Death of an Adept

Ximena had retreated to a place in the window seat with Julia, gazing out dejectedly at the lights in the waiting helicopter, idly watching Donald Cochrane talk to two of the SAS men sheltering in the lee of the craft for a smoke. Having argued persuasively earlier in the day that Adam might well need emergency medical attention if they found him alive, she had gained grudging permission to go along on the rescue mission if it ever got off the ground - and had packed her medical bag with essentials that the SAS medics might not have to hand, since it was far more likely that she would have to deal with reversing the effects of heavy sedation than with battlefield-type injuries. She had also dressed in rugged outdoor wear of heavy trousers and boots and multiple layers of sweaters, similar to the way McLeod, Peregrine, and Harry were attired; but it appeared less and less likely that she or any of them would be given the chance to utilize any of their preparations.

"Peregrine," Harry said softly, lifting his head to glance over to where the artist was hunched over a sketch pad. "What ever happened to those drawings you did, that night you called me out to touch the Hand of Glory?"

Peregrine had been doodling in light trance, hoping he might pick up some impression too faint for conscious perception, that might somehow transmit itself through his drawing hand. As he surfaced at the sound of his name, looking blank, McLeod also roused, and Philippa gave a little gasp, turning to stare at Harry.

"The Hand of Glory," she murmured. "Dear God, how could we have been so blind?"

"The Hand of Glory?" Peregrine asked, still muzzy.

"That's an angle we haven't even considered," Philippa went on, as McLeod slowly sat up, comprehension lighting his blue eyes as he came fully awake. "They've got Adam hidden… and they'll be expecting us to focus all our energy on finding him - which is exactly what we've been doing."

"Pippa, what are you saying?" Julian asked, leaning across to touch her friend's hand.

"We have a very potent link to Raeburn himself," Philippa continued, hardly hearing her. "We know he participated in the preparation of the Hand of Glory. So if we find Raeburn, we find Adam - because whatever Raeburn has planned for Adam, he wouldn't miss it for the world! Back in a minute!"

"But - where is she going?" Peregrine asked, still at sea as Philippa dashed out the library door.

"To fetch the Hand, I should think," Julian replied, motioning for Christopher and Victoria to clear the crystal and skean dubh off the map, as the rest of them surged closer.

"Wait a minute," Ximena protested. "Are you telling us that she's had the Hand locked away all this time?"

"Well, of course," Julian replied. "One doesn't leave that sort of thing just lying around. Don't worry; I'm sure she had it in the safe."

"But - Julian, this is crazy," Peregrine said with a shake of his head. "What makes you think Raeburn won't be cloaked the same way Adam is?"

"He probably was, in the beginning," McLeod retorted, "but I doubt he is now. He'll be saving his energies for tonight. Besides that, he's too damned arrogant to expect we'd be looking for him instead of Adam - and he may have forgotten about the Hand; we did.

"Now, how to set this up?" he wondered aloud, pushing his spectacles onto his forehead and rubbing at his temples as he considered, scanning around the room. "Maps first, of course - and we've got those. Victoria, stand by with that stack of larger-scale ones; we'll want to scale up, once we've got a general fix on the master map. And we'll need a focus for separating Raeburn's trace from the others who helped prepare the Hand. Peregrine, fetch the sketch you did of Raeburn that night."

Peregrine was already shuffling through a stack of sketches, and flung the one of Raeburn onto the table.

"We'll also need to insert a dowsing factor into this working," McLeod went on, still thinking out loud. "A pendulum is out, because the Hand itself is too big - and I don't know about using just a piece of it - "

"Ximena," Philippa said, coming back into the room with the biscuit tin under one arm, "get me one of those fat crystal tumblers from the liquor cabinet, and let's clear everything off the big map."

"Already done," Christopher said, pulling out a chair for Philippa. The teamwork of the Hunting Lodge on the scent was astonishing, and Harry was dumbfounded at the speed at which things had suddenly taken off.

"I gather it was something I said," he murmured, as Philippa plonked the biscuit tin down on the table and took her seat, motioning all of them to gather closer. "What on earth are you going to do with that?"

McLeod shook his head and yanked out two more chairs.

"No time for explanations now, Harry. Sit down," he ordered, hauling the counsellor to the chair beside him as he sat next to Philippa and the others gathered around.