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Conspiracy of Swords

by Shadowriter

"Conspiracy of Swords" will soon be released as a trade

paperback by Jane Doe Press.

For information about its publication status, and more great

titles, please visit www.janedoepress.com.

FBI agent Alexia Reis joins forces with ex-CIA assassin Teren Mylos
to find out who's behind the murders of several left-wing activists
and politicians. The mystery deepens as they uncover a conspiracy
involving the far-right, old Nazis, new Nazis, and a hoard of looted
gold.

Disclaimers for Conspiracy of Swords

General: All characters in this story are of my own creation. This is

an uber story, which means that two of the main characters will
sound remarkably similar to the characters of Xena and Gabrielle,
who are owned by Renaissance Pictures and Universal Studios. No
copyright infringements are intended. Characters in this story come
from my own imagination, and any resemblance to any person,
living or dead, is purely coincidental. There may however be some
accurate historical facts introduced.

Language & Violence: The story does contain action scenes and
some adult language. Since it deals with criminals and law
enforcement, you can expect bloodshed, guns, and other sundry
symbols of today's society. If this bothers you, please skip this work.

Sexual Content:This is an alternative uber fan fiction story and

therefore does depict a love relationship between two consenting
adult women. So if you are under 18 or are offended by adult
themes and the physical expressions of love between women please
pass this story by and move on to something else.

Reality: As I am not an FBI agent, nor am I involved in any aspect

of law enforcement, I may have taken a few liberties with the
activities in this story. If you have knowledge of these matters, and
find a glaring mistake, please let me know -- but in a gentle manner.

You can reach me at: Shadowriter@kc.rr.com

Copyright 2000, All Rights Reserved.

Chapter One
Alex Reis sat in the hallway near the emergency room, with her
elbows on her knees. She brushed at the blood stains on her black
pants, and frowned at the dried redness on her hands. She knew
she should go wash, but found she just didn't have the energy. The
alarm had awakened her a little before five, and it was now just a
few minutes till midnight. Alex was tired, her head ached, and she
needed caffeine.

But it was just too exhausting to stand up.

She couldn't figure out just what had gone wrong. David had told
her earlier in the evening that everything was running smoothly, and
she shouldn't worry. They had every door into and out of the
Sheraton covered. The two halls leading to the banquet room each
held a security checkpoint with a metal detector. Anyone attempting
to enter the area had to present an invitation, or a specific press
pass.

Hotel personnel had to have special clearance, and had to be

wanded with a hand held metal detector before entering the
attached kitchen. Even the police and FBI agents were checked for
proper identification.

But, despite everything, the assassin had gained access to the

ballroom. Reginald Dabir, former head of the NAACP, ex-mayor of
Philadelphia, and newly announced candidate for the U.S. Senate,
had been gunned down at his first big fundraiser. The killer had
quietly walked up behind the candidate, pumped two bullets into the
back of his head, and quickly but calmly headed for an out of the
way exit. The suppresser he had used guaranteed him enough time
to get into a utility corridor before anyone tried to stop him. All the
police and FBI could do was race after the suspect as he fled. David
Wu, Alex's partner, had been leading the chase, with twenty other
officers at his heels.

Alex had stayed behind, trying to stem the tide of liquid life as it
drained out of Reginald. She'd ridden beside him, listening to the
chatter of the paramedic who was vainly trying to revive the dead
man, as the ambulance sped toward Thomas Jefferson University
Hospital.

Now she sat in the depressing white and green corridor, bent
forward, elbows on her knees. As her short blond hair hung over her
eyes, she could see that there was a smear of red mixed with the
pale yellow. Alex had held Dabir's head in her hands, pressing her
jacket against the bullet holes in his head. As a result she was
covered in Dabir's blood. It stood out against her blue shirt, turning
it to the color of the night. The thick fluid had mostly dried,
changing the fabric from soft silk to the consistency of cardboard.
She'd already tossed her bloody jacket in the garbage; there was no
way it could be cleaned.

Whatever had gone wrong, Alex felt responsible, and she knew that
her boss was probably going to place the blame on her shoulders.
For Alex and her partner, sleep would not be an option tonight --
despite being bone tired.

Speaking of partners, Alex wondered where David was.

As if in answer to her thoughts, she heard her name being called.

She raised her head as her partner, and fellow FBI agent,
approached.

He looked as ragged as she did, though he wasn't coated in red. He

had also lost his suit jacket somewhere, and stains had appeared on
his white starched shirt. His face, normally smooth, was deeply lined
with the frown he was wearing. Though he was taller than his
partner by four inches, the weight of his shoulders seemed to pull
him towards the floor, making him look shorter than his five-ten
stature.

David took one look at Alex's face, and shifted direction to the soda
machine just beyond Alex. He fished for quarters in his pocket, then
pulled out a bottle of Advil while the Coke clattered down the
machine's insides.

"Any word?"

Alex gave a deep sigh. "Yeah. DOA."

David winced and handed her the soda and two tablets. With a short
nod of thanks, Alex downed the Advil, and followed them with a few
swallows of soda. Its icy coldness tingled in her throat, and she
could feel the headache recede just a touch.

Seating himself beside Alex, David leaned back against the wall. He
ran his fingers through his short black hair, then rubbed the bridge
of his nose. "Well, it looks like we're batting double zero tonight."

"What d'you mean?"

"The assassin's dead, too."

Alex's shoulders dropped another inch. "Damn."

"I know, partner." David reached over and patted Alex's knee. "He
had a car, waiting in an alley, and a big enough lead on me that I
knew we wouldn't catch him before he could jump in the car. So I
slowed, and took a shot at him while I called for backup, and for
cars to try and block any escape routes. He got to the car, the driver
hit the gas. The shooter returned fire, almost taking out two of the
officers who had raced past me."

"So, how'd he get killed?"

"He got as far as the corner, then --" David raised his hands, trying
to illustrate,

"boom. The car blew up."

Alex groaned. "So that's what that noise was."

David wiped absently at a black mark near his temple. "Yeah. I tried
to get the guy out, but the flames were hot enough to melt the tar
under the car."

"Is that how you got soot all over you?"

"Yep."

Alex frowned at her partner. "Do we know why the car blew up?"

"Yep. An incendiary device attached to the underside of the vehicle."

"In other words, a bomb."

"Yep."

"Somebody offed the hitman?"

"Uh-huh."

Alex 's frown turned into a grimace. "I knew I should have stayed in
the research department."

They were both quiet for a moment, then Alex looked at David. "Is it
too late for me to be an accountant, instead of working for the FBI?"

He gave a short laugh. "No. But you'd be bored silly inside of two
days. By the end of the week they'd have to bring the guys with the
white jackets to take you away."

"Are you saying I'm an adrenaline junkie?"

"No. You just love excitement." They gave each other a halfhearted
grin.

Alex took a deep breath, picked up her soda and got up from her
seat. "Okay, David, let's go."

David stood beside her. "Where to?"

"The hotel." Alex began ticking items off on her fingers. "I know the
local guys won't be very happy to see us, but this is our case. I want
you to gather the video tapes - if they've been thinking, Keller and
Price have already pulled the tapes and sent them to Washington. I
want to know where this guy came from, how he got into a secured
area, and who the hell he was. I want to talk to the officers who
were at the security checkpoints, and those that were in the parking
lot. Lieutenant Wister already promised me a list of all officers, and
where they were stationed."

She stopped and looked at her partner. "That door the guy went
through. You and I checked on that, remember? We made sure
Wister had somebody there, but the officer didn't exactly slow up
the shooter. I want to know why."

"He could be dead."

"Maybe. If he's not and he left his post, then he just might wish he
was dead."

Agent Wu nodded solemnly.

"You think the killer came in that door?"

David rubbed his jaw. "I don't know, Alex. If I remember right, it
was a fire door; you couldn't open it from outside."

"Right, but the alarm didn't go off, did you notice that? What if he
cut the system, then somehow got the door open?"
"It would show in the surveillance tapes. The door was in camera
range. But the guys in the camera room never gave an alert."

"Which means they didn't see anything suspicious until the same
time as everyone else. Damn." Alex took a final drink from her soda,
then tossed it in a recycle bin.

"If the killer, or someone else tampered with the door, I wanna
know. I want to check out the scene again, and look at those tapes."
She stopped and looked at David."We also need to check with the
M.E. and find out when the autopsy --

sorry, autopsies -- will be held. One, or both of us, need to be there.

Maybe they'll find something on the killer's body that will help us
out."

"Right." David nodded. "Uh, Alex, don't you think we need some
sleep?"

"Sleep? David, have you forgotten that we have a phone conference

scheduled with our boss for 8:30 this morning? Cliff probably already
knows that Dabir is dead, and he's gonna want answers. So far, we
don't have any. It's now," Alex looked at

her watch, then scratched off the dried blood so she could see the
numbers, "ten minutes after midnight. That gives us eight hours and
twenty minutes to come up with something. I personally don't want
to sit there and tell Cliff that we don't know how the assassin got in,
we don't know who the assassin was, and we don't know why,
despite everything we did, Reginald Dabir is dead." Alex turned and
started walking down the corridor, David trailing after her. "I have a
feeling we're going to get our butts chewed no matter what
information we have, but I'd kind of like to leave that conference
with at least a little bit of flesh on my sorry carcass. If that means a
night without sleep, so be it." She stopped and took David's arm so
he would look at her. "I was the lead agent, David. I have to tell him
something."
David sighed. "You're right. You're right. So, it's back to work." The
two of them started off down the corridor. "Tell me we can at least
get some food, and more caffeine before we sit down to look at any
papers. Otherwise I'm gonna fall asleep on Cliff, and then he'll really
be pissed."

"Agreed. We'll get showers now, then meet near the ballroom. If you
want, you can see if the hotel will keep the kitchen open for us."

"If they don't, I'll just sic you on them."

"Ha, and ha, ha."

David just chuckled as they left the building.

*******************************************************
***********

******

As the water from the shower pounded against her back, Alex tried
to let it massage the anger out of her. In her mind she tried to
picture the frustration seeping from her pores, mixing with the
water, and sliding away down the drain. It was a mental calming
technique Sarah had been urging her to use, saying that it would
help the agent rid herself of negative energy.

She hated to prove Sarah wrong, but it just wasn't working. In fact,
the only picture she could really see was one of her banging her own
head against a not so proverbial wall.

Alex reached out to turn off the faucet, shaking her head. Mentally
calm she wasn't, but she knew how to let her mind divide her
emotions from the list of what needed to be done. The former would
be pushed away, trapped inside her own mental closet, and the
latter would be handled in a thoroughly professional and detached
manner.
Stepping out of the shower stall, Alex grabbed a towel and
vigorously dried her hair. She stood in front of the mirror, staring into
the half-fogged glass in front of her. Her image stared back, with its
short blond hair spiking out in every direction.

As she lifted a hand to smooth her wayward locks, her glance landed
on her own green eyes. With a heavy sigh, Alex had to admit, if only
to herself, that she was tired.

This wasn't the first case where someone had been killed. Hell, Dabir
wasn't even the first person to literally leave their blood on her
hands. She'd had worse experiences. The serial killer she and David
had chased down the year before had left a string of bodies,
including a thirteen year old girl, who had all been violated beyond
normal human comprehension. Alex had taken the case in stride,
never having to worry about her emotions getting in the way. She'd
cried for the victims when she was off duty, and spent her on duty
time trying to mete out justice. She'd never had a problem
separating the two.

Now, though, with this case, it seemed her emotions were always
waiting to leap out at her. She'd been frustrated on cases, but never
like this. She'd been angry over a person's senseless death, but
never to the point of wanting to punch someone or something. But
this case . . .

At the hospital, when Alex had spoken to Lieutenant Wister and

Captain Davies, the arrogance of the Captain made her fists clench.
It wasn't the first time local law enforcement had been angry at the
"interference" of the federal agents, but it was the first time it had
been insinuated that she didn't know her job, didn't belong with the
Bureau, and that she had been responsible for someone's death.
When the Captain finally finished his tirade and walked away with a
smug look on his face, Alex had been trembling with the force of her
anger. It had been the first time she ever wanted to actually harm
another human being.
Somehow, she'd told the Lieutenant what she needed from him, and
that she would wait for her partner to pick her up. The Lieutenant,
who had remained silent during his Captain's comments, had simply
agreed. He'd been about to turn away when he stopped.

"Agent Reis, it's not my place to say anything, but in my opinion,

you're a good cop. What happened tonight wasn't your fault." Then
he'd placed a hand on her shoulder, and walked away.

Alex had simply stood in the hallway, staring at nothing. She didn't
know whether she wanted to vomit or punch something. She'd
settled for crushing the plastic coffee mug she held in one hand,
squeezing it so hard that the flexible plastic had cracked and
splintered, coffee splashing to the floor in front of her. She'd
apologized to the nurses, who had solemnly nodded and told her
they'd take care of it. Then she headed for the corridor to wait for
David.

So, here she was, in her hotel room, staring into the mirror, trying to
find the energy to get dressed and go meet David. She sighed
deeply, noting that it was quickly becoming a habit. She leaned
forward, examining her eyes more closely.

"Damn. If this keeps up, I'll have bags over my eyes. It'll make my
nose look like a pack horse."

She watched as the corners of her mouth went up in a quick grin.

Amazed that she could still make jokes, she reached for her
toothbrush.

*******************************************************
***********

******

Feeling much more awake, and a thousand times cleaner, Alex

approached the entrance to the ball room. She showed her
identification to the uniformed police officer. He looked at it carefully,
then let her through the door. Alex smiled at him as she passed,
realizing it was the rookie she'd yelled at before the banquet began.

She'd seen him allow an officer into the area after only seeing his
badge. Protocol insisted that everyone, officers included, had to
show personal identification. For his mistake, Stein had endured a
five minute lecture on following procedure.

"Haven't they let you go home yet, Stein?"

He gave a tired smile back to her. "Not yet, Agent Reis. I've been on
door and checklist duty for a couple hours now, but they've
promised me breakfast and all the coffee I want. Speaking of
checklist," the young man held out a clipboard,

"would you sign in please?"

Alex quickly signed the roster of people allowed into the crime
scene, noting the time as 1:35. Glancing over the list she noted with
satisfaction that Lieutenant Wister and Captain Davies were both still
there as well. If their officers were going to be up all night, it was
only fitting that their superiors suffered with them.

She handed the clipboard back. "So, Stein, where were you when
the shooting happened?"

"The parking lot, ma'am. Too far away to join the chase, though."

"I thought you had checkpoint duty."

Officer Stein grimaced. "I originally did, ma'am, but after you
scolded me so effectively the Lieutenant decided he didn't want to
take the chance I'd screw up again. He needed someone to help
with parking, so he sent me out there to help the Sarge."
The FBI agent winced. "Sorry, Stein, didn't mean to come down on
you quite so hard."

"No problem, Agent Reis. Sometimes a guy needs his butt kicked
just to keep him thinking, you know?"

She grinned at him. "So, no hard feelings?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good." Alex patted his arm, then headed over to her fellow agent
Kendall Thomas. Thomas was the third member of the FBI team that
had traveled from Washington to Philadelphia in an attempt to
protect Dabir. The other agents assigned, Rick Price and Chad Keller,
were both from the Philadelphia office.

Alex had always appreciated having Ken along on a case. His

specialty was forensics, and his background included a bachelor's
degree in chemistry and physics, as well as one in criminology. He
was known as a methodical agent, always following a logical path.
He had joined Agents Reis and Wu on the Minnesota serial killer case
the year before. Alex knew she had a habit of letting her intuition
leap to a conclusion, and had appreciated it when Ken forced her to
use logic to reach the same end. Alex had been more than happy to
have him along.

She also had been forced to admit that part of the reason was that
he was African-American - the only African-American agent assigned
to this case, despite the fact that Dabir was African-American
himself. When charges had been made that the

"white" federal agents hadn't understood the "black" concerns, Ken

had taken it upon himself to bridge the gap, explaining to each side
the ways of the other.

Alex's respect for the man had risen sharply over the last two weeks.
Ken Thomas was seated at a table near the wall. He was speaking
intently with a young man in a firefighter's uniform. She noticed that
his blue shirt was stained and smudged with soot.

"Hey, Alex. This is Mike Jones. He's one of the guys that helped put
out the flames on the car. We were just talking about it."

"Nice to meet you, Mike. I'm Special Agent Alex Reis. Sorry you had
to stay here so late."

"No problem. Captain Davies said he wanted someone from the crew
to stick around. Said he needed to talk to us. Figured I'd stay, since
it'll mean overtime." He reached out to shake Alex's hand. "Good to
meet you, Agent Reis."

"Call me Alex. So, what have you two been talking about?"

"Mike's been telling me about what they found in the car, after the
fire went out."

Alex could see a look of nausea cross Ken's face."From what he said,
it doesn't sound pretty."

"Got that right. Didn't smell too good neither."

"So, you saw the bodies before they pulled them out?"

"Yeah. Not much to see, really. Mostly charred bones. Could tell
they'd had clothes on 'em. Couldn't tell what kind."

"Not much left, huh?" Alex's voice was softer, and her eyes were
focused on the table in front of her.

"Nope. Little shoe leather. Back of the driver's coat." Mike was silent
for a moment. "I could see the guns, though. They both had
shoulder holsters."

Ken leaned forward. "Could you tell what kind of gun?"

"Naw. Don't know much about hand guns. Now, if they'd had rifles
or shotguns, I could tell you."

Alex frowned as something tried to click in her mind. "Was the

passenger wearing a coat?"

"Nope. Or if he was it was burned completely off."

"Mike, when they put the bodies into the ambulance did the guns go
with?"

"One of the cops pulled 'em out. Funny, too, cause the guy tried to
grab them with just his fingers -- burned the heck out of 'em. He
had to use a glove, and a rag, to pull them shooters outta the
holsters. They was smokin'."

Alex and Ken exchanged a look, and Ken nodded that he'd get the
report from the local police.

"Any idea where the bomb was placed?"

The young man nodded. "Bomb squad showed up. Heard 'em talkin'
bout it." He gave a snort. "Not that you couldn't tell."

"What do you mean?" Alex was content to let Ken lead the
questioning, but she couldn't help jumping in a bit.

"Could tell from what was burned and what wasn't. Driver's side was
gone. Front dash gone. Fire reached back seat, and blew the gas
tank, but you can tell where the bomb was. It had to be under the
driver's side, probably hooked to the gas pedal. Figure it either
blows at a certain speed, or it's timed." He scratched the back of his
head. "Could also been a remote."

"Anything you can tell us about the car itself, Mike?"

"Ford. Escort, maybe a '96." He shrugged. "Not much else. Definitely
not a sports car. In fact," Mike frowned and sat up a little straighter,
"it looked like a family car."

"What do you mean, family car," Ken questioned." I thought it was a

sedan type, not a station wagon."

"Well, yeah, it was. But, I don't know. Just something . . . " He

snapped his fingers.

"That's it. Back seat. There was a lump of melted plastic, and the
seat belt was buckled through it."

"Melted plastic?"

"Yeah. Kinda like a car seat. You know, for a baby?"

Alex and Ken traded shocked glances. Ken recovered first. "Are you
telling us that there was a baby seat in the car?"

"S'what it looked like."

Before either agent could think of something else to ask, a

uniformed officer informed them that Captain Davies wanted to talk
to the young man. They thanked him and watched as he was
escorted over to another table, where Davies and Wister were
waiting. Davies glared back toward Alex before turning his attention
back to the young firefighter.

"Don't let Davies bother you, Alex. The man's got a bug up his ass
about feds because he was turned down."

"I take it you heard about our . . . discussion . . . at the hospital."

"Yeah, Wister told me. And he said it wasn't a discussion. It was

Davies spouting a lot of garbage. Let it go. Nothing to do with you."
It took another minute before Alex could look Ken in the eye.
"Thanks, Ken. I needed that."

Ken grinned at her. "I know." He leaned forward and looked over his
notes. "Okay.

I'll check with our local buddies about ballistics, and try to find out
what I can on the guns. I'll also see if I can get on the team that's
going over the car."He gave a short chuckle. "I went to college with
one of the guys in their forensic department -

and he owes me a favor."

"Good. You work on the car and the guns. David and I were
planning to check out the tapes, then prepare anything we have for
our meeting with Cliff."

"Oh, shit, yeah, I forgot about that. That's at, what, nine?"

"Eight-thirty."

"Damn. You want me back for that?"

"No. You stick with forensics. David and I can handle the call."

"Okay. What about the autopsies?"

"No, don't worry about those. We're planning on being there. I'll call
you if there's anything I need you to follow up on."

"Got it. So, when should I report in, boss?"

"Don't call me that. And I don't know. Let me check with David.
Keep your cellular with you, and I'll call when we set a time."

"Sounds good." The two of them stood. "Alex, it wasn't your fault.
We did everything we could think of. Dabir was better protected than
Kennedy in Dallas.
They just got lucky."

Alex nodded and reached out to Ken. "I know. We all did the best
we could." They shook hands, Alex squeezing Ken's just a little
longer than usual. "Now, get out of here. You'll need to corner
Wister to get access."

"No problem. Call me when you're ready for me."

Alex stood there for a moment longer, watching Agent Thomas cross
the room with his long strides.

"But it feels like my fault, Ken."

She shook her head, and left to go find her partner.

*******************************************************
***********

******

Alex found David in the surveillance room, watching a television

intently. She noticed he was much cleaner, and in a fresh suit,
though the shower and change seemed to have done little for his
disposition -- he was still frowning.

He looked up as she approached. "Hey, Alex. There's a buffet set up

in the room next door. Just biscuits and such, but they've promised
us eggs and pancakes by five o'clock."

"Yeah, I know, I spoke with the front desk." She sat down with him.
"What are we watching, David?"

David turned back to the screen. "It's a copy from the video camera
in here. We're just about to the shooting."

The two of them watched Dabir move smoothly through the crowd,
accepting congratulations and wishes of luck. He was laughing with
a small group of women, when someone asked for a picture with her
daughters. She took a few steps away, the candidate put an arm
around each of the teenage girls, and they all smiled for the camera.
The flashbulb went off, and Dabir seemed to slump in the arms of
his young supporters. The girls moved slightly farther from him, and
the candidate fell to the floor. For half a second there was just a
quiet murmur of concern, then a scream broke through the
whispering as people noticed the blood.

As she watched the events on the screen, Alex saw a flickering

movement that went against the movement of the crowd. While
most everyone was surging toward the fallen man, including the
image of Alex herself, one individual was headed towards the side
corridor. A woman got in his way, and was rudely pushed against the
wall. David stopped the tape.

"It was here that I spotted him. I saw the gun in his hand and the
girl hit the wall, and I just went after him."

Alex's eyes were half closed, but David could tell by looking that the
motor behind them was working frantically.

"Has anyone spoken to the girl, can she tell us anything about the
guy?"

"Yeah, she was interviewed, I read the officer's notes. Didn't see
much, just felt the guy bump into her, then she was hitting the wall.
She said she barely noticed, all she could think about was Dabir."

Alex nodded. "Have we found out what happened to the officer

stationed on the door? "

"Officer Buckner was found outside, propped up against the wall.

He'd been killed from close range -- coroner said the powder burns
indicated the weapon was less than six inches from the back of his
skull. Possibly the same gun that killed Dabir."
Alex stood and began pacing across the rust colored carpet. "So he
whacked the guard, then came through here and hit his target. Then
he went back through that door --"

"No, Alex. He didn't come in through this door. He used it for an

escape, but it's not how he got in."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It was locked, no one from the outside could get in, though the
alarm had been cut. A couple of officers tried the door from outside.
They couldn't get in."

David motioned to the tape. "The camera shows, no one came

through it. However the guy got out, he didn't use this door to get
in."

Alex just stared at the TV in front of her. "How good a picture can
we get? Of his face, I mean."

"If you watch close you can follow him from just a few minutes
before the shooting. Price confiscated the original tapes. They'll go
out to Washington by courier later this morning. But he did have
copies made of this, and the parking lot.

A copy of the camera in the corridor is on the way. I'll send a

message to Washington that we need this tape enhanced, and stills
made of all frames that show the killer's face. Technical should be
ready, and with any luck, they'll have it finished by tomorrow night."

Alex nodded. "Good job. Maybe with the stills, someone can tell us
who this guy is

- or was. Have you already seen the parking lot tape?"

"Yeah, for what good it did. Problem is, the place the car was
located wasn't in camera range."
"Wait a minute, I thought the entire lot was on camera, and
anything that wasn't was off limits."

"Exactly. The car was parked in an off limits spot. I noticed that
when I saw him jump in."

"Who the hell authorized that?" Alex was glaring at David. "Did you
ask Wister?"

"He just said that Sargeant Leonard, who'd been in charge of the
parking lot, had received an authorization. He didn't say who it was
from."

"So where the hell is this Leonard? I'm gonna rip his goddamn -"
Alex stopped as she noticed a figure in the half open door.

Officer Stein cleared his throat. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt.

Thought I'd let both of you know that breakfast is here. You might
want to eat while everything's hot."

David nodded. "Right. Thanks, Stein."

The young man hesitated in the door way. "Um, Agent Wu, Agent
Reis, you wouldn't be referring to that blue Escort, would you? The
one that exploded?"

Both agents looked at him. Reis cleared her throat and took a step
towards the young man. "Yes, Stein, that's exactly what we're
referring to. What do you know about it?"

"Well, didn't you and Agent Wu okay that vehicle to park there?"

"No, Stein, we didn't," Alex's voice was strained. She hoped she
wouldn't have to yell at the poor man any more; he did seem to
have the makings of a fine officer.

"Did you see the car, Stein?"

"Yes, ma'am. When I was reassigned to the parking lot, I noticed it
was in an off limits area, and I asked Sarge about it. He said a
couple of agents parked it there, and they had your permission. I
remember, he was grumbling about you changing your mind on
things without notifying anyone. He's my superior, so I didn't
question him, but I remember thinking that you don't seem like one
to change your mind without a good reason."

Both FBI agents just stared at him. Alex recovered a second before
David did.

"Stein, I take it Sarge is Sargeant Leonard?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sargeant Robert Leonard."

"He said I had authorized a change in the parking?"

"Well, he said that's what the agents told him."

"What agents?"

"He didn't say. Just told me there'd been two FBI agents. One had
stayed with the car, and the other went inside. He'd never seen
them before, he said, but they showed ID."

Alex nodded. She could tell that David was fuming behind her and
she needed to get Stein out of the room before her partner exploded
on the young man.

"Thanks, Stein. I'll check it out. Are you still on door duty?"

"No, ma'am. I just got released. I actually came over to tell you and
Agent Wu that the buffet was up."

"We appreciate that. What I need you to do, right now, is tell
Lieutenant Wister exactly what you just told me. Then tell him I
authorized no such change, and all agents were accounted for - they
were inside the building from early evening on.

Let him know we need to speak to him, now. Can you do that for
me?"

"I'll go find him."

"Thanks, Stein."

She watched the younger man walk away, then turned to her
partner. Alex could almost see the heat coming off of him.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" David exploded. "Why the hell didn't they just
call you to confirm? That's the whole reason everyone was carrying
a fucking radio, for God's sake!"

"I don't know, David." Alex leaned back in her chair, her arms folded.
David's voice was low, but forceful.

"You know, I think even Stein could probably out think this Sargeant
At least he knows how to follow procedure."

"Sure, after I yelled at him yesterday."

"You're right. Maybe Leonard trained the guy." Alex was watching as
David's anger finally started winding down. "You know, I haven't
even met the guy, and I don't like him."

"I think I remember meeting him. I didn't like him either."

David took a breath and let his forehead rest against the wall. His
eyes were closed, and he waited a moment before he exhaled.
When he did, he looked at Alex, and she could see he was back in
control of himself.

"Okay, Alex. Now what?"

"I think we wait for Wister." She shook her blond head. "I don't
know what exactly happened in the parking lot, but at least this
answers a few questions."

"Like what?"

"Like how the guy got into the ball room."

"Oh." David waited a moment. "Want to tell me?"

Alex rolled her eyes. "Come on, David. Stein said the guys showed
Leonard FBI credentials. If the Sarge wasn't lying about that, then
it's obvious they used those ID's to not only get the car in the right
place, but to get the shooter into the building."

"No, Alex, that's not possible. They might have been good enough
for the parking lot, but they would have had to run the ID through
the machine at the checkpoint.

That would have stopped them."

"Not necessarily."

"Oh, come on, Alex, the new ID's are practically fool proof! They
can't be forged, and they have to match the correct fingerprint.
Otherwise the machine throws an alert."

"Okay, David, then how else did this guy get a gun into the ball
room? Did he take it through the metal detector?"

"No way. They were all calibrated less than two hours before the
party."

"Then how?"

"I don't know, maybe someone slipped him the gun inside."

"Okay, how did they get it in?"

Alex pinned him to the wall with her glare. David could tell that she'd
already reached her conclusion, and was trying to make him follow
her logical road.

"Maybe one of the kitchen staff brought it in?"

Alex shook her head. "Nope. All kitchen staff were wanded before
entering the room. They had to have all metal in sight of the officer
scanning them." Wanding referred to being scanned with a hand
held metal detector, and David knew that it was quite effective if
used properly. "And if you're going to say someone there screwed
up, you better be ready to argue with Ken on that, 'cause he was a
part of that team."

"So, maybe a police officer gave it to him?"

"Fine. You go tell Captain Davies that one of his officers concealed a
weapon, then passed it to the assassin once he got into the room."

David sighed, knowing he'd been trapped. "No. There's no proof of

that either."

"That's right. All we really know, David, is that two guys were
supposedly flashing FBI badges. Personally, I'd like to clear that up
before we go accusing Philadelphia's finest."

"Right. So what now?"

"Like I said, we wait for Wister. We can find out from him where
Sargeant Leonard is, and what he told the Lieutenant. Then I want
to check the ID machine, and take a reading of all badges read last
night."

"You think Leonard was telling the truth?"

"I don't know," Alex answered. Her face was grim. "But if he wasn't
I'll have his badge before noon."
*******************************************************
***********

******

Cliff Jackson slapped the manila folder down on his desk. He stood
and began pacing, still directing his voice toward the speaker phone
on his desk.

"Let me get this straight, Agent Reis. You had three security
cameras, two walk-through metal detectors, over twenty local police
officers, and four - no five, FBI agents. And this guy just walked into
the room, shot Dabir in the back of the head and walked out?"

There was silence from the other end, and then Agent Wu's muffled
voice came over the speaker. "Well, no, sir, he didn't walk out, he
ran."

"You find this funny, Agent Wu?"

Alex's strained voice answered. "No, sir, there's nothing funny in this
at all. The two of us are tired, and David's a little . . . punchy." There
was a muttered "sorry"

from David in the background, and then Alex continued.

"As far as the hitman is concerned, I'd have to say, sir, that we
covered all the bases except for one."

"And that was?"

"The guy had an FBI badge and ID."

Cliff was silent for a long moment.

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes, sir. Not only was it seen by a member of the local police force,
but it was used to gain access to the banquet room."

"Shit. You're right. That was unexpected. Fuck." Cliff returned to his
seat and opened the folder he'd thrown on the desk. "It says here,
though, that you had the new ID machine. Weren't you running the
cards through?"

Back in Philadelphia, Alex tensed. This was going to be difficult for

her boss to hear.

"Yes, Cliff, we were using the new machine. All ID's were checked
for microchips

-- and they all had them."

There was only silence from the speaker phone in front of Alex and
David.

"Agent Reis, that's not possible. Those chips cannot be forged."

"Well, sir, either that's not true, or . . . "

"Or there's a rogue agent out there, sir, " David concluded the
statement for her.

It took Cliff a moment to process this. "What was the name on the
ID, did you find out?"

"The name was Watson, Perry Watson. Registry number,

4568935771-6."

There were several expletives from the speaker.

"Sir?"

"That's not an FBI registry number, Alex."

It was Alex's turn to stare in shock at the phone. "Then what is it?"

"It's CIA."

David leaned forward, frowning. "What the hell is the CIA doing
assassinating senatorial candidates?"

"Good question, David. I'll run right over and ask them." The two
agents could hear the sarcasm in his voice. "All right, Reis, what else
do you have?"

"Well, it looks like Mr. Watson was not acting alone. We don't have
the name of the other guy, but we know that there was a second
man, a driver."

"Was he found?"

"Yes, sir. Unfortunately, he was in the same condition as the hitman.

Burned beyond recognition."

"I don't get it, Reis. Who would have wanted these guys dead?
Besides us, I mean?"

"I can't tell you, sir. Maybe they wanted more money, or maybe
they'd become a liability?"

"In that case, why go to the trouble of rigging the bomb? Why not
just kill them later?"

"Possibly to make a point, or to present us with an obvious dead

end?"

"Then why not just disable the car and let them shoot it out with the
cops?"

Alex rubbed her forehead. "I've been thinking about that, sir, and
the one thing that keeps coming up is that they didn't want to
chance our taking either of them alive.
They wanted these guys dead, not in prison."

"Good point, Reis. But if this unknown agent was indeed CIA, then
you're saying the CIA killed its own operatives just to keep them
from talking, after they had one of them sign into your little party
using his own ID. Does that make sense to you?"

"I never said any of this made sense, sir. And if the CIA is indeed
involved, I don't expect anything to ever make sense."

They could hear a chuckle from the phone.

"Another good point. All right, you two. I want your reports by
Monday at nine a.m. Got it? I know that doesn't give you a lot of
time, but we've got a team

meeting on this at ten, and I want a chance to at least glance over

them. Finish up there, then get your butts back down here. We've
got a lot of work to do." He paused. "And Alex?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't beat yourself up over this. You took all the appropriate
precautions. Nobody could have predicted that the killer would have
the ID to get in. I know it doesn't help right now, but it wasn't your
fault. Do what you can, come home, and let's nail the fuckers behind
this."

Alex was silent a moment longer. "Yes, sir, thank you, sir."

"Safe flight, you two."

David reached over and turned the phone off. There was a sudden
quiet in the hotel suite. Then David yawned.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you need sleep."

"Hey, get serious, we both need sleep, Reis."

"I know." Alex looked at her watch. "Tell you what. Our flight leaves
at 9:30 this evening. We'll sleep for four hours, be up around one.
The autopsy for the shooter is at two-thirty, so we can make that
and maybe still have time to meet with Price and Keller."

"Sounds good. I'll call Ken and let him know."

"Tell him we'll meet here after the autopsies. That usually takes at
least a few hours, so tell him about five thirty."

"How 'bout I bring caffeine and lunch to you at 1:00?"

"That'd be great."

"I just hope you're up, Alex."

"I'll be up. I'm not saying I'll be coherent, but I'll be up."

*******************************************************
***********

*****

The phone rang at exactly twelve-thirty, and Alex leaned over to pick
it up. She listened for a second to the buzz that said her wake up
calls had started. Then she put the phone back on the hook and fell
back onto her pillow.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. This time Alex didn't even
open her eyes. She simply picked up the receiver and dropped it
back to its base.

Five minutes later the alarm went off. Alex rolled off the bed and
dragged herself to the dresser. She slapped at the clock until it was
finally silent, then sat on the floor, knees against her chest, arms
around her knees, her head resting on her forearms.
At precisely one o'clock there was a loud knock from the corridor.
Alex stumbled as she got to her feet, finally opening the door after
fiddling with the locks for several moments. She stood aside as
David, looking rumpled but alert, entered. He was carrying his
briefcase and some folders.

"Morning, Alex. Ready to go back to work?"

David dropped his briefcase on the small table, then turned to meet
the sleepy gaze of his partner. He barely stifled the chuckle that
threatened to erupt. It was obvious that Alex had not woken up yet,
and she stood glaring at him with eyes half-lidded. She wore only a
pair of sweats and a tank top, and her hair stuck straight up as if at
least that part of her was at attention. For some reason, the sight
reminded David of a fuzzy-haired troll. He kept that observation to
himself, realizing that, at least for the moment, his partner would not
be receptive to his unique sense of humor.

Alex, for her part, kept up the stony silence as she flopped
gracelessly into the chair beside the small hotel table. Her eyes
stayed on David, blinking rapidly. She was about to ask him if he
hadn't forgotten something when there was a knock at the door.

It was room service, with the promised lunch. Alex let the smell of
hamburgers and french fries fill her lungs. She reached for one of
the cokes that sat on the tray. After downing half of it in a few swift
gulps, she leaned back in her chair watching David sign the check.

The two of them had an agreement between them. On days when

they had to be up early, David would present himself at her place at
the appointed time, knowing Alex wouldn't be close to wakefulness.
He'd bring caffeine, and sometimes donuts -- or, at times like this, a
full meal. In return, Alex would do him the courtesy of not speaking
until she had food and caffeine happily floating in her body. That
way, Alex received the necessities that brought her alert, and David
could avoid the foul temper that plagued Alex while waking up.
It didn't take long until both agents were tucking into their meals. As
they did so, Alex took the opportunity to really look at her partner.
His short black hair, which he kept about the length of his finger, was
never out of place. Clean shaven, as most Asian American men are,
he looked like he'd just gotten out of college, though Alex knew he
was much older, nearly five years her senior. His eyes, deep and
black, could show their age and experience when David let down his
guard. It wasn't something he did often -- normally only around his
partner and his wife.

Alex remembered how uncomfortable it had been when Miri, David's

wife, found out her husband's FBI partner was another female. It
had taken several long talks between the two before she came to
grips with the situation. After Miri had adjusted to the idea of a
female agent as her husband's partner, David and Alex had let her in
on the secret: Alex was gay.

At first, Miri had looked shocked. Then she had smiled, and just said,
"Cool." It had been Alex's turn to be surprised.

Alex could remember when she'd first been approached about

joining the FBI, and how worried she'd been about their reaction to
her sexual orientation. After graduating from Northwestern
University with a Bachelor's in Sociology she'd had to choose
between work and graduate school. Finally choosing Duke University,
she'd graduated in 1994 from their Master's in Sociology program.
Her final thesis, on hate crimes and their perpetrators, had been
enough to place her back in the running for the Academy, which she
had entered in January of 1995.

Although physically small, Alex had worked hard all her life to make
up for what others saw as her only handicap. At five feet, five
inches, she was the shortest person in her class at the Academy, and
she'd had to take quite a few jokes from her fellow students. After
holding her own in most of the physical tests, Alex had finally gained
the full respect of her classmates during an inter-Academy
kickboxing tournament. She'd gone through the early rounds with no
problem, reaching the final against a man nearly a foot taller than
she was. Although being beaten, with a split lip, a cut over her eye,
and a cracked rib, she'd managed to stay on her feet for the entire
match-- the only one of the champ's opponents to do so. After that,
there were no more wisecracks about her size.

She'd gone on to a job in Records and Research, spending two years

helping track criminals on paper. Every six months she had put in for
transfer to Special Agent status, but it had taken until late ninety-
seven for her to be awarded the position of field agent. David Wu,
who graduated from the Academy two years ahead of her, had been
named her partner. The two of them had worked together before;
David and his former partner Kevin had met Alex when searching for
clues in a file cabinet seized in a drug raid. Using Alex's combination
of logic and intuition to make sense of the patterns in the coded
files, the two agents had been able to join with DEA agents to take
down a drug ring operating in Chicago. This had resulted

in promotions for both of them. Kevin had been promoted to a desk

position in the Chicago office, while David went from Chicago to
Washington. Knowing Alex wanted field work, David had requested
her as his new partner. In the four years the two agents had known
each other, there had been no one foolish enough to cast aspersions
on Alex because of her 'secret' sexual orientation.

The secret wasn't really a secret, she supposed. It wasn't like she
was in the closet. Cliff, her immediate supervisor, was well aware of
her preferences, as was her partner, his former partner, the desk
chief, and all the guys in her class at the Academy. She had even
been acknowledged as a lesbian by a senior agent with thirty years
experience. He didn't like it, thought "all that queer stuff" was
perverted, but he did respect her for her talents and her abilities.
Alex's favorite memory of her time in the FBI records department
was hearing this legendary agent tell someone else that Alex was "a
damn fine agent -- even if she is a dyke." Even David had had to
grin about it.

After that, her sexuality had never been an issue. Cliff had even
called her into his office, right after she'd been assigned to the hate
crimes unit, and told her that he didn't care. As long as she kept her
preferences and her politics out of her career, he'd have no problem
with her. Since then there'd been a few comments, but nothing
serious. Mostly, it had been local police who'd given Alex grief.

Alex was brought back to the present by David clearing his throat.
He had finished his burger and was slowly eating his fries, dipping
them first in the pool of ketchup on his plate. He had noticed that
his partner seemed far away. Normally she ate as quickly, and as
much, as he did, her energy level not allowing her small portions or
long slow meals. Once awake, Alex was almost never still.

But she was as still as she could be right now, and David watched
her quietly. He was worried about her. In their years as partners he
had never thought anything would dampen the enthusiasm, or the
spirits of his idealistic partner. No matter what kind of situation they
had been in, she'd always been ready to give him a brilliant grin, or
a thumbs up, to let him know she could handle it. But in the last few
weeks, those grins had faded in frequency and wattage.

He knew Miri was worried about Alex as well. They both considered
the younger woman a close friend, and they'd had her over for
dinner often. She'd been holding one of Miri's hands when the
couple's daughter had been born. To them, she was more a member
of the family than simply a colleague of David's.

David and Miri had celebrated their daughter's first birthday just
before he and Alex had left for Philadelphia. Although Alex seemed
the same as ever on the surface, her friends could see the tension
that flowed just under the skin. After the party, Miri had asked David
if Alex was all right, and David hadn't known what to say.
He did know that this case was getting to her. The assassination task
force had been formed in November of 1999 after several left-wing
politicians had been killed. Five months before, in early June, the
leader of the Rights Of Humanity Campaign had been gunned down
without warning on the streets of New York. The killing had been
professional, done in the middle of a crowd. Everyone had first
placed the murder in the realm of anti-gay sentiment, since the
RoHC was a gay rights organization. But six weeks later, the new
head of the Regional African-American Caucus, Max Rhodes, was
gunned down in the middle of a political rally in a suburb of
Baltimore. A letter had then appeared in the Washington Post,
claiming the killings had been the opening shots of a war between
"patriots" and "the Zionist government pigs." The letter also had a
list of other potential victims, and it guaranteed that at least ten
would be killed. Two of those on the list had already been killed.
That brought the total to four. Reginald Dabir, a black candidate for
Pennsylvania Senator, had been number five.

The FBI had created a task force to look into the death of Max
Rhodes. After the letter, the scope of their investigation was
broadened and Alex had been assigned to the task force. She was,
after all, an expert in hate crimes. Even if the official position was
that the killings were not the work of any known organization, they
had wanted to cover all the bases.

The task force had warned every person mentioned in the letter.
They had offered protection and secure locations for individuals to
hide. Several had taken their offer. Others, like Dabir, had chosen to
ignore the warnings, up to a point. They carried on with their
everyday lives, with extra security.

Cliff Jackson, head of the task force, had sent three of the agents
under his command up to Philadelphia to protect Dabir. Dabir had
been killed. David knew he was feeling guilty about it; he felt like a
failure. He could imagine that Alex was feeling even worse. This had
been the first time she was assigned as SAIC, Special Agent In
Charge, on a case. Not only was Dabir dead, but so was the person
responsible. They had few clues to go on. The situation was very
depressing, and David could almost see the weight on Alex's
shoulders.

But, try as he might, he couldn't see it in her face once she put on
her determination. David knew he often had a guarded look in his
eyes, but at least people could see some emotion in his. Alex's eyes
gave no clue as to what was going on inside her head. They showed
only that she was alive -- nothing more.

David was shaken out of his thoughts by the sudden sound of Alex's
glass hitting the table with a solid thump. Looking into those green
pools of hers, he saw the gameface he'd grown so used to. The food
and caffeine had done their job; Alex had officially woken up.

"Are we ready, David?"

"Let's hit it." He glanced at the clock. "It's twenty after. Do you want
to head to the morgue now, or . . . "

"Well, first, I need to jump in the shower for at least a minute. You
know you're the only one that gets to see me like this."

David grinned. "I feel privileged."

"You should. Then, I want to check in with Ken about the car. Maybe
he's found something there to give us a lead."

Alex could see David's doubt. "I don't know, Alex. That thing was
pretty well fried. I mean, they scraped those guys out of the car with
a spatula and a brush. What do you think we'll find?"

"I'm not sure. But I've got this feeling about it. Also, I had an idea.
You remember what Leonard said, about how the guys were
dressed?"
"Yeah, I remember. They were both dressed in suits, with coats and
hats. So? It is February, and it is cold."

"Right, but was this Watson wearing a coat or a hat when he shot
Dabir?"

David's eyes widened. "No."

"Un-huh. Did he stop in the hall way and put them on?"

David gave a snort of laughter.

"So what happened to them? He didn't leave them in the car,

Leonard said he was wearing both items when he entered the
building. He wasn't wearing them when he left the building. Where
are they?"

"Good thinking, Alex."

"Thank you."

"Told you sleep was good for you."

"Shut up and hand me the phone."

Chapter Two
There was a knock just as Alex was pulling her boots on. David
opened the door to greet Agent Rick Price, one half of the
partnership from the Philadelphia office.

"Rick, what's up? Where's Keller?"

"Getting some sleep. He still gets headaches." Chad Keller, who'd

been an FBI agent for nearly fifteen years, was the partner of Rick
Price, one of the youngest FBI agents. Price, at 24, had only been
with the Bureau for a year. After getting stellar marks at the
Academy, he'd been sent to Philadelphia to play sidekick to the
veteran Keller, who'd lost his partner to early retirement. Keller had
taken a bullet to the head in the line of duty, and everyone knew it
still affected him. He would be retiring later that year.

"Did everything get to headquarters allright?"

"Got a message that everything was received, and they started on

the photos already. We should have them in hand before you leave
tonight."

"Good."

"Oh, Alex, something from Lieutenant Wister." He held out a folder.

Alex flipped through it, finding several artists renderings of two
different men.

"What are these?"

"Wister had Sargeant Leonard work with a sketch artist. These are
the guys that presented themselves with the false IDs. This one," he
pointed at one of the pictures, "was the shooter. The other was the
driver. Since none of the cameras picked up the driver, this is all we
have to go on. Unless something comes up at the autopsy."
"That's what we were hoping. " Alex stared at the faces of the two
men, then handed them to David for his assessment.

"Yeah, that's a good likeness of the guy I saw. Couldn't see the
driver, so I can't tell." He handed them back, and Alex slipped them
into her briefcase.

"Wister is circulating these, right?"

"Yeah, at least among the police. Anyone who interacted with either
guy, ever, is supposed to report to him immediately. They decided to
wait until the pictures

come in from Washington to release them to the press. Davies said

he'd rather do it all at the same press conference than have to go
through two of them."

Alex groaned. "Great. He's gonna be getting bad publicity from the
start."

"What do you mean?"

David answered. "Someone is going to talk. They'll tell the press that
the police had these sketches within twelve hours of Dabir's death,
and they didn't release them. The press will immediately start
questioning why they weren't released, and you can bet the charge
will be that there was a cover-up."

"Or racism. Or that the FBI killed Dabir. Or some other such garbage.
And unfortunately, even though Davies will be the one getting most
of the dirt flung at him, some of it will miss --"

"-- and hit us," David finished for his partner. "Jeez, I'm really glad
we're leaving tonight."

Alex looked up at Price. "Did you get any sleep yet, Rick?"
The young man shook his head. "No. I figured I'd stay on it until
Chad's up. Then I'll get a nap."

"How long do you think you can go?"

"I don't know. But as long as they keep the coffee coming, I should
make it till I have to drive you guys to the airport."

"Yeah, and fall asleep on the way." Alex kept her eyes on his. "As
SAIC on this case, you are hereby ordered to get some sleep. Hell, if
you want you can even crash here; David and I will be gone for
several hours."

"That's okay --"

"Uh, Price?" Rick turned to David, who was waiting next to the door.
"I wouldn't argue with her. You'll lose." He chuckled at the young
man's indecision. "Besides, you think better with sleep. Isn't that
right, Agent Reis?"

Price glanced back at Alex, surprised to find her blushing.

"Don't start, David."

David's grin got wider. "See, our fearless leader over there was going
on adrenaline and instinct for most of the night, and we didn't come
up with much. But, give her

a few hours of sleep, and she's been brainstorming ever since. Even
got us our first solid physical lead."

"Really?" Price sat down and faced Alex. "Wanna share? Or is this a
Washington secret?"

David could clearly see the sudden lines of tension in Alex. Price
noticed it, too, and thought back over his last statement. He
groaned.
"Damn, Alex, I'm sorry. Either Keller and the others are wearing off
on me, or I have been up for too long. I didn't mean it to sound the
way it did."

Alex took a breath, and ordered her voice not to shake. "It's okay,
Rick. Sometimes things can get a little strained with a case like this.
Everybody's tense, and things get said. It's no big deal." But it was
to her. "Anyway, the evidence isn't really that great. I just
remembered that the shooter had a coat on when he entered the
building, but didn't have it when he left. After a few phone calls, we
found it. He had checked it into the coat room. It was still there this
morning. We're pretty sure it's his because it matches the one
Leonard said he was wearing." She pointed to a package sitting on
the bed. "After your nap, you can take it to the lab. David and I
would drop it off ourselves, but we're not going near the office, or
the lab. We already checked pockets, and wrote down the labels and
such. I don't think it will actually amount to much, but it might."

Price got up to look at the sealed package, which was tagged with
the initials of both Agent Reis and Agent Wu. He looked up at Alex.
"You're not taking it to Washington?"

"You want us to? I thought it should be looked at down here first.

Then if you want to send it to Headquarters for further analysis, it
wouldn't hurt."

He nodded. "I'll get it to the lab right away."

"No. It will keep until you get some sleep. I want you to get it there
safely, and right now, you look like you couldn't drive a shopping
cart safely." She grinned at him, pleased to see the sheepish smile
on his tired face. "We'll be gone several hours. Make sure your cel-
phone is on. And if you and Keller are free about five-thirty or six,
meet us back here. We'll all meet one more time before David and I
go back to D.C."

"Sounds good." He paused. "Isn't Ken going back with you?"

"No. He's going to stay here, and try to cover any loose ends. He
might fly back in a day or so, or he might stay for a couple weeks.
Depends on what he finds."

"You think there's that much for him to find?"

"I don't know. But he's the expert, and if he can figure out how the
bomb was made, it might get us closer to who made the bomb.
Then we'll be half a step closer to who killed Dabir."

Price nodded, and watched as Alex and David left the room. David
took one last look back before closing the door.

"Get some sleep, Price. We promise, we won't solve the case before
you wake up."

*******************************************************

David drove them to the police impound lot. Connected to the lot
was a garage that housed the vehicle lab. It wasn't really a lab, but
the location where vehicles involved in crimes were examined. They
entered through a side door after showing their ID. A technician in
blue led them to a blackened shell of a car. He pointed at the legs of
a person that were poking out from under the vehicle near the front
wheels.

"Hey, Ken, you got a minute?"

Agent Thomas slid out from under the car. He was dressed in
coveralls similar to the tech that had just left them. Grease and soot
coated most of his front, and he had to pull a pair of rubber gloves
off his hands before pulling off the mask that covered of his face.

"Didn't think I'd see you before tonight. Skipping the autopsy?"

"No, we've got a few minutes, and I wanted to check in with you.
Anything new you can tell me?"
David, who had disappeared with the tech, reappeared with a bottle
of water.

"Here, Ken, I thought you could use this. God, it's hot in here."

"Thanks, Dave. Yeah. Nobody's allowed to wear their regular clothes

when working in here. Not that you'd want to; you never know what
you might get on them. But since you can only wear your boxers
and your overalls, they have to keep it a bit warmer. Then you add in
the machines, and the lights. . ."

"And you get a lot of heat."

They all shared a grin, then Ken turned serious. "Well, I'm still
waiting for a call about the ballistics on those guns. The only thing I
can tell you with any certainty is that both were Sig-Sauers, twenty-
two caliber."

"Standard assassin's weapon."

"Yeah. One had a suppresser; I haven't seen the report so I don't

know which body that came off of, but I'm betting it's your murder
weapon."

"Any possibilites of serial numbers?" David had pulled out his

notebook and was quickly jotting notes.

"I haven't heard. It should be in the report when I get it. But
somebody said they might have been filed."

"Filed, or removed by acid?"

"Don't know. I'll wait for the report on that one." Ken took a few
long swallows from the bottle, then wiped his hand across the back
of his mouth. "But there are some other interesting bits here."

Alex waited, patiently, for exactly ten seconds. "And?"

"For one thing, our firefighter was right. The bomb was under the
drivers side, in the front. What few components were left I've
already sealed and sent to the lab. I don't think it was rigged to the
accelerator; I didn't find that any of the internals were messed with.
That means it was probably a remote."

"Not a timer?"

Ken shrugged. "Could be a timer, Dave, but then how did they know
when they'd get the best shot at Dabir?"

Alex nodded. "If they wanted to make sure that Dabir died, and so
did the killer, they would have had to use a remote. Otherwise they
wouldn't know the right time to blow the car."

"But that means that someone nearby had to blow it."

"Yep."

The three of them were silent for a moment.

"Okay, Ken, good work. Any other little tidbits to pass on?"

"Oh, yeah. The seat the kid told us about, the baby seat in the
back?"

"Yeah."

"He was right about that as well."

Alex's eyebrows narrowed. "Car was stolen, huh?"

"Yep. I asked for that report to be sent over along with the lab
results."

She smiled. "You ever get told you ask a lot, Ken?"
Another random document with
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believed that there was any sincerity in such a pretext; and he indeed was
one of those who had been most opposed to her purpose; asking scornfully
what advantage she supposed she was to get by going among strangers?
Was she better than the other girls, that she could not make herself
comfortable at home? Was there not plenty to do there, if that was what she
wanted? Was there not the parish, if she wanted more work? Roger had
been alike indignant and astonished. But the thing was done, and he was in
town, not very far off from where she was, with an hour or two to spare. He
went with a secret antagonism against everything he was likely to see. The
very name of the place nettled him. The ‘House!’ as if it was a penitentiary
or shelter for the destitute, which his sister had been obliged to find refuge
in. He was admitted on giving full particulars as to who he was, and
ushered into the bare little room, covered with dusty matting, with religious
prints of the severest character on the walls, and bookshelves full of school-
books. St. Monica was emblazoned on the door of it, which name offended
him too. Could not the foolish people call it the brown room, or the matted
room, or by any common appellation, instead of by the name of a saint,
whom nobody had ever heard of? Agnes came to him, not in the dress
which she wore out of doors, but in a simple black gown, fortunately for
her, for what avalanche of objections would have tumbled upon her head
had she come in to him in her cape and poke-bonnet! He was pleased to see
his sister and pleased by her delight at the sight of him, but yet he could not
smooth his brow out of displeasure. It gave him an outlet for the subdued
irritation with which he had received his dismissal from the Square.
‘Well, Agnes,’ he said, ‘so here you are in this papistical place. I had an
hour to spare, and I thought I would come and see you.’
‘I am so glad to see you, Roger. I was just thinking of them all at home.’
‘At home! You were anxious enough to get away from home. I wish
anyone knew why. I can’t fancy anything so unnatural as a girl wishing to
leave home, except on a visit, or if she is going to be married, or that sort of
thing—but to come to a place like this! Agnes, I am sure there is no one
belonging to you who knows why.’
‘Yes,’ said Agnes, quietly, ‘because I wanted to do something more, to
do some duty in the world, not to be like a vegetable in the garden.’
‘That is just the slang of the period,’ said wise Roger. ‘You can’t say
there is not plenty to do with all the children to look after; and one never
can get a button sewed on now.’
‘Louisa and Liddy were quite able to do all and more than all—why
should there be three of us sewing on buttons? And what were we to come
to—nothing but buttons all our lives?’
‘Why, I suppose,’ said Roger, doubtfully—‘what do girls ever come to?
You would have been married some time.’
‘And that is such a delightful prospect!’ cried Agnes, moved to sarcasm.
‘Oh, Roger, is it such an elevated life to jog along as papa—as we have seen
people do, thinking of nothing but how to get through the day, and pay the
bills, and have a good dinner when we can, and grumble at our neighbours,
the children running wild, and the house getting shabby?’ said Agnes,
unconsciously falling into portraiture, ‘and talking about the service of
God? What is the service of God? Is it just to be comfortable and do what
you are obliged to do?’
‘Well, I suppose it is not to make yourself uncomfortable,’ cried Roger,
shirking the more serious question. ‘Though, as for that, if you wished, you
could be quite uncomfortable enough at home. What do they mean by
calling a room after a woman, St. Monica? and all these crucifixes and
things—and that ridiculous dress—I am glad to see you have the sense not
to wear it here at least.’
‘I wear it when I go out; it is not ridiculous; one can go where one
pleases, that is, wherever one is wanted, in a Sister’s dress, and the roughest
people always respect it,’ said Agnes, warmly. ‘Oh, Roger, why should you
be so prejudiced? Do you know what kind of people are here? Poor
helpless, friendless children, that have got no home, and the Sisters are like
mothers to them. Is that no good? What does it matter about the name of the
room, if a poor destitute baby is fed and warmed, and made happy in it?
Children that would starve and beg and rob in the streets, or die—that
would be the alternative, if these Sisters with their absurd dresses and their
ridiculous ways, that make you so angry, did not step in.’
‘Well, I suppose they may do some good,’ said Roger, unwillingly. ‘You
need not get so hot about it; but you might do just as much good with less
fuss. And why should you shut yourself up in a penitentiary as if you had
done something you were ashamed of? Why should you slave and teach for
your living? We are not so poor as that. If the brothers all work,’ said
Roger, with a not unbecoming glow of pride, ‘there ought always to be
plenty for the sisters at home.’
‘But I must live my life too, as well as my brothers; and do what I can
before the night comes,’ said Agnes, with a little solemnity, ‘when no man
can work.’
Roger was subdued by the quotation more than by all her reasons. He
could not, as he said to himself, go against Scripture, which certainly did
exhort every man to work before the night cometh. Did that mean every
woman too?
‘The short and the long of it is,’ he said, half sulkily, half melted, ‘that
you were never content at home, Agnes. Are you contented here?’
That was a home question. Agnes shrank a little and faltered, avoiding a
direct reply.
‘You do not look very contented yourself. Have you been to see Cara?’
she said. ‘How is she? I have not heard a word of her since I came here.’
‘Oh, Cara is well enough. She is not like you, setting up for eccentric
work. She is quite happy at home. Miss Cherry is there at present, looking
after her. It is a handsome house, choke full of china and things. And I
suppose, from all I hear, she has a very jolly life,’ said Roger, with a certain
shade of moroseness creeping over his face, ‘parties and lots of friends.’
‘I daresay she does not forget the people she used to like, for all that,’
said Agnes, more kind than he was, and divining the uncontent in his face.
‘Oh, I don’t know. There are some people who never leave her alone,
who pretend to be old friends too,’ said Roger, ruefully. ‘And they live next
door, worse luck; they are always there. Other old friends have no chance
beside these Merediths.’
‘Oh!—is their name Meredith?’
‘Yes; do you know them? There is one, a palavering fellow, talks twenty
to the dozen, and thinks no end of himself—a sneering beggar. I don’t mind
the other so much; but that Oswald fellow——’
‘Oh!—is his name Oswald?’
‘I believe you know him. Do swells like that come a-visiting here?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Agnes, anxiously smoothing down suspicion; ‘there is a
name—much the same—in Sister Mary Jane’s list of subscriptions. Oh, yes;
and the gentleman carried a poor child to the hospital so very kindly. I
noticed the name, because—because there is a poet called Oswald, or
Owen, or something, Meredith. I wondered,’ said Agnes, faltering, telling
the truth but meaning a fib, ‘whether it could be the same.’
‘Quite likely,’ said Roger; ‘the very kind of fellow that would write
poetry and stuff—a sentimental duffer. To tell the truth,’ he added, with
immense seriousness, ‘I don’t like to have little Cara exposed to all his
rubbishing talk. She is as simple as a little angel, and believes all that’s said
to her; and when a fellow like that gets a girl into a corner, and whispers
and talks stuff——’ Roger continued, growing red and wroth.
Agnes did not make any reply. She turned round to examine the school-
books with a sudden start—and, oh me! what curious, sudden pang was
that, as if an arrow had been suddenly shot at her, which struck right
through her heart?
‘Cara should not let anyone whisper to her in corners,’ she said at last,
with a little sharpness, after her first shock. ‘She is too young for anything
of that sort; and she is old enough to know better,’ she added, more sharply
still. But Roger did not notice this contradiction. He was too much
interested to notice exactly what was said.
‘She is too young to be exposed to all that,’ he said, mournfully; ‘how is
she to find out at seventeen which is false and which is true? There now,
Agnes, see what you might have done, had not you shut yourself up here.
Nothing so likely as that Cara would have asked you to go and pay her a
visit—and you could have taken care of her. But you know how romantic
poor dear Miss Cherry is—and I should not be a bit surprised if that child
allowed herself to be taken in, and threw herself away.’
And would this be the fault of Agnes, who had shut herself up in the
House, and thus precluded all possibility of being chosen as the guardian
and companion of Cara? She smiled a little to herself, not without a touch
of bitterness; though, indeed, after all, if help to one’s neighbour is the chief
thing to be considered in life, it was as worthy a work to take care of Cara
as to teach the orphans their A B C. This news of Roger’s, however,
introduced, he did not well know how, a discord in the talk. He fell musing
upon the risk to which his little lady was exposed, and she got distracted
with other thoughts. She sat beside him, in her plain, long black gown,
every ornament of her girlhood put away from her; her hands, which had
been very pretty white hands, loosely clasped on the table before her, and
showing some signs of injury. It is only in romances that the hands of
women engaged in various household labours retain their beauty all the
same. Agnes had now a little of everything thrown in her way to do, and
was required not to be squeamish about the uses she put these pretty hands
to; and it could not be denied that they were a little less pretty already. She
looked down upon them in her sudden rush of thought and perceived this.
What did it matter to the young handmaid of the poor whether or not her
hands were as pretty as usual? but yet, with an instantaneous comparison,
her mind rushed to Cara, who had no necessity to soil her pretty fingers,
and to the contrast which might be made between them. What did it matter
that it was wicked and wrong of Agnes, self-devoted and aspiring to be
God’s servant, to feel like this? The wave of nature was too strong for her,
and carried her away.
‘Well, I must be going,’ said Roger, with a sigh. ‘I am glad that I have
seen you, and found you—comfortable. There does not seem much here to
tempt anyone; but still if you like it—I am coming back next Sunday. Aunt
Mary is pleased to have me, and they don’t seem to care at home whether
one goes or stays. I shall probably look in at the Square. Shall I tell Cara
about you? She knows you have gone away from home, but not where you
are. She might come to see you.’
‘I don’t want any visitors,’ said Agnes, with a little irritation of feeling,
which, with all the rest of her misdeeds, was laid up in her mind to be
repented of. ‘We have no time for them, for one thing; and half-measures
are of little use. If I do not mean to give myself altogether to my work, I had
better not have come at all. Do not mention my name to Cara. I don’t want
to see anyone here.’
‘Well, I suppose you are right,’ said Roger. ‘If one does go in for this
sort of thing, it is best to do it thoroughly. What is that fearful little cracked
kettle of a bell? You that used to be so particular, and disliked the row of the
children, and the loud talking, and the bad music, how can you put up with
all this? You must be changed somehow since you came here.’
‘I ought to be changed,’ said Agnes, with a pang in her heart. Alas, how
little changed she was! how the sharp little bell wore her nerves out, and the
rustle of the children preparing for chapel, and the clanging of all the doors!
She went with Roger to the gate, which had to be unlocked, to his
suppressed derision.
 ‘Have you to be locked in?’ the irreverent youth said. ‘Do they think you
would all run away if you had the chance?’
Agnes took no notice of this unkind question. She herself, when she first
arrived, had been a little appalled by the big mediæval key, emblem,
apparently, of a very tremendous separation from the world; and she would
not acknowledge that it meant no more than any innocent latch. When
Roger was gone she had to hasten upstairs to get her poke-bonnet, and rush
down again to take her place among her orphans for the evening service in
the chapel, which the House took pleasure in calling Evensong. She knelt
down among the rustling, restless children, while the cracked bell jangled,
and a funny little procession of priests and choristers came from the vestry
door. They were all the most excellent people in the world, and worthy of
reverence in their way; but no procession of theatrical supers was ever more
quaintly comic than that which solemnly marched half-way round the
homely little chapel of the House, chanting a hymn very much out of tune,
and ending in the best of curates—a good man, worthy of any crowning,
civic or sacred, who loved the poor, and whom the poor loved, but who
loved the ceremonial of these comic-solemn processions almost more than
the poor. With a simple, complaisant sense of what he was doing for the
Church, this good man paced slowly past the kneeling figure of the young
teacher, motionless in her black drapery, with her head bent down upon her
hands. No mediæval Pope in full certainty of conducting the most
impressive ceremonial in the world could have been more sincerely
convinced of the solemnising effect of his progress, or more simply
impressed by its spiritual grandeur; and no mediæval nun, in passionate
penitence over a broken vow, could have been more utterly bowed down
and prostrate than poor Agnes Burchell, guilty of having been beguiled by
the pleasant voice and pleasant looks of Oswald Meredith into the dawn of
innocent interest in that mundane person: she, who had so short time since
offered herself to God’s service—she, who had made up her mind that to
live an ideal life of high duty and self-sacrifice was better than the poor
thing which vulgar minds called happiness. The cracked bell tinkled, and
the rude choristers chanted, and all the restless children rustled about her,
distracting her nerves and her attention. All this outside of devotion, she
said to herself, and a heart distracted with vulgar vanities within! Was this
the ideal to which she had vowed herself—the dream of a higher life? The
children pulled at her black cloak in consternation, and whispered, ‘Teacher,
teacher!’ when the service began, and she had to stumble up to her feet, and
try to keep them somewhere near the time in their singing. But her mind
was too disturbed to follow the hymn, which was a very ecstatic one about
the joys of Paradise. Oh, wicked, wicked Agnes! what was she doing, she
asked herself—a wolf in sheep’s clothing amid this angelic band?
 CHAPTER XXVII.

THE WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING.

This was a time of great agitation for the two houses so close to each other,
with only a wall dividing the troubles of the one from the excitement of the
other, and a kind of strange union between them, linking them more closely
in the very attempt at disjunction. The greater part of the private commotion
which was going on, as it were, underground was concealed from Cara as
not a proper subject of discussion before her; but it was not necessary to
take any steps of the kind with Oswald, who, in his light-hearted
indifference, ignored it comfortably, and followed his own devices through
the whole without giving the other affairs a thought. After all, the idea of
anyone exciting him or herself over the question whether a respectable old
fogey, like Mr. Beresford, should go on paying perpetual visits to a
respectable matron like his mother, touched Oswald’s mind with a sense of
the ludicrous which surmounted all seriousness. If they liked it, what
possible harm could there be? He had not the uneasy prick of wounded
feeling, the sense of profanation which moved Edward at the idea of his
mother’s conduct being questioned in any way. Oswald was fond of his
mother, and proud of her, though he was disposed to smile at her absurd
popularity and the admiration she excited among her friends. He would
have thought it a great deal more natural that he himself should be the
object of attraction; but, granting the curious taste of society, at which he
felt disposed to laugh, it rather pleased him that his mother should be so
popular, still admired and followed at her age. He thought, like Mr.
Sommerville, that she was something of a humbug, getting up that pretence
of sympathy with everybody, which it was impossible anyone in her senses
could feel. But so long as it brought its reward, in the shape of so much
friendliness from everybody, and gratitude for the words and smiles, which
cost nothing, Oswald, at least, saw no reason to complain. And as for
scandal arising about Mr. Beresford! he could not but laugh; at their age! So
he pursued his easy way as usual, serenely lighthearted, and too much
occupied with his own affairs to care much for other people’s. In addition to
this, it must be added that Oswald was falling very deep in love. These
interviews between the hospital and the House were but meagre fare to feed
a passion upon; but the very slightness of the link, the oddity of the
circumstances, everything about it delighted the young man, who had
already gone through a great many drawing-room flirtations, and required
the help of something more piquant. He was very happy while they were all
so agitated and uncomfortable. Twice a week were hospital days, at which
he might hope to see her; and almost every morning now he managed to
cross the path of the little school procession, and, at least see her, if he did
not always catch the eye of the demure little teacher in her long cloak.
Sometimes she would look at him sternly, sometimes she gave him a semi-
indignant, sometimes a wholly friendly glance, sometimes, he feared, did
not perceive him at all. But that was not Oswald’s fault. He made a point of
taking off his hat, and indeed holding it in his hand a moment longer than
was necessary, by way of showing his respect, whether she showed any
signs of perceiving him or not. She went softly along the vulgar pavement,
with steps which he thought he could distinguish among all the others,
ringing upon the stones with a little rhythm of her own, about which he
immediately wrote some verses. All this he would tell to Cara, coming to
her in the morning before he set out to watch the children defiling out of the
House. And all the world thought, as was natural, that the subject of these
talks was his love for Cara, not his love, confided to Cara, for someone else.
As for Agnes, she not only saw Oswald every time he made his
appearance, whether she allowed him to know it or not, but she felt his
presence in every nerve and vein, with anger for the first day or two after
Roger’s visit, then with a softening of all her heart towards him as she
caught his reverential glance, his eager appeal to her attention. After all,
whispers to Cara, whom he had known all her life—little Cara, who even to
Agnes herself seemed a child—could not mean half so much as this daily
haunting of her own walks, this perpetual appearance wherever she was.
That was a totally different question from her own struggle not to notice
him, not to think of him. The fact that it was shocking and terrible on her
part to allow her mind to dwell on any man, or any man’s attentions, while
occupied in the work to which she had devoted herself, and filling almost
the position of a consecrated Sister, was quite a different thing from the
question whether he was a false and untrustworthy person, following her
with the devices of vulgar pursuit, a thing too impious to think of, too
humiliating. Agnes was anxious to acquit the man who admired and sought
her, as well as determined to reject his admiration; and, for the moment, the
first was actually the more important matter of the two. Herself she could
be sure of. She had not put her hand to the plough merely to turn back. She
was not going to abandon her ideal at the call of the first lover who held out
his hand to her. Surely not; there could be no doubt on that subject; but that
this generous, gentle young man, with those poetic sentiments which had
charmed yet abashed her mind, that he should be false to his fair exterior,
and mean something unlovely and untrue, instead of a real devotion, that
was too terrible to believe. Therefore, she did not altogether refuse to reply
to Oswald’s inquiries when the next hospital day brought about another
meeting. This time he did not even pretend that the meeting was accidental,
that he had been too late for making the proper inquiries in his own person,
but went up to her, eagerly asking for ‘our little patient,’ with all the
openness of a recognised acquaintance.
‘Emmy is better—if you mean Emmy,’ said Agnes, with great state.
‘The fever is gone, and I hope she will soon be well.’
‘Poor little Emmy,’ said Oswald; ‘but I don’t want her to be well too
soon—that is, it would not do to hurry her recovery. She must want a great
deal of care still.’
He hoped she would smile at this, or else take it literally and reply
seriously; but Agnes did neither. She walked on, with a stately air,
quickening her pace slightly, but not so as to look as if she were trying to
escape.
‘I suppose, as the fever is gone, she has ceased to imagine herself in
heaven,’ said Oswald. ‘Happy child! when sickness has such illusions, it is
a pity to be well. We are not so well off in our commonplace life.’
He thought she would have responded to the temptation and turned upon
him to ask what he meant by calling life commonplace; and indeed the wish
stirred Agnes so that she had to quicken her pace in order to resist the bait
thus offered. She said nothing, however, to Oswald’s great discomfiture,
who felt that nothing was so bad as silence, and did not know how to
overcome the blank, which had more effect on his lively temperament than
any amount of disapproval and opposition. But he made another valorous
effort before he would complain.
 ‘Yours, however, is not a commonplace life,’ he said. ‘We worldlings
pay for our ease by the sense that we are living more or less ignobly, but it
must be very different with you who are doing good always. Only, forgive
me, is there not a want of a little pleasure, a little colour, a little brightness?
The world is so beautiful,’ said Oswald, his voice slightly faltering, not so
much from feeling, as from fear that he might be venturing on dubious
ground. ‘And we are so young.’
That pronoun, so softly said, with such a tender emphasis and meaning,
so much more than was ever put into two letters before, went to the heart of
Agnes. She was trying so hard to be angry with him, trying to shut herself
against the insinuating tone of his voice, and those attempts to beguile her
into conversation. All the theoretical fervour that was in her mind had been
boiling up to reply, and perhaps her resolution would not have been strong
enough to restrain her, had not that we come in, taking the words from her
lips and the strength from her mind. She could neither protest against the
wickedness and weakness of consenting to live an ignoble life, nor
indignantly declare that there was already more than pleasure, happiness,
and delight in the path of self-sacrifice, when all the force was stolen out of
her by that tiny monosyllable—we! How dared he identify himself with
her? draw her into union with him by that little melting yet binding word?
She went on faster than ever in the agitation of her thoughts, and was
scarcely conscious that she made him no answer; though surely what he had
said called for some reply.
Oswald was at his wit’s end. He did not know what to say more. He
made a little pause for some answer, and then getting none, suddenly
changed his tone into one of pathetic appeal. ‘Are you angry with me? ‘he
said. ‘What have I done? Don’t you mean to speak to me any more?’
‘Yes,’ she said, turning suddenly round, so that he could not tell which of
his questions she was answering. ‘I am vexed that you will come with me.
Gentlemen do not insist on walking with ladies to whom they have not been
introduced—whom they have met only by chance——’
He stopped short suddenly, moved by the accusation; but unfortunately
Agnes too, startled by his start, stopped also, and gave him a curious, half-
defiant, half-appealing look, as if asking what he was going to do; and this
look took away all the irritation which her words had produced. He
proceeded to excuse himself, walking on, but at a slower pace, compelling
her to wait for him—for it did not occur to Agnes, though she had protested
against his company, to take the remedy into her own hands, and be so rude
as to break away.
‘What could I do?’ he said piteously. ‘You would not tell me even your
name—you know mine. I don’t know how to address you, nor how to seek
acquaintance in all the proper forms. It is no fault of mine.’
This confused Agnes by a dialectic artifice for which she was not
prepared. He gave a very plausible reason, not for the direct accusation
against him, but for a lesser collateral fault. She had to pause for a moment
before she could see her way out of the maze. ‘I did not mean that. I meant
you should not come at all,’ she said.
‘Ah! you cannot surely be so hard upon me,’ cried Oswald, in real terror,
for it had not occurred to him that she would, in cold blood, send him away.
‘Don’t banish me!’ he cried. ‘Tell me what I am to do for the introduction—
where am I to go? I will do anything. Is it my fault that I did not know you
till that day?—till that good child, bless her, broke her leg. I shall always be
grateful to poor little Emmy. She shall have a crutch of gold if she likes.
She shall never want anything I can give her. Do you think I don’t feel the
want of that formula of an introduction? With that I should be happy. I
should be able to see you at other times than hospital days, in other places
than the streets. The streets are beautiful ever since I knew you,’ cried the
young man, warming with his own words, which made him feel the whole
situation much more forcibly than before, and moved him at least, whether
they moved her or not.
‘Oh!’ cried Agnes, in distress, ‘you must not talk to me so. You must not
come with me, Mr. Meredith; is not my dress enough——’
‘There now!’ he said, ‘see what a disadvantage I am under. I dare not
call you Agnes, which is the only sweet name I know. And your dress! You
told me yourself you were not a Sister.’
‘It is quite true,’ she said, looking at him, trying another experiment. ‘I
am a poor teacher, quite out of your sphere.’
‘But then, fortunately, I am not poor,’ said Oswald, almost gaily, in
sudden triumph. ‘Only tell me where your people are, where I am to go for
that introduction. I thank thee, Lady Agnes, Princess Agnes, for teaching
me that word. I will get my introduction or die.’
 ‘Oh, here we are at the House!’ she cried suddenly, in a low tone of
horror, and darted away from him up the steps to the open door. Sister Mary
Jane was standing there unsuspicious, but visibly surprised. She had just
parted with someone, whom poor Agnes, in her terror, ran against; for in the
warmth of the discussion they had come up to the very gate of the House,
the entrance to that sanctuary where lovers were unknown. Sister Mary Jane
opened a pair of large blue eyes, which Oswald (being full of admiration for
all things that were admirable) had already noted, and gazed at him,
bewildered, letting Agnes pass without comment. He took off his hat with
his most winning look of admiring respectfulness as he went on—no harm
in winning over Sister Mary Jane, who was a fair and comely Sister, though
no longer young. Would Agnes, he wondered, have the worldly wisdom to
make out that he was an old acquaintance, or would she confess the truth?
Would Sister Mary Jane prove a dragon, or, softened by her own beauty and
the recollection of past homages, excuse the culprit? Oswald knew very
well that anyhow, while he walked off unblamed and unblamable, the girl
who had been only passive, and guilty of no more than the mildest
indiscretion, would have to suffer more or less. This, however, did not
move him to any regret for having compromised her. It rather amused him,
and seemed to give him a hold over her. She could not take such high
ground now and order him away. She was in the same boat, so to speak.
Next time they met she would have something to tell which he would
almost have a right to know. It was the establishing of confidence between
them. Oswald did not reckon at a very serious rate the suffering that might
arise from Sister Mary Jane’s rebuke. ‘They have no thumbscrews in those
new convents, and they don’t build girls up in holes in the walls now-a-
days,’ he said to himself, and, on the whole, the incident was less likely to
end in harm than in good.
Agnes did not think so, who rushed in—not to her room, which would
have been a little comfort, but to the curtained corner of the dormitory, from
which she superintended night and day ‘the middle girls,’ who were her
charge, and where she was always afraid of some small pair of peeping eyes
prying upon her seclusion. She threw off her bonnet, and flung herself on
her knees by the side of her little bed. ‘Oh, what a farce it was,’ she
thought, to cover such feelings as surged in her heart under the demure
drapery of that black cloak, or to tie the conventual bonnet over cheeks that
burned with blushes, called there by such words as she had been hearing!
She bent down her face upon the coverlet and cried as if her heart would
break, praying for forgiveness, though these same foolish words would run
in and out of her prayers, mixing with her heart-broken expressions of
penitence in the most bewildering medley. After all, there was no such
dreadful harm done. She was not a Sister, nor had she ever intended to be a
Sister, but that very simple reflection afforded the fanciful girl no comfort.
She had come here to seek a higher life, and lo, at once, at the first
temptation, had fallen—fallen, into what? Into the foolishness of the
foolishest girl without an ideal—she whose whole soul had longed to lay
hold on the ideal, to get into some higher atmosphere, on some loftier level
of existence. It was not Sister Mary Jane she was afraid of, it was herself
whom she had so offended; for already, could it be possible? insidious
traitors in her heart had begun to ply her with suggestions of other kinds of
perfection; wicked lines of poetry stole into her head, foolish stories came
to her recollection. Oh! even praying, even penitence were not enough to
keep out this strife. She sprang to her feet, and rushed to St. Cecilia, the
room which was her battleground, and where the noise of the girls putting
away their books and work, and preparing to go to tea, promised her
exemption, for a little while at least, from any possibility of thought. But
Agnes was not to be let off so easily. In the passage she met Sister Mary
Jane. ‘I was just going to send for you,’ said the Sister, benign but serious.
‘Come to my room, Agnes. Sister Sarah Ann will take the children to tea.’
Agnes followed, with her heart, she thought, standing still. But it would
be a relief to be scolded, to be delivered from the demon of self-reproach in
her own bosom. Sister Mary Jane seated herself at a table covered with
school-books and account-books, in the little bare room, laid with matting,
which was all the House afforded for the comfort of its rulers. She pointed
to a low seat which all the elder girls knew well, which was the stool of
repentance for the community. ‘My dear,’ said Sister Mary Jane, ‘did you
know that gentleman in the world? Tell me truly, Agnes. You are only an
associate: you are not under our rule, and there is no harm in speaking to an
acquaintance. But so long as anyone wears our dress there must be a certain
amount of care. Did you know him, my dear, tell me, in the world?’
Agnes could not meet these serious eyes. Her head drooped upon her
breast. She began to cry. ‘I do not think it was my fault. Oh, I have been
wrong, but I did not mean it. It was not my fault.’
‘That is not an answer, my dear,’ said Sister Mary Jane.
 And then the whole story came rushing forth with sobs and excuses and
self-accusations all in one. ‘It is the badness in my heart. I want to be above
the world, but I cannot. Things come into my mind that I don’t want to
think. I would rather, far rather, be devoted to my work, and think of
nothing else, like you, Sister Mary Jane. And then I get tempted to talk, to
give my opinion. I was always fond of conversation. Tell me what to do to
keep my course straight, to be like you. Oh, if I could keep steady and think
only of one thing! It is my thoughts that run off in every direction: it is not
this gentleman. Oh, what can one do when one’s heart is so wrong!’
Sister Mary Jane listened with a smile. Oswald’s confidence in her
beautiful eyes was perhaps not misplaced. And probably she was conscious
now and then of thinking of something else as much as her penitent. She
said, ‘My dear, I don’t think you have a vocation. I never thought it. A girl
may be a very good girl and not have a vocation. So you need not be very
unhappy if your thoughts wander; all of us have not the same gifts. But,
Agnes, even if you were in the world, instead of being in this house, which
should make you more careful, you would not let a gentleman talk to you
whom you did not know. You must not do it again.’
‘It was not meant badly,’ said Agnes, veering to self-defence. ‘He
wanted to know how little Emmy was. It was the gentleman who carried her
to the hospital. It was kindness; it was not meant for——’
‘Yes, I saw who it was. And I can understand how it came about. But it
is so easy to let an acquaintance spring up, and so difficult to end it when it
has taken root. Perhaps, my dear, you had better not go to little Emmy
again.’
‘Oh!’ Agnes gave a cry of remonstrance and protest. It did not hurt her
to be told not to speak to him any more—but not to go to little Emmy! She
was not sure herself that it was all for little Emmy’s sake, and this made her
still more unhappy, but not willing to relinquish the expedition. Sister Mary
Jane, however, took no notice of the cry. She put a heap of exercises into
Agnes’s hands to be corrected. ‘They must all be done to-night,’ she said,
calculating with benevolent severity that this would occupy all the available
time till bedtime. ‘One nail drives out another,’ she said to herself, being an
accomplished person, with strange tongues at her command. And thus she
sent the culprit away, exhausted with tears and supplied with work. ‘I will
send you some tea to St. Monica, where you can be quiet,’ she said. And
there Agnes toiled all the evening over her exercises, and had not a moment
to spare. ‘Occupation, occupation,’ said the Sister to herself; ‘that is the
only thing. She will do very well if she has no time to think.’
But was that the ideal life? I doubt if Sister Mary Jane thought so; but
she was old enough to understand the need of such props, which Agnes was
still young enough to have indignantly repudiated. For her part, Agnes felt
that a little more thought would save her. If she could get vain imaginations
out of her head, and those scraps of poetry, and bits of foolish novels, and
replace them with real thought—thought upon serious subjects, something
worthy the name—how soon would all those confusing, tantalising shadows
flee away! But, in the meantime, it is undeniable that the girl left this
interview with a sense of relief, such as it is to be supposed, is one of the
chief reasons why confession continues to hold its place, named or
nameless, in all religious communions more or less. Sister Mary Jane was
not the spiritual director of the community, though I think the place would
have very well become her; but it was undeniable that the mind of Agnes
was lightened after she had poured forth her burdens; also that her sin did
not look quite so heinous as it had done before; also that the despair which
had enveloped her, and of which the consciousness that she must never so
sin again formed no inconsiderable part, was imperceptibly dispelled, and
the future as well as the past made less gloomy. Perhaps, if any very
searching inspection had been made into those recesses of her soul which
were but imperfectly known to Agnes herself, it might have been read there
that there was no longer any crushing weight of certainty as to the absolute
cessation of the sin; but that was beyond the reach of investigation.
Anyhow, she had no time to think any more. Never had exercises so bad
come under the young teacher’s inspection; her brain reeled over the mis-
spellings, the misunderstandings. Healthy human ignorance, indifference,
opacity, desire to get done anyhow, could not have shown to greater
advantage. They entirely carried out the intentions of Sister Mary Jane, and
left her not a moment for thought, until she got to her recess in the
dormitory. And then, after the whisperings were all hushed, and the lights
extinguished, Agnes was too tired for anything but sleep—a result of
occupation which the wise Sister was well aware of too. Indeed, everything
turned out so well in the case of this young penitent, that Sister Mary Jane
deemed it advisable not to interfere with the visits to the hospital. If she
surmounted temptation, why, then she was safe; if not, other steps must be
taken. Anyhow, it was well that her highly-wrought feelings and desire of
excellence should be put to the test; and as Agnes was not even a Postulant,
but still in ‘the world,’ an unwise backsliding of this kind was less
important. No real harm could come to her. Nevertheless, Sister Mary Jane
watched her slim figure disappear along the street from her window with
unusual interest. Was it mere interest in little Emmy that had made the girl
so anxious to go, or was she eager to encounter the test and try her own
strength? Or was there still another reason, a wish more weak, more human,
more girlish? Agnes walked on very quickly, pleased to find herself at
liberty. She was proud of the little patient, whose small face brightened with
delight at the sight of her. And she did not like the sensation of being shut
up out of danger, and saved arbitrarily from temptation. Her heart rose with
determination to keep her own pure ideal path, whatever solicitations or
blandishments might assail her. And indeed, to Agnes, as to a knight of
romance, it is not to be denied that ‘the danger’s self was lure alone.’
 CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE FIRESIDE.

It is very hard to be obliged to alter our relationships with our friends, and
still more hard to alter the habits which have shaped our lives. Mr.
Beresford, when he was forbidden to continue his visits to his neighbour,
was like a man stranded, not knowing what to make of himself. When the
evening came he went to his library as usual, and made an attempt to settle
to his work, as he called it. But long before the hour at which with placid
regularity he had been used to go to Mrs. Meredith’s he got uneasy.
Knowing that his happy habit was to be disturbed, he was restless and
uncomfortable even before the habitual moment came. He could not read,
he could not write—how was he to spend the slowing-moving moments,
and how to account to her for the disturbance of the usual routine? Should
he write and tell her that he was going out, that he had received a sudden
invitation or a sudden commission. When he was debating this question in
his mind, Edward came in with a very grave face to say that his mother was
ill and unable to see anyone.
‘She said you had better be told,’ said Edward; ‘she has gone to her
room. She has a—headache. She cannot see anyone to-night.’
‘Mr. Sommerville has been with you; has he anything to do with your
mother’s headache?’
‘I think so,’ said Edward, angrily—‘old meddler; but she seems to think
we must put up with him. I wish my father would come home and look after
his own affairs.’
‘It was a mission from your father, then?’ Mr. Beresford was silent for a
moment, thinking with somewhat sombre dissatisfaction of the absent
Meredith. Would it be so pleasant to see him come home? Would the
unaccustomed presence of the master be an advantage to the house? He
could not be so insincere as to echo Edward’s wish; but he was moved
sympathetically towards the youth, who certainly was quite unsuspicious of
him, whatever other people might be. ‘Go upstairs and see Cara,’ he said;
‘she is in the drawing-room.’
 The young man’s face brightened. Oswald was absent; he was not as
usual in his brother’s way; and though Edward had agreed loyally to accept
what he supposed to be the state of affairs and school himself to look upon
Cara as his future sister, that was no reason—indeed it was rather the
reverse of a reason—for avoiding her now. He went upstairs with a kind of
sweet unhappiness in his heart. If Cara was not for him, he must put up with
it; he must try to be glad if she had chosen according to her own happiness.
But in the meantime he would try to forget that, and take what pleasure
heaven might afford him in her society—a modified imperfect happiness
with an after-taste of bitterness in it—but still better than no consolation at
all.
Cara was with her aunt in the drawing-room, and they both welcomed
him with smiles. Miss Cherry, indeed, was quite effusive in her pleasure.
‘Come and tell us all the news and amuse us,’ she said; ‘that is the chief
advantage of having men about. My brother is no good, he never goes out;
and if he did go out, he never comes upstairs. I thought Oswald would have
come this evening,’ Miss Cherry said, in a tone which for her sounded
querulous; and she looked from one to the other of the young people with a
curious look. She was not pleased to be left out of Cara’s confidence, and
when they excused Oswald with one breath, both explaining eagerly that
they had known of his engagement, Miss Cherry was if anything worse
offended still. Why should not they be open, and tell everything? she
thought.
‘Besides,’ said Cara, very calmly, ‘Oswald never comes here in the
evening: he has always so many places to go to, and his club. Edward is too
young to have a club. Why should people go out always at night? Isn’t it
pleasant to stay at home?’
‘My dear, gentlemen are not like us,’ said Miss Cherry, instinctively
defending the absent, ‘and to tell the truth, when I have been going to the
play, or to a party—I mean in my young days—I used to like to see the
lighted streets—all the shops shining, and the people thronging past on the
pavement. I am afraid it was a vulgar taste; but I liked it. And men, who can
go where they please—— I am very sorry that your mamma has a
headache, Edward. She is not seeing anyone? I wonder what James——?’
Here she stopped abruptly and looked conscious, feeling that to discuss her
brother with these young persons would be very foolish. Fortunately they
were occupied with each other, and did not pay much attention to what she
said.
‘Oh, Edward,’ said Cara, ‘stay and read to us! There is nothing I like so
much. It is always dull here in the evenings, much duller than at the Hill,
except when we go out. And Aunt Cherry has her work, and so have I. Sit
here—here is a comfortable chair close to the lamp. You have nothing
particular to do, and if your mother has a headache, she does not want you.’
‘I don’t require to be coaxed,’ said Edward, his face glowing with
pleasure; and then a certain pallor stole over it as he said to himself, she is
treating me like her brother; but even that was pleasant, after a sort. ‘I am
quite willing to read,’ he said; ‘what shall it be? Tell me what book you like
best.’
‘Poetry,’ said Cara; ‘don’t you like poetry, Aunt Cherry? There is a novel
there; but I prefer Tennyson. Mr. Browning is a little too hard for me. Aunt
Cherry, Edward is very good when he reads out loud. You would like to
hear “Elaine”?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Miss Cherry. She cast a regretful glance at the novel, which
was fresh from Mudie’s; but soon cheered up, reflecting that she was half
through the second volume, and that it would not be amusing to begin it
over again. ‘In my young days stories would bear reading two or three
times over,’ she said, unconsciously following out her own thought; ‘but
they have fallen off like everything else. Yes, my dear, I am always fond of
poetry. Let me get my work. It is the new kind of art-needlework, Edward. I
don’t know if you have seen any of it. It is considered a great deal better in
design than the Berlin work we used to do, and it is a very easy stitch, and
goes quickly. That is what I like in it. I must have the basket with all my
crewels, Cara, and my scissors and my thimble, before he begins. I hate
interrupting anyone who is reading. But you are only hemming, my dear.
You might have prettier work for the drawing-room. I think girls should
always have some pretty work in hand; don’t you think so, Edward? It is
pleasanter to look at than that plain piece of white work.’
‘I should think anything that Cara worked at pretty,’ said Edward,
forgetting precaution. Miss Cherry looked up at him suddenly with a little
alarm, but Cara, who was searching for the crewels, and the thimble and the
scissors, on a distant table, fortunately did not hear what he said.