain amount of information about her, even if he didn't know her personally."
        "So, are you saying it's some kind of cult? That there's a whole bunch of these people out there with a kink for long, sharp, pointy things?"
        "It's possible. We should look into it, at any rate. So far it's about all we have to go on."
        Ray sighed. "Fraser, just once I'd like to be involved in a case with you that doesn't get weird. Just a nice, simple homicide where we can arrest the perp and declare the case closed with a minimum of fuss. You're like a magnet for the bizarre!"
        "I'm sorry, Ray. I don't mean to be."
        "I know that, Benny. You can't help yourself. So, maybe they were part of some kind of nutso militant religious cult or something. That could explain how they knew of each other, but hadn't actually met, the references to 'holy ground' and the swords. We need to check out those other names DeBoer mentioned, see if we can come up with anything that links them to bladed weapons. And speaking of checking things out, let's take a look-see in here." Ray bent down, picked up Amanda's bag and dumped its contents on the altar's flat surface.
        Fraser's gaze quickly catalogued a lockpick kit, cellular phone, an electronic organizer, a small makeup case, a hairbrush, and a wad of paper. He snagged the paper, flattening it to find it was a newsletter from a group called "The Children's Fund." The lead article thanked contributors for their generosity and described how their donations helped children from all over the world. The second story reported on the difficult adjustment period of two Native American children who had been taken in by the charity after their parents had died within weeks of each other. Scrawled in the margin next to the story, in an ornate, feminine script, were some notes and figures. He looked up.
        "Ray, I think I was right. Taking the egg was a political statement of a sort."
        Ray came to stand next to him. "What did you find?"
        "This." Fraser held it out.
        Ray read, then looked at him blankly. "I don't get it. A manifesto this ain't."
        "The children in that story. They were both from the Territories, from an area very near DeBoer's uranium mine. I would guess that their parents died of radiation-related illnesses contracted by unsafe conditions in those mines."
        "Why would anyone work there if it's not safe?"
        "Because there's very little work to be found that area of the country. They probably took jobs there hoping to better support their children, and ended up losing their lives instead. Look at what she wrote in the margin. DeBoer's name, underlined. The name of the museum, the letters WPE, which likely stands for 'Winter Palace Egg.' Note also the figures '2.4 mil' and '4 mil.' One is the appraisal value of the egg, I suspect the other is probably what she was asking for it. Then she's written 'half to CF, remainder to smaller groups' and 'university study?'. I suspect those were notes for how she planned to disburse the funds once DeBoer paid her. "
        "You're reading an awful lot between the lines there, Fraser," Ray said gently.
        "Yes, Ray, I am, but I know that area, and I know its people. I believe that a few minutes spent researching this will confirm my theories about the children and their parents. After that, the seems fairly obvious."
        "Obvious is a relative term, but I suppose it's possible. It's also possible that she just wanted the money."
        Fraser looked into Ray's cool gray eyes and shook his head. "I don't believe that, Ray. Do you?"
        Ray held his gaze for a long moment, then shook his head, making a wry face. "No, Benny. I don't. God help me, I don't believe it either. Now how do we prove it?"
        Fraser sighed. "I don't know."
        "Back to the station then, sounds like it's time for you to hit Elaine's computer again, while I make some calls." Suddenly Ray groaned. "Oh God, I'm also going to have to file an incident report on this."
        Fraser looked at Ray, knowing the seriousness of that. "I'll gladly supply any supporting affidavits you need, Ray. It was clear that you had no choice."
        "I know that and you know that, I just hope they believe us. Come on, let's go."


* * *

        Amanda gasped herself awake. God, waking up was such a bitch. It was like sticking her finger in a light socket. The first thing she realized was that she was naked, and very cold. She tried to look around, but everything was kind of a soft, glowing white, and for a moment she wondered if somehow she'd managed to end up stuck in a snowdrift. Then the tingling, itching ache in her back reminded her what happened, and she realized that the reason she couldn't see anything but white was because there was a sheet over her face. Oh damn. Damn, damn, damn. That meant she was in a morgue.
        She fingered her stomach, relieved to find that it felt normal, not weird like her back. That meant they hadn't started an autopsy. Thank heavens for small favors. She listened carefully, and could hear someone singing opera, 'La Traviata,' she thought. The sound was distant enough that she risked tugging at the sheet until it slipped down to the middle of her nose and let her see. Yep. Definitely a morgue. Whoever was singing wasn't anywhere in sight, and she started to sit up, then heard the singing move nearer.
        Quickly she lay back down and closed her eyes most of the way. An older man in green scrubs wandered into the room, still singing. Without sparing a glance at her, he picked up a saw and turned back the sheet which shrouded a body on the main table, then the phone rang. Muttering to himself, he moved off into the outer office once more. Amanda quickly sat up, wrapping the sheet around herself like a sari. She had to get out of here, and quickly. She saw a door across the room from the one through which the pathologist had exited, and she went over and opened it. Drat, a closet.
        Standing there she looked back at the exit, and as her gaze went past the corpse on the table, Amanda realized she had another reason to get out of here quickly. It was DeBoer. At this point half his face was barely recognizable due to the damage from whatever had killed him, a bullet probably, but she could tell it was him. And, since she was awake, that meant that his recovery process was well underway and he'd probably be coming to, soon, himself.
        If only the old man hadn't taken that saw with him! Since her sword was nowhere to be found, it would have been the next best thing. She eyed the tray of scalpels for a moment, and decided they wouldn't really work for what she needed, besides, the Quickening would bring the entire population of the building running. Plus, it would be cheating to kill DeBoer when he was dead. No, getting out was the best option she had.
        Clothes, she needed clothes. Inside the closet was a shelf that held stacks of scrubs like the pathologist was wearing. They wouldn't win any fashion contests, but they would attract a lot less attention than a sheet. She was about to take a set when she noticed that pushed toward the back of the closet was a box with what looked like fabric in it. Inside the box she found a pair of jeans and a drab gray jersey turtleneck. They were dusty, apparently they'd been there for a long time. Probably someone had put them in the closet and then forgotten about them. Both were about four sizes larger than she was, but they were even better than scrubs. Fortunately huge, baggy clothing was 'in' among certain segments of the population, so no one would think anything about it.
        Ducking into the closet, Amanda pulled on the sweater, stepped into the jeans. She had to fold the hems up four times to get the jeans short enough not to trip her, and use the drawstring from a set of scrubs to belt the waist of the pants tight enough that they would stay on. For a while she could faintly hear the old man talking on the phone, then he finally stopped and she heard a door open and close, then silence.
        Cautiously easing the door open, she found that the room was empty. Good. Spotting a couple of bags beneath the table she'd been lying on, she checked them on a hunch and found that one held her clothes, the other her shoes. Unfortunately her purse wasn't there as well. Of her clothes, her sweater was a shredded, bloody mess, and there was blood all over her pants, too. Somehow, both her shoes and her panties had managed to survive unscathed. The shoes were a bit of luck. She stepped into them, stuffed her panties in her pocket, and headed for the door.
        Opening it, she glanced around. The hallway was a busy one, people heading every-which way in controlled chaos. A pair of policewomen came out of a door several yards away, both of them had wet hair. Smiling, she headed for the room the women had just left. Sure enough, it said "Women" on the door. When she stepped inside she found not just toilet stalls, but showers.
        Quickly she skinned down and ducked into a shower to wash the dried blood from her back and hair. After drying off with a handful of paper towels, she dressed and headed out once more. No one even glanced at her as she moved deliberately down the hallway, toward what she hoped was an exit. A familiar voice made her bend quickly to get a drink from a fountain, hiding her face.
        "Well, I guess someone needs to call the Consulate," Vecchio said as he passed. "Damn it, this has to be one of the worst days of my entire life."
        His voice faded as he and the black man he was with rounded a corner. Amanda straightened and stared after them, her mouth suddenly dry despite the water she'd just sipped. Call the Consulate? Why? And what would make him say that about it being the worst day of his life? Fear arrowed through her. She'd tried to get Ben out of the way. What if she hadn't succeeded? What if DeBoer had shot him after she had died? She realized that there had been an third body in the morgue. What if that had been Ben?
        Amanda swallowed convulsively. No, please, God, no. Please don't let her have been responsible for his death. How could she find out? She looked back the way Ray had come, and saw a room that was