Death of an Adept

Now more than an hour into the present mission, Peregrine glanced wistfully at his sketch box, set on the floor behind the pilot's seat, half-tempted to try some trial sketches to see what would show up - for McLeod's attitude toward Harry had soon made it clear he was far more than a crack barrister and sometime Biggies clone, and that the Cairngorm mission was but one of many in which Harry had placed himself and his talents at the service of the Hunt. Listening to the drift of their conversation, filtered through the headsets that all of them wore to communicate above the drone of the twin engines, Peregrine inferred that the pilot was one of those individuals he had sometimes heard described as a Hunt Follower.

The realization gave him pause, for hitherto, he had always understood a Hunt Follower to be someone with no particular psychic gifts, who was nonetheless associated with the Hunting Lodge. Whether that association was familial, marital, or professional, Peregrine had further understood that whatever aid a Hunt Follower might be prepared to render, such an individual could never be allowed to know the full scope of the work of the Hunting Lodge itself. The principle of "need to know" was for the mutual protection of all concerned, since what a Follower did not know, he or she could not be induced to betray.

Yet McLeod had been more than usually candid while briefing Harry on the case, once they were airborne, and allowed himself to be drawn out on rather specific possible esoteric implications. Granted, Harry was trained to ask probing questions, but the exchange made Peregrine wonder whether the role of Hunt Follower might be subject to fewer restrictions than he had hitherto supposed.

Confronted with this possibility, the young artist found himself examining his earlier assumptions. Perhaps the role of Hunt Follower was to be interpreted more flexibly, as dictated by the relative strengths and proclivities of the individuals concerned. It certainly made sense that, just as Adept talents varied from individual to individual, some Followers would have a greater capacity for knowledge and understanding than others - and judging from McLeod's display of confidence, Harry was more capable than most. Even without the esoteric dimensions of their present assignment, it was clear that Harry Nimmo would be a good man to have behind them in any crisis, if any real trouble was looming ahead.

Contemplating the form such trouble might take, as the Isle of Lewis itself loomed ahead, Peregrine found himself cupping a hand over the slight bulge of his Adept ring in a trouser pocket. Very shortly, Harry's voice jarred him back to the present, a little tinny-sounding in the headphones.

"We're about to start our descent into Stornoway. Anything else I should know, before I get involved in tower chitchat?"

"Nothing I can think of," McLeod replied. "Just keep your eyes open. If anything at all strikes you as odd, don't hesitate to point it out. Just be careful what you say in Chisholm's hearing. He's a good man, but he can't be expected to think like one of us."

"Roger that," Harry replied, reaching for the radio. "Let's take her down, then."

The next few minutes passed in a buzz of landing preparations and tower chatter as Peregrine considered McLeod's phrase, one of us. The ride down was bumpy, and the artist braced himself as the ground came rushing up to meet them, idly noting a Loganair commuter plane parked on the apron beside a very small terminal building. The lightweight Cessna jibbed briefly under the force of a random crosswind and snow flurries, but Harry set the little craft down with the effortless precision of a man placing an egg in a basket. After taxiing to an area apparently reserved for light aircraft, he shut down the engines and McLeod opened the door to a blast of wind and cold. A patrol car in the white and blue livery of the Highlands and Islands Police was waiting just beyond the chain-link perimeter fence, and the driver's door opened as McLeod poked his head out and raised a hand in acknowledgement.

"That'll be Chisholm, I expect," he muttered, as all of them put on their coats.

Chisholm joined them as they were lashing down the wings to tie-downs set into the tarmac - a lanky, pink-cheeked figure in a policeman's cap and a dark-blue parka zipped to his chin against the cutting wind. When he and McLeod's party had traded introductions and handshakes all around, the island officer ushered them out through a gate in the chain-link fence.

"I figured I'd better collect you myself," Chisholm said to his visitors as they piled into the police car, McLeod in the passenger seat beside him and Peregrine and Harry behind. "Fortunately, the weather isn't too bad today, but it's about fifteen miles across the island to Callanish - and you'll love the road."

He buckled up his seat belt before starting the engine, then pulled a manila folder from between the two front seats and handed it to McLeod.