"Are they dead?" Taliere asked numbly.
"No, but they will have to die," Raeburn replied, not unkindly, as Richter returned to direct the removal of Taliere's second associate from the RV. "If it's any consolation, Dr. Mallory tells me the preparation will have been relatively painless. It always amazes me what can be done with a couple of bottles of cheap whisky, a funnel, and a few feet of rubber tubing in the hands of someone medically trained - and with a whiff or two of chloroform to ease the inevitable resistance. I believe Mr. Richter has an accident in mind: alas, too much drink before driving an altogether too treacherous road."
While Raeburn spoke, Taliere's second assistant was carried away, and the men accompanying Raeburn and the Druid had stowed the duffel bags and Taliere's staff in the RV. As Richter returned to fetch two fresh liquor bottles, lifting them to the old mas in ironic salute before heading back toward the Land Rover, Raeburn gently removed Taliere's headdress and feathered mantle and handed them off to one of Richter's men to stow. Taliere did not resist as Raeburn took him by the elbow and guided him to the door of the RV, but he shook off the other's grip and mounted the step himself.
Inside, Mallory was adjusting an oxygen mask on the still unconscious Barclay, who was stretched out on the couch across the back of the cabin and wrapped in a bright silver thermal blanket. The physician turned as Raeburn and Taliere entered, picking up a loaded hypodermic syringe while Raeburn pushed his captive into one of the padded swivel chairs toward the front. Outside, the engines of the Mini Cooper and then the Land Rover rumbled to life, the two vehicles pulling out just before Richter and one of his men entered the RV and closed the door.
"Time to settle in for a long ride, Taoiseach," Raeburn said softly, as Richter's man went forward and Richter himself came to hold the old man for Mallory's ministrations. "Dr.
Mallory is going to give you something to relax you."
Taliere turned his face away as the deed was done, not resisting, his eyes dull with incomprehension. When Mallory had returned to his other patient, turning out the interior lights in favor of a small pocket flashlight, and Richter had retreated to the front passenger seat, Raeburn slid into the chair beside Taliere, carefully buckling the old man's seat belt.
"Why do you not just kill me and be done with it?" the Druid asked, as the RV's engine turned over with a muffled purr. "Why should I be spared, when my associates must die? They trusted me, Francis, and you have betrayed that trust."
"Why do I spare you?'' Raeburn said, himself buckling up. "Why, I entertain the fond notion that you may still prove useful to me. At very least, you have provided me with an abundance of red herrings to confound those who would try to interfere with my plans. Why do you think I didn't bother cleaning up the physical evidence at the circle? Investigating it will give the police something to occupy their time, but they haven't the resources to learn much from it. And if, by chance, tonight's work should come to the attention of some higher investigative authority, the signature of power is yours, not mine."
As the RV pulled quietly onto the road and began its slow progress back toward Stornoway, Taliere turned his face away and closed his eyes, not bothering to fight as Mallory's sedative dragged him gently into oblivion.
Chapter Six
I can't claim to be an experienced judge of such matters," Adam said the next morning, over breakfast with Ximena, "but in my humble estimation, your niece's nativity play went extremely well."
"Yes, it did, didn't it?" Ximena agreed, pausing to spread wild blackberry jam on a bite of warm croissant. "I hope your memory is in good working order. Dad is going to want a full account."
"I thought that's why you and Laurel took so many photographs," Adam said, amused.
"The photos are just the starting point," Ximena replied. "They don't cover the backstage details - which, as far as Dad's concerned, is where the meat of the entertainment lies. More coffee?"
"Please!" Adam said with feeling. "If only to hone my faculties as a drama critic."
They were breakfasting together in the small dining area adjoining Ximena's kitchen, both wrapped in terry-cloth robes. It was early yet, and the sun was shining diaphanously through tattered mist outside the windows. Watching as Ximena deftly replenished his cup from a glass cafetiere, Adam marvelled anew at the unstudied grace that seemed to invest her every move. Even at rest, she had the lissom poise of a gypsy dancer.
"You make me think of scenes from the court paintings of Goya," he remarked fondly. "It takes very little effort to imagine you in a lace mantilla."
"Ever the romantic!" Ximena laughed. She returned the cafetiere to its place on the starched damask tablecloth, then glanced at her watch.
"Good heavens, is that the time?"
"Why, are we late?"
"Not yet," she conceded. "But we can only afford the luxury of lingering over our fancies for another quarter of an hour. After that, I have to start getting ready to cut a professional figure in the eyes of the workaday world."
At nine o'clock Ximena was scheduled to deliver a lecture on triage procedures for the benefit of new trainees on staff. Following the lecture, Teresa Lockhart would be meeting them at the hospital so that they could all be in attendance together during her husband's morning period of wakefulness. Provisional plans had been made for Ximena and Adam to break away for lunch together out on Fisherman's Wharf, but Adam was well aware how those plans might have to be rewritten at a moment's notice.
While he was finishing his second cup of coffee, Ximena went and fetched the collection of Polaroid photographs from the night before. A whimsical smile played about her lips as she flicked through the stack.
"A penny for your thoughts?'' Adam offered, noticing her expression.
"I suppose I was just… remembering," she said wistfully, jogging the stack of photos into an orderly pile. "Christmas is such a special time for children."
"I know what you mean," Adam agreed. "You may remember that my friend Christopher has two young daughters - incorrigible charmers, the pair of them. I've promised myself the pleasure of shopping for something really special to bring back for them. Something out of the ordinary that wouldn't be available in any of the toy shops back in Scotland."
"I can recommend a good place for you to start," Ximena said. "There's a little shop in the Mission District that does handcrafted wooden toys. I'll be sure to take you there."
"You sound as if you know the place well," Adam said.
"I suppose I do," Ximena said with a small laugh. "Browsing in toy shops has always been a favorite pastime of mine. Having a four-year-old niece is a good excuse to indulge in it."
Adam debated with himself a moment, then decided to speak his mind. "Having children of your own is an even better excuse," he pointed out softly.
Ximena avoided meeting his eyes.
"Yes," she agreed. "I seem to recall my dad saying much the same thing."
She stopped and bit her lip. When she found her voice again, it had the air of one determined to change the subject.
"What was the best Christmas present you ever received as a child?" she asked.
Adam thought before answering. "I'd have to say it was my first pony," he told her. "She was a lovely little dapple-grey who went by the name of Felicity. She was ten years old - twice my age at the time - and my father said she was sensible enough for both of us. The following summer she carried me to my first-ever pony club victory. I still have that rosette somewhere. I suppose it's one of my most treasured childhood mementoes."