Nick in Paris

It was pouring rain when Nick's plane landed at Charles de Gaulle. The heavily overcast sky allowed him to step out to the curb to flag a limo immediately, instead of waiting until the last rays of the setting sun had been blotted out by the horizon. He settled into the back seat and gave the address of the small flat he had bought in St. Denis two years before. It was little more than a place to set his bags between trips. It might have made more sense to simply stay in a hotel, for the little time he was in Paris these days. But it was a comfort to see familiar objects around him from time to time, to be able to walk through a door and know in advance every object in the room.

He leaned back against the headrest and let his eyes rest on the traffic streaming past the rain-wet window. Travel was certainly not as difficult as it used to be. He had not had to spend weeks below decks pretending a mysterious seasickness that only struck during daylight hours. He had not had to carefully plan his train schedules for evening departure and arrival. He had not had to set out across land on a nervous horse by night, or fly on his own account, a quick but exhausting mode of travel which required frequent stops for nourishment.

Still, the six hours he had spent in Heathrow between flights had been a strain. It was not as ugly as some airports, though there was no such thing as a beautiful or even a comfortable one; and at least it had a couple of decent bookstores. The overpowering scent of the thronging herds of living, breathing, sweating, hearts-pounding humanity surrounding him on all sides no longer troubled him as it used to. But it was no pleasure.

Mortals never considered the irritations of vampire travel, he reflected as he watched streaks of rain luminesce in the oncoming headlights. It was impossible to both take off and land between sunset and dawn on an eastbound transatlantic flight. He had caught an evening flight from Vancouver to London, and had landed in Heathrow in the early afternoon. He had waited six hours in Heathrow for a connecting flight that would land after sunset in Paris — and then it had landed early. He didn't want to think about how much time he had spent in the last few years, in the last half-century, waiting in airports for flights that would land after dark. He didn't want to think about the forty-eight-hour storm which had given him an intimate acquaintance with the seats in Topeka airport, the most uncomfortable in the U.S. He didn't want to think about the twenty-seven hours he'd been forced to spend in JFK on discovering that his "connecting flight" left from LaGuardia, across town through noon traffic, and no way to get there in time even if it hadn't been full daylight. He certainly didn’t want to think about what he'd like to do to the designer of O'Hare.

He couldn't reconcile it with his conscience to buy a deBrabant Foundation Lear jet simply for his own convenience. But every trip he made he re-examined that decision with increasing doubt. Perhaps it was finally time to take the plunge. That or follow Count Dracula's lead and start shipping himself as cargo.

He paid off the driver when they arrived at his building and let himself into the flat. The air smelled disturbed and he set down his bag and removed his jacket before crossing to the refrigerator. A case of cow's blood, the box date-stamped that morning, chilled in the main compartment. He investigated further. Someone had dusted, the sheets had been aired and changed, and the plants recently watered. Today's newspaper sat on the small table beside his reading chair. His cleaning had been delivered, unpacked, and hung on wooden hangers in the bedroom closet. The housekeeping agency had missed nothing, and as he uncorked a bottle he made a mental note to send them a bonus. He drank a third of the bottle at once as he crossed to his reading chair and sat down. It had been a long day, and it was good to be home. At least it was better than sitting in Heathrow. He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. Shortly he would begin to think about his plans for the next few days. But for the moment, he needed a rest. There had been nowhere to sleep at Heathrow. He took another drink and set it down on the newspaper beside him. Perhaps he would just close his eyes for a minute.

A breath of air touched his neck around midnight and he was instantly awake, and knew he was not alone. He felt the presence before he smelled or heard it. He heard the faintest rustle from the heavy drapes over the window behind him. "Janette", he said, and turned his head.

She stood behind his chair, exquisite as always, pushing the hood of her dark grey wool cloak back from her perfect face. He rose to face her. "What brings you here?"

She let the hood drop to her shoulders. One slender hand opened the neck of her cloak. "I come to greet my master on his return, as is my duty." Her limpid blue eyes regarded him in transparent sincerity.

Nick raised an incredulous eyebrow and her lips twitched. When he began to laugh, she dropped her pose and smiled in return. Outside he could hear pattering on the eaves. The rain had grown heavier while he slept. Janette removed her damp cloak and draped it over the arm of the leather couch. Underneath it she was simply and elegantly dressed in a cowl-neck silk jersey dress in her favourite deep burgundy. It fit her graceful form like the caress of a gentle hand. She sat down and leaned back into the cushions of the couch, slipping off her shoes and unselfconsciously curling her legs underneath her.

"I don't suppose you can offer me a drink", she said. Nick gestured to the bottle on the table beside him and she shuddered delicately. "I thought not." She looked at him with a touch of concern. "Asleep at this hour, Nicola? What ails you?"

"I was travelling. I couldn't sleep all day." In deference to his guest, Nick walked across the room to the sideboard to find a glass. Janette had always hated him to drink straight out of the bottle. He held up a second glass to her as he straightened up. "You're sure?"

"Non, merci." She waved it away decisively. "I do not see why you insist on drinking that swill, Nicola. You no longer need to kill to drink something palatable, after all."

"Call it a personal eccentricity." Nick poured himself a glass and set the bottle down on the mantelpiece. He returned to the chair across from her and sat down. "Really, why are you here?" he asked, smiling as his eyes took her in. It was a pleasure to see her. Not just a pleasure to have her there, but a simple pleasure to look at her, perfectly dressed as always, utterly at her ease and curled like a favourite cat on the most comfortable piece of furniture in the apartment. She had an unerring eye for the best, and no self-doubt ever prevented her from taking it whenever it was offered. He envied her that self-possession.

"Really, Nicola." He watched her preen contentedly under his appreciative gaze. Even her vanity had charm. "I could hardly contain my curiosity. How was your trip? And how is the little doctor?"

Straight to the point, Nick thought. LaCroix must have told her. "Fine," he answered. "She's doing very well." His tone did not invite further discussion, and Janette looked away, playing idly with one of her rings.

"And has she aged well?" she asked at last. "It has been five years, after all."

Nick hid a smile. So it was reassurance Janette wanted. "She has a some fine lines around her eyes, a few gray hairs," he said. "You wouldn't mistake her for a twenty-five year old. But yes, I would say she is aging well."

Nick snorted. "Not so you'd notice. She lost her temper and threw me out of her apartment. And she's three months pregnant."

"Another doctor. He's probably dead," he said to forestall further questions. "He's a doctor in Sierra Leone. His clinic was blown up and he's missing, presumed dead. It was in the news this weekend."

"You do not wish to discuss it with me. Very well." Janette turned her head slightly away from him, chin fractionally elevated, as she always had when she wanted Nick to know he had offended her.

For centuries he had responded by apologizing immediately, begging her to smile on him once more. As time went on more and more effort seemed to be required to gain that smile. He had abased himself, made her extravagant gifts, attended to her every demand and whim, and still the smiles were more and more difficult to earn. He suspected she enjoyed the efforts he made. Who wouldn't? But in the end, she had left him anyway. He realised, now, that she had simply been passing on to him the abuse she had suffered at the hands of the men in her mortal life, and of LaCroix once she crossed over - relieving her sense of powerlessness by abusing him in turn. And he felt sympathy for her. But she had no power over him now, and he ignored the lifted chin, the averted gaze.

Janette glanced at him in surprise. After all this time, she still had not learned that he no longer responded to her disapproval. But she changed tactics without breaking stride, and answered simply, 'You are right. It does not interest me. I am interested only in what you propose to do."

"In the long term, I don't know," Nick said. ""Right now, I plan to find out what's happened to Natalie's friend."

Janette leaned back against the back of the couch again, a trace of a smile playing on her meticulously painted lips. "You cannot deceive me, Nicola. If he is alive, you plan to rescue him and deliver him into the arms of his beloved. Such a noble, self-sacrificing gesture! I do not see how you could resist it. The little doctor would be so grateful; you would be her hero forever. And you will be able to think ever after what a far, far better thing you did." She smiled with satisfaction at the embarrassment in Nick's face as she finished speaking.

He turned away from her and busied himself pouring another glass of cow's blood. Behind him, he could hear the rustle of her dress as she rose and crossed to the fireplace. "I didn't know you read Dickens, Janette."

Nick turned back and smiled at her ruefully. "You know me too well. Perhaps I would do that, if I could, but in all probability he's not alive to rescue. I'll make some inquiries tomorrow." In the window's reflection he saw her examining the carved walking stick, broken jaggedly at one end, which leaned against one side of the mantlepiece. She set it down as he turned. He contemplated her. "Something is troubling you, Janette. Tell me."

She remained silent for a moment. "I just wish I knew what fascinated you so about her," she said at last. "I never understood your interest. She always seemed quite ordinary to me. So very — " she searched for the word. "- mortal," she said finally.

"But that's what I like about her", Nick said. "Her humanity. Her 'mortality' as you call it. It gives her her passion. Things matter to her. She has no cynicism at all. Everything she does engages her utterly. My cure, when she was working on it; her work; her family; she throws herself into everything heart and soul. She has lost none of that in the last years. I'd forgotten how refreshing it is to be with her."

"Her passion, as you call it, is not always good for her judgment", observed Janette. "It is a miracle it did not kill her. And you too." Her eyes flickered towards the walking stick.

"Of course there are dangers to passion", agreed Nick. "But I don't think they're as soul-destroying as the dangers of being bored and disengaged. At least she's alive. You and I — we've been around so long, hardly anything happens that we haven't seen before in one form or another. We've done it all already. It's hard to care anymore. She cares. She cares all the time." He drank from his glass.

Janette moved to him and placed a hand on his forearm, looking up at him earnestly. "But that's precisely the danger, Nicola. It's all very well for mortals. They must care about their momentary concerns. It shelters them from the knowledge of their certain deaths. But we are different. We must not grow attached. What is virtue for them is fatal for us. We go on and on, and everything we care for will not last as long as we do ourselves. If we care, we can go mad."

"If we don't, we're certain to. It's not becoming a vampire that kills the soul, Janette. It's letting our hearts grow cold. Natalie reminds me of what it is to have a warm heart."

"Do you really want to?" Nick asked. "Do you really believe it's folly to allow ourselves to care?"

Janette looked away from him, with a fractional shake of her head. "No. But I can tell you that it is painful. I would guard you from that, if I could."

"Pain is an inevitable part of life, Janette," Nick said gently. "It's better than being dead. I was dead for a long time. I'm tired of it. I want to live. Whatever the consequences."

She considered this, and shrugged. "You appear to have made up your mind," she said. "And no doubt you wish to be left alone to plan your expedition." She walked back towards the couch and bent to retrieve her cloak.

Nick went with her. She was right, he did want to begin making inquiries into the fate of Dr. Mackenzie. But he made an effort to be a gracious host. "You needn't leave so soon, Janette. You've barely arrived," he protested.

She shook her head. "I merely wanted to say hello, and catch up on your news. But I can see that you are busy. I won't impose further, Nicola. In any case, Gaetan is waiting."

Nick raised an eyebrow, "Gaetan?" He took the cloak from her hands, adjusting it around her shoulders. "Is he new?"

She smiled impishly. "New enough to be entertaining. He is only two hundred, imagine. Everything is still fresh to him. She fastened the cloak at her neck. "All the best with your rescue mission."

"Thanks. Though it's probably no rescue. Even if he didn't die at the clinic, he's most likely dead somewhere else by now."

"No doubt you will discover the truth, whatever it is." He walked her to the window where she paused, one hand on the drape. "'You say the little doctor lost her temper with you?" she asked. Nick nodded.

"Then I would not lose all hope, Nicola. If she felt nothing now, she would have shown you only civility."

Janette smiled. "Of course, mon cher". She kissed him on the cheek and was gone in a blur of air.

Nick looked after her absently, his thoughts already elsewhere, as he finished his glass of cow's blood. Which of his contacts could most quickly find out for him what had happened to the doctor? He set down the glass on the side table and moved into the study, where he logged on to his Macintosh G4 cube. Research had become so much easier in the last five years.

He searched two public and one subscription news clipping database for articles bringing him up to date on current events in Sierra Leone, and specific information on the clinic bombing. The political background information told him little of use. RUF forces had been active in the vicinity of Magburaka for some time. The latest peace accord had once again broken down, British UN forces had recently landed in Freetown to contain the disturbances, and the scheduled Sierra Leone elections had been put off once again because of the level of civic unrest. In other words, nothing new.

Stories about the clinic bombing were little more enlightening. The Reuters wire story identified the schoolhouse as the site of an MSF clinic run by Dr. Marcus Mackenzie, confirming what he already knew, and added that the whereabouts of Dr. Mackenzie were presently unknown. Another doctor, Anneliese Eckhardt, was apparently missing as well, but no details were offered.

Most sources didn't identify the body in the doorway. AP and Reuters went so far as to call it "as yet unknown". As Dr. Mackenzie was admittedly missing, that had to mean that the wire service writers doubted that the body was his. Two papers, the Toronto Sun and the New York Post, identified the body as Dr. Marcus Mackenzie, physician for MSF, but neither gave their sources, and neither was particularly trustworthy. He tracked down the bylines for both articles and emailed the writers as a "friend of the family" to request further information. As an afterthought, he found the phone numbers for the international desks at AP and Reuters. Tomorrow morning he would find out who their Freetown stringers were, and contact them directly.

He thought for a moment, then emailed the heads of deBrabant Foundation projects in Senegal, Mali, Nigeria and Guinea asking them to find out what they could about the clinic bombing. Unfortunately there were no current Foundation-funded missions in Sierra Leone itself, but perhaps those farther afield could still discover something.

What next? He sat back. It had been several years since he had tried to investigate a crime. I used to break down the available options, he remembered, and come up with a plan for each possibility. All right. What do I do if the body is Mackenzie's? Find a way to make sure of the ID, via dental records or something similar. Someone in Sierra Leone can be hired to do that. I'll call MSF tomorrow and find out if there's any assistance I can offer.

All right. What if the body isn't Mackenzie's? He got up and began to pace. Then Mackenzie is somewhere else, dead or alive. If he's dead, someone will probably leave the body somewhere obvious and claim credit for it shortly. There's nothing I need to do.

What if he's alive? Then where is he, and why hasn't he surfaced? Perhaps he's gone into hiding somewhere in the vicinity. Perhaps he's been injured and can't make contact until he recuperates. Either way, he'll show up eventually, and again there's nothing I need to do.

Nick noticed that he had polished off the last of his bottle of cows' blood and went to the refrigerator for another. What other possibilities are there? If it's not his body, and he's not dead or wounded or in hiding somewhere else, why hasn't he made contact? There was only one option left. He must have been abducted, most likely by the same group that bombed the clinic.

But what for? No word of a ransom demand had filtered out to the press. Perhaps it was being kept quiet. I can ask Feliks if he can find any traces of unusual movements of money in or out of Sierra Leone government accounts, he thought. And perhaps check on MSF accounts as well. But perhaps there had been no ransom demand. Then why would he have been taken? It was growing late and Nick had had little sleep; it was a moment before the obvious answer struck him. Because they need a doctor, of course.

He was exasperated with himself for not seeing it sooner. This had been easier when he had someone to bounce ideas off. He went over the options again, ticking them off in his mind. If the body at the clinic is Mackenzie's, all I can do is offer assistance, if they need it, to MSF to make a positive ID. If he's dead elsewhere, word will eventually come out. If he's alive but in hiding for some reason, he'll surface eventually. In either case there's nothing I can do but wait for developments. There's no urgent need for speed.

But if Mackenzie's been abducted by the RUF, he thought, maybe there is. If they're holding him for ransom, they may get tired of waiting. Or the ransom demand may be refused, and he'll be no further use to them. And if they're holding him because they need a doctor … his thoughts trailed off and he rubbed his forehead. Then he's safe as long as they need him, he decided, and as long as he's willing to work for them. And as long as he doesn't seem likely to try to escape. There's no way to know how long that will be. So what do I do?

Nick had a last drink from the bottle he was holding, and recorked it. He made his way over to the refrigerator to put it away. If Mackenzie's been abducted, he thought, someone had better find him fast. And even if I don't know the terrain, I'm a better tracker than anyone on the ground there. So if there's any chance he's been abducted, I should go to Sierra Leone. Janette may be right, he thought. I may be mounting a rescue mission after all. Which means more airports, an internal voice pointed out. Wonderful.

He ran his hand through his hair. He'd rule out the other possibilities first. MSF probably knew more than anyone about the real situation in Sierra Leone, but how to get the information out of them? Perhaps he should try the time-honoured method of offering them money. It usually worked.

He went back to his Mac and logged on again. One email went to Feliks, now in Lausanne, asking him to report back on unusual movements of money in and out of Sierra Leone, Sierra Leone holding companies, and MSF accounts. For Feliks' usual hefty fee, of course, but if money was being raised to pay a ransom, Feliks would find out. Another email went to the deBrabant Foundation secretary.

André,

please contact Médécins Sans Frontières headquarters in Paris and tell them that the deBrabant Foundation is interested in making a substantial contribution to their work in Sierra Leone. I'd like to go over the details personally, so could you set up a meeting with their chief for me this evening? Any time after 8:00 is fine. Assure him that it won't take long, but it must be this evening, as I will be tied up for the rest of the month. Email me the details. I won't be available by phone today. Thanks -

N. Knight

He looked out the window as he logged off. It was almost dawn. A good night's work, he hoped. And perhaps by this evening he'd be able to phone Natalie with some news. He unplugged the phone, pulled the drapes closed, and fell across the bed. I'll get up in a minute to undress, he thought sleepily, and closed his eyes.

When Nick awoke the sun had just touched the western horizon. He stretched and padded barefoot out to the kitchen, tucking his shirt back into his trousers. He uncorked the half-bottle of cow's blood he had left the night before and drank it as he plugged in the phone and checked his voice mail. There was a message from André; a 9:00 p.m. meeting had been arranged for him with Pierre Guerin, Paris head of MSF, at the MSF offices. He included the address, and driving instructions from the closest motorway. André was the perfect secretary, Nick thought. He did exactly what was asked, however difficult or bizarre, and asked no questions about anything he did not need to know to perform his duties. He checked his watch: he had an hour and a half before the meeting.

He read his email next. A note from André, repeating the information in the phone message. A message from Feliks. He had detected no unusual movements of funds, either from MSF accounts or in or out of those of the government or rebel forces in Sierra Leone. Trust Feliks to know where the rebels were keeping their money. So it didn’t look as if a ransom had been paid or as money was being collected for one, at this point. Email from the Brabant heads in Zaire and Nigeria, telling him nothing he had not heard from the wire reports. Well, that had been a long shot. Nothing from the New York Post writer. The Sun writer admitted that in his haste to make a deadline he had misread the AP report and assumed that Dr. Mackenzie was the body found at the scene of the bombing. A retraction would be printed if necessary when more information became available. It was probably fair to assume the Post writer had made the same error. It was too late to phone the Reuters desk to get the name of their Freetown stringer, but there seemed little point now anyway. He had all the information he was likely to get from that source.

Nick showered and changed. He had a good half hour before he had to leave, so ran a cursory search of the newsclipping databases. If the doctors had been found, or the body's identity discovered, it had not been published during the day. Time to find out what M. Guerin knew. He stepped outside and hailed a cab.

Guerin proved to be a slightly-built, balding man with gold-rimmed glasses shielding his mildly bulging pale blue eyes. Nick would have guessed his profession as accountant or civil servant. He was the soul of politeness, offering Nick refreshment and waving away his apology at disturbing his evening. He was happy to discuss MSF's efforts in Sierra Leone, from the Connaught Hospital clinic to the Murray Town refugee camp, the public health initiatives and the vaccination campaigns. He spoke without wasting effort on rhetorical flourishes or attempts to persuade Nick of the value of the work they did there. He seemed to feel, correctly, that the facts spoke for themselves. He had collected documentation on the Sierra Leone projects, which he gave Nick in a cardboard portfolio. He had also somehow found the time that day to make up three proposals for projects the Foundation might wish to consider funding in Sierra Leone: updated equipment in the Murray Town camp; funding for a researcher into drug-resistant sleeping sickness; or ongoing funding for the vaccination clinics in Sierra Leone.

Nick was impressed and humbled by the man's industry and dedication. He accepted the documents and promised that the Foundation board members would look them over and make their recommendation within the week, privately resolving that at least two of the proposals would be funded. He had wondered how to approach the question of the clinic bombing. Guerin's transparent integrity prompted him to an answering sincerity. As he pocketed the files Guerin had given him, he said, "I expect that the deBrabant Foundation will fund at least one of these proposals. But in fact I came here largely for another reason. I have been asked by a friend of Dr. Mackenzie to find out what I can about the clinic bombing. Is it certain that he is dead?"

Guerin said nothing, and Nick wondered if he had been too abrupt; but the other man said after a brief hesitation, "I'm not sure how much I can tell you. We're trying to discover Dr. Mackenzie's whereabouts. We suspect that any media attention will endanger his life."

"I understand. Anything you tell me will go no farther than — " Nick was going to say "this room", but stopped himself. Something about Dr. Guerin prompted him to be truthful. "- than Dr. Mackenzie's friend."

Nick sighed. Back in Toronto, he conducted the interrogation; here the tables seemed to be turned. Perhaps a touch of hypnosis — but the man deserved better than that. "This is confidential." Guerin nodded. "Dr. Natalie Lambert. A friend of his sister's."

"Oh, Dr. Lambert!" Guerin was smiling now, and Nick smiled reluctantly in turn. "Marc told me about her on his way through Paris. She sounds like a remarkable woman. A pity he could not recruit her for us, but MSF isn't for everybody." He frowned." Why didn't she contact me directly?"

"Discretion is the soul of a virtuous woman," said Guerin approvingly. "But she did not need to be so modest." He seemed to come to a decision. " I'm sure, from Marcus' description of her, that Dr. Lambert will understand the need for confidentiality."

Nick nodded, and Guerin sat forward and spoke in a lowered tone of voice. "What I'm about to tell you has only been known for a few hours. The body found in the clinic — perhaps Dr. Lambert saw the news broadcast?" Nick nodded again and the other man looked distressed. "How painful for her. Certainly you must reassure her. This afternoon we confirmed from the dental records that the body was not Dr. Mackenzie's. Apparently Marc was not in the clinic at the time of the bombing. His assistant, Edgar Mogabele, escaped the rebels and hid at his cousin's house in Yele until yesterday. He tells us that Marc had gone up to the hospital when the clinic was attacked. The rebels abducted Dr. Eckhardt, another of our staff, and he saw them drive off with her in the back of their truck.

"But we don't know what happened to Marc. He was in the hospital shortly before the bombing. The last person to see him was a nurse, who says he ran out the front door just after the explosion. We're trying to gather more information, but it is difficult. Everyone is afraid of the R.U.F. If anyone knows more, they don't want to talk."

"Edgar says it was the leader of the raid. He thinks the bomb went off ahead of schedule."

Guerin shrugged. "That I could not tell you. I promise you, M. Knight, every possible effort is being made to locate Dr. Mackenzie. You may assure Dr. Lambert that she is not the only person concerned for his welfare. He is a highly valued member of our team. And a personal friend," he added. "I will spare no pains to find him."

He hesitated. "You may certainly tell Dr. Lambert that he was not at the clinic. But please ask her not to publicize this information. We are afraid that if it becomes known that we are looking for him, it will endanger his life, so we are allowing it to appear that we believe him to be dead."

"I'm sure it's not necessary, Dr. Guerin, but I will warn her," said Nick. "And there's been no ransom demand?" he asked, to be certain.

Guerin shook his head. "Nothing. Which disturbs us. Perhaps he was taken prisoner but escaped. Or — " he spread his hands in a Gallic shrug. "He could be anywhere."

Nick thought this over and came to a decision. "I'd like to help you find him," he said.

"Thank you, but I don't see how — that is," Guerin corrected himself courteously, "your assistance is of course welcome, but everything that can be done is being done."

"I have resources you don't," said Nick. "It could speed matters. And I think speed is of the essence here. If Dr. Mackenzie is being held without a ransom demand, surely he'll be killed as soon as his captors have no immediate use for him. He's a danger to them as long as anyone might mount a search for him. My guess is that his body will be found in a public place sometime in the next couple of weeks."

The other nodded sadly. "That is our thought also. But what can you do, M. Knight? Money will only help to a point."

"I wasn't speaking only of money. I have contacts in Sierra Leone", Nick said, hoping that this would turn out to be true. Surely there were some members of the community there. "I'll need to travel there myself, though."

Guerin looked troubled. "I don't see how that's possible. You would be in danger yourself, and your presence could alert the R.U.F. that a search was underway."

"I can come to research your projects in Sierra Leone for the deBrabant Foundation."

Guerin was silent for a moment. "Forgive me for asking," he said at last. "But Sierra Leone is a long way to go for a man I take it you have never met. What is your interest in this matter?" His tone was polite, but his gaze met Nick's without wavering. Something was not as it seemed here, and Guerin was obviously not the kind to let it slide, even for a wealthy potential benefactor.

"Dr. Lambert is an old friend," Nick answered, aware as he spoke of how weak it sounded. But Guerin was looking at him speculatively.

"So out of friendship for Dr. Lambert, you would travel to Sierra Leone in the hope of finding Dr. Mackenzie for her." Nick nodded. If he could, he would have flushed with embarrassment. It sounded foolish, put so baldly. But he felt that he needed to do it. Natalie had suffered so much in her life already. He wanted to know that he had at least tried to save her from more pain.

Guerin smiled gently. "A noble gesture," he said. "She must truly be a remarkable woman. Very well. Willem Eckhardt is co-ordinating the search effort in Sierra Leone. His wife has also vanished. I will inform him that you are coming to lend your assistance. You'll have to get there on your own; we can't afford to fly you."

Nick shrugged. "That's not a problem." He might have to hire a plane to land in Freetown after sunset, though, he thought glumly. It was very unlikely that Freetown airport had expanding gates connecting directly to the planes.

But Guerin was standing up. "Wait a second. Let me check something." He crossed behind his desk and touched a few keys on his computer console. A complex and multicoloured calendar appeared on the screen. A few strokes later Guerin looked up. "You're in luck, M. Knight. If you can get to Lagos by Thursday afternoon, we have a supply flight going to Freetown at 9:00 p.m. that evening. You won't land until 11:00 p.m., so it will be a long day for you. But it might be easier than trying to find another connecting flight."

Inwardly Nick sighed with relief. "A late arrival is fine. I'll arrange to be there. How will I find the plane?"

Guerin gave him the details. "I will let the pilot know he should expect a passenger," he said finally. "Is there anything further you require?"

"No. And thank you, you've been very helpful," Nick said. "I will bring your proposals before the deBrabant Foundation board before I leave. But I should not take up more of your time now." He tucked the papers Guerin had given him into the pocket of his jacket as he spoke, and rose.

Guerin rose also to escort him to the door. "I wish you every success in your mission, M. Knight," he said. "Dr. Mackenzie is a loss to all of us. Please keep me informed."

"Of course," said Nick. He stepped out into the chilly Paris evening, the other man watching him thoughtfully as he went.

By the time Nick re-entered his apartment it was late afternoon in Vancouver. If he phoned Natalie now he would only reach her machine, he thought, and decided to wait until he could speak to her personally. He called his travel agent and booked a flight for Lagos Thursday morning. His best option, the Air France direct Paris-Lagos flight, left at 10:30 a.m. and arrived at 4:30 p.m. Lagos airport, the agent assured him, had expanding gates, so his sunlight allergy would not cause any difficulties. As for the Paris end, he would arrange to be at de Gaulle before dawn, armed with a paperback and a hip flask of bovine. He was strongly tempted to simply lease a Lear jet and pilot for the month, but it was probably best not to draw too much attention to himself. Landing in Freetown in a private jet would mark him as wealthy and therefore suspect.

He opened a fresh bottle of cow's blood and poured himself a glass. Now to find out whom to contact in the Freetown community. He assumed there was a Freetown community; it was a war zone after all. Aristotle would know. He could always be reached by email, though Nick had no idea where he was living these days; his last address had been Munich, but that was three years ago. He emailed the ancient saying simply "please call me as soon as possible. I'm in Paris. N. Knight." He smiled as he sent it; every time he typed in Aristoteles@hotmail.com he remembered how irritated the older vampire had been to discover that the account aristotle@hotmail.com was already taken. He seemed to feel he had an automatic right to the name.

Who else might know anything about the community in Sierra Leone? On impulse Nick phoned Feliks in Lausanne. Feliks would only know about vampires with money, but it was a start.

Feliks answered the phone sneezing. "You pick your times, Knight! My catellya maxima has come down with a fungal infection."

"Very funny. The phone startled me just as I was dosing the poor girl with cinnamon powder." He sneezed again. "There's cinnamon everywhere."

"Think of it as a preventive measure. Every plant in your nursery is protected from fungus now."

"I assume you didn't call to discuss gardening, Nicholas." Feliks sounded irritable and Nick got to the point.

"On business." It was easier than trying to explain. "Do you know offhand where I would find members of the community? Anyone I could look up and say I'm a friend of yours?"

Feliks' notorious over-protectiveness where his clients were concerned was one of his chief strengths as a financial advisor, but it could be frustrating. "Come on, Feliks," Nick said wearily. "You know I don't need money. I just need a contact there in case of emergencies."

Feliks mulled this over. Nick could hear the sounds of friction on fabric and imagined him brushing the cinnamon off his jacket with one hand, phone cradled in the other. "Let me check," he said at last. "I'll see what I can tell you without breaking client confidentiality. Perhaps the name of a bar the community uses."

"That would be helpful," Nick said. "A name or two would be more helpful, of course. Of friends, perhaps, rather than clients."

"I don't know if …" Felix muttered. There was a soft sound of keyboard clicking, and Feliks murmuring to himself, "that's odd … let me see" … more clicks … "hm. Hm." He came back to the phone.

"Can't help you, I'm afraid. I don't have that many contacts with the African communities in any case, except in Morocco and South Africa of course, but I don't seem to have any in Sierra Leone at all, not even acquaintances. Of course anyone with money has probably left the place long since."

Feliks sighed. "Sometimes I wonder where you've spent the last century, Nicholas. Nobody hunts anymore. And there are war zones and war zones. Sierra Leone is a disaster area, not a party waiting to happen. I don't expect you'll find a community there at all."

"Try Aristotle," said Feliks. "Now if that's all, I'd like to get back to my catellya."

"Give her my best wishes for a speedy recovery", said Nick, and rang off. Now what? Wait for Aristotle to call, he supposed. In the meantime there were fund transfers and organizational set-up details he needed to arrange for the addiction research institute the deBrabant Foundation was to fund in Vancouver. Whether or not he ended up going there himself, he thought wryly.

It was a bit humbling to realise that Natalie genuinely had mixed feelings about his presence in Vancouver. He'd spent five years telling himself that the best thing he could do for her was leave her alone, and hope that she would move on and forget him. It was an unexpected shock to discover that apparently, that was exactly what she'd done. His sensible Natalie, recognizing a problem, getting a grip on it, and doing what needed to be done to solve it, as she always did. If what it took to get over him was counselling, a new city, and a new career, Natalie had the courage to make all those changes. He had to admire her.

But he didn't have to like it. He realized in retrospect that he had unconsciously expected her to be right where he left her. He had known, intellectually, that five years was a long time to a mortal; a lot could change. But somehow he had never really thought anything would. He'd unconsciously assumed that after some initial begging for forgiveness on his part, and some anger and reluctance on hers, their relationship would essentially go back to the way it had been. He'd make a manful apology, she'd accept it, and after that brief awkwardness, he could step back into her life without a ripple, as if he'd never left it, as if she'd kept his place open for him, to return whenever he chose.

Not that he'd meant to make the same mistakes. He would deal better with her this time, he'd thought. He'd be more open with her, tell her how he felt and what he thought. But he had simply assumed there would be a "this time". He'd assumed she would want him back in her life.

He hadn't expected to meet an independent woman who just didn't need him anymore. She'd accepted his apology; she'd apologized herself; and then — what? And then she hadn't seemed to be particularly interested in seeing him again. Happy to spend an evening with him, yes. Enjoyed his company, certainly. Still found him pleasant to look at, no question. He had known too many women, vampire and mortal, in the last eight centuries not to be able to recognize all that. But she didn't need him. She wasn't attached anymore. How he spent his time was a matter of interest to her, not importance. He no longer had a place in her life, and she didn't seem immediately disposed to make him one.

To top it all off, she was pregnant, and by a man apparently well worthy of her love and respect. He wasn't sure why that made it even worse. It wasn't as if he wanted her to be involved with someone who didn't deserve her. Though going to a sub-Saharan war zone to try to save her lover from certain death did look, to the objective eye, like an over-reaction in the opposite direction. A counter-productive move even if he succeeded, as LaCroix might point out. He wasn't even sure of his motives, except that when he'd heard her crying over Marcus he'd felt something tear inside.

At least it was something he could do for her, he thought. And it was better than sitting here in Paris, feeling helpless. He sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. What was keeping Aristotle? He usually answered almost immediately. Perhaps he'd emailed. Nick paused to pour himself another glass of cow's blood and went back to the study to check. Nothing. He looked at his watch. It would be 6 p.m. in Vancouver; Natalie might be home by now. At least he had moderately good news to give her. He picked up the phone again and dialed from memory.

"Sure. I'm expecting Sanjit to call when she gets off-shift, but that won't be for another half hour. I wondered if she might be calling early." Nat sounded a bit dispirited, anxious even, and Nick remembered suddenly that she'd been scheduling an ultrasound as he left Vancouver.

He could hear her sigh over the phone. "Probably. The baby's okay. But the initial look at the ultrasound shows a small separation at the top of the placenta. That's where the blood is coming from. Sanjit 's going to take a closer look at the results before she goes home, and give me a call. But it should be fine. Usually they heal themselves, no problem. I'm sure everything will be okay."

She didn't sound sure. She sounded as if she was trying desperately to reassure herself. Nick wasn't sure what to say. She wouldn't want to hear that she sounded scared. "You poor dear, you sound terrible, tell me about it" would get his head snapped off. What would she find cheering? She used to hate to feel helpless, he thought. It always made her feel better when she was doing something to solve a problem. Perhaps he should ask what she was doing about this one.

"What's the treatment?" She really was worried, he thought. She had always been quick to follow a change of subject.

"That's the worst part", she said. "The treatment is bed rest. With nothing to do but worry. I can't DO anything. I can get up to visit the bathroom, get something to eat, or change videos. So long as I don't do it too often. And I’m going to run out of videos soon. The paramedics will find me trapped behind a mound of pizza boxes, watching The Opposite of Sex for the forty-seventh time, stark raving mad."

At least she could laugh at her situation, Nick thought. "I liked the Opposite of Sex," he said, "but is it a film for a pregnant lady to watch?"

"Casablanca , Groundhog Day, and the Shawshank Redemption. They were all gifts. Tells you nothing about my tastes." He could hear a smile in her voice.

"Maybe they were wrong. Maybe they're ex-friends." Now she was teasing him. A good sign.

"But they're all good films," he protested. "At least, the ones I know. I haven't seen Groundhog Day."

"You haven't?" Nat said incredulously. "Oh, you must. Rent it sometime." No invitation to see her copy, he noted. But it was too soon to expect that.

"I will," he promised. "But as for you — does Blockbuster have a courier service?" He was only half-joking.

"I don't think so. I'll have to rely on the Friends of Natalie Videos'n'Meals On Wheels. A few friends are taking it in rotation to come by every day with food and film," she explained. "If this lasts more than a week or so I'll have to come up with something else, but it will do for now."

Nat was sounding nearly cheerful now, her old energetic self returning as she was reminded that she was dealing with things the best way she could. Privately Nick congratulated himself. Perhaps it was time to come to the point of his call.

"Thank God." There was silence as she absorbed this, then "How do they know?" and "Where is he then?" followed on top of each other.

"Anywhere. It sounds as if he may have been kidnapped by the R.U.F., but there have been no ransom demands, so no one knows for sure. He's not out of the woods yet, Nat," Nick added gently. "He could be dead somewhere else. He could be a prisoner. He's still in danger."

He could hear the brush of her warm chestnut hair against the receiver as she nodded. "I know. I understand. It's just such a relief to know that wasn't him at the clinic. " She paused. "So what's happening? Is anyone looking for him?"

"MSF is doing its best. I'm not sure whether they're liaising with the local police, or keeping their search quiet. Marcus' life might be endangered if it became known that a search was underway." He hesitated. He wanted, very strongly, to go to Sierra Leone without letting her know. He didn't want her to feel beholden to him. He didn't want her to hope for too much. And his habitual concealment of his thoughts and actions, the product of centuries of life as a covert serial killer, was a powerful barrier to openness. But their old friendship had foundered partly, largely, on the rock of his secrecy on matters of importance. They would never have come to the disaster of their last night together in Toronto if he had spoken more freely to her in the years before. He had promised himself that he would not make that mistake with her again. He took a breath.

Nick considered and discarded several answers. "I have contacts in Sierra Leone", he said, hoping it was true. Aristotle had better come through. "I may have the entrée to areas where M.S.F. would be suspect."

"And a strange blonde European who only comes out at night won't stand out at all? Nick - "

Nick cut in hastily. "I also have the advantage of police training. And I'm an excellent tracker, Nat. I think I could speed the search considerably, and I have a feeling that any delay is dangerous."

"But — " Nat stopped, absorbing his words. "You're probably right, but — " she began again, and again fell silent. "I don't understand why you're doing this," she said at last.

Nick could think of no answer she would accept except the truth. "Because he sounds like a good man, and because he matters to you," he said. "And because you can't, in your condition. At least I'll feel as if I'm doing something to help."

There was a long silence. "You don't owe me anything, you know, Nick," Natalie said at last. "You don't have to do anything for me."

"I know." Nick hesitated again, and said diffidently, "Look, Nat, if you really don't want me to go, I won't. But I do want to help if I can. And it's less risk to me than it would be to almost anyone else."

After a moment he heard her say, "then all I can do is say 'thank you'. Thank you, Nick. This is more than kind. Way more."

He relaxed, realising for the first time that he had been anxious about her response. He felt inexplicably pleased that she was willing to accept his help. "I'll do everything I can, Nat. But it may not be good news, you know," he added seriously.

"I know. But I'll know that everything that could be done was done, too. That will help a lot. It helps already."

"I'll do my best." Nick looked at his watch. "I have some details to tie up here, so I'll let you get back to your video. I'll try to call in a few days and let you know what's happening."

"Wow. Well, uh — " Natalie sounded unsure what to say. "Thanks again, Nick. This really means a lot to me. More than I can say."

"Don't think about it. It's my pleasure. It will be an adventure," said Nick. And maybe Lagos airport won't be too bad, he thought philosophically.

"Okay. Take care of yourself. Bring lots of sunscreen," said Nat. It was a feeble joke, but it lightened the mood.

He should do some shopping for the trip, he thought. Without the guarantee of a community to turn to in Sierra Leone, there were supplies he should bring with him for emergencies. The web had made this so much easier than it used to be. He logged on to his shopping agent and made his orders, paying the bonus for 24-hour delivery. When he was done he looked out the window. It was still several hours until dawn. He had time to finish doing the paperwork for the deBrabant Foundation Vancouver subsidiary, he thought. Or rather, he could finish leaving instructions for André to do it. He had already arranged to buy an old East Van apartment building on Hastings to use for offices and the outreach and rehab programs. André could write the provincial grant application. Nick had always hated grant applications anyway. But the money had to be transferred, the bank accounts set up, the paperwork for the real estate purchase needed to be faxed to André, and a myriad other details dealt with. He made a task list and settled in at the computer. At least the trip to Sierra Leone was forcing him to finish the work quickly; under normal circumstances he would have dragged his feet and taken another week.

He finished off the essentials just before dawn, and emailed André instructions for the rest of the transactions. As an afterthought, he also faxed André the documents Dr. Guérin had given him, with a scribbled note approving funding for all three proposals. Even if he didn't make it back from Sierra Leone, he'd have done some good there, he thought. He stood up and stretched, cracking the joints in his back. Odd that Aristotle hadn't gotten in touch. Perhaps this evening.

He went into the kitchen and drank the rest of the bottle without bothering to pour it into a glass. It wasn't as if the taste of bovine was worth lingering over. He pushed the thought aside. He had no other options. Well, other animals, perhaps. Perhaps he could go big game hunting in Sierra Leone, he thought idly. Did zebra taste different from horse? Did Australian vampires drink kangaroo blood? Did koala blood taste cute and fluffy? He dropped the bottle into the glass recycling bin and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Hours of sitting at the computer screen always made him a bit light-headed.

His eye fell on the phone as he crossed the living room, and he had an impulse to call Natalie again, just to make sure she was all right. But twice in one evening would be too much. And she was probably asleep by now. He drew the drapes and turned in for the day.

The phone was ringing. His eyes snapped open and he looked at the clock. Just after sunset. Aristotle, at last. He rolled off the bed and picked up before the machine cut in. "Knight here."

"Aristotle." Nick rubbed the bridge of his nose and carried the handset to the other side of the room where he opened the blackout drapes. It had rained during the day. The air smelled sweet and fresh. Streetlights flicked on as he watched, reflecting dimly on the wet pavement below.

"You won't hear from him," said LaCroix. " Surely you know that Aristotle takes a month's holiday with Vassilios on the island each spring?"

LaCroix sighed. "Really, Nicholas. You must learn to pay attention. Vassilios, Aristotle's beloved for the last, well, as long as I've known him and longer. A beautiful young man. Brought across in his prime, though not, I believe, by Aristotle. He lives on Aristotle's island near Skiros. He prefers to stay there year-round. Aristotle visits for a month each spring. No email, phone, or any other contact while he's there. Best not to ask what they're doing." Nick could imagine his sensual smile. "One wonders what Aristotle does to ensure such a beauty's loyalty."

"How do you know — " Nick paused, caught by an odd thought, and altered his question. "Why is it I don't know these things?"

"Because they don't interest you, Nicholas. You don't care for the community unless you want something." LaCroix' tone was matter-of-fact.

"That's not true," Nick protested. "I'm very fond of Janette. And even on occasion of you."

"For such crumbs do I daily give thanks," LaCroix said drily. "But we are family, Nicholas. The rest of the community has never held your attention. You have always been captivated by mortals, even when you accepted their natural role, as your prey."

"Feel free." Nick walked over to the door as he spoke and looked into the hallway. A box had arrived from his shopping agent, and the concierge had left it outside for him. He lifted it with one hand and deposited it inside the vestibule, phone cradled between his shoulder and ear. One day he would get himself a headset.

"So what precisely do you wish Aristotle to tell you?" LaCroix asked. "Perhaps I may be of assistance in his stead."

Nick had been uneasy about asking him. LaCroix never forgot a favour done or debt owed. But without Aristotle, it was unavoidable. "I was hoping he could give me some information on the community in Sierra Leone," he answered. "Introductions, the name of a gathering place perhaps."

"Even you should know, Nicholas, that for introductions you should come to me," reproved LaCroix. "Not that I can help you this time. There is so far as I know no community in Sierra Leone."

"Nothing is certain. I can think of no one who has spent enough time there to need a forwarding address. But perhaps I travel in the wrong circles." In better circles, he meant. LaCroix was nothing if not a snob, a characteristic two thousand years as a vampire had only reinforced. There might be any number of lower-class vampires in Sierra Leone, Nick thought, whom LaCroix felt no need to mention.

"I've heard of no one," said LaCroix. "Not just my own acquaintance and their families. We seem to have avoided the country more or less entirely. As we have most of central Africa. But surely you knew that."

Nick hadn't. He had never thought about it. "But why?" He felt increasingly frustrated. "I thought we liked war zones," he said again.

LaCroix sighed. "Nicholas, do you ever read the papers? Sierra Leone is not just a war zone. It's one of the most truly unpleasant hell-holes man has ever created. Who in their right mind would want to visit? Feeding is no longer a real problem for us. We no longer need wars to supply discreet nourishment, when blood banks throw out expired units every day. And like anyone else, we prefer pleasant surroundings."

Nick moved into the living room, pushing the box ahead of him with one foot. He felt at a loss. Vampires rarely strayed in their associations outside their family groups of "blood" relatives and their acquaintances, on whom they depended for introduction to other families. Thus a loose global network formed, of friends of friends and relatives, so that a vampire going to a strange city was not thrown entirely on his own resources. Aristotle, without ever suggesting a preference, would have steered him towards the relatively trustworthy members of the community. So would LaCroix, he had to admit. Without introductions, or at least leads, to the community in Sierra Leone, it would be hard to proceed.

And he had been counting on the community there to speed his investigation. Most vampires had little interest in human affairs that did not directly affect them, but they still heard and saw, in their nocturnal travels, much that humans missed. With vampire assistance, he had thought he could locate Dr. Mackenzie in no more than a day or two. Now it seemed he would have to rely entirely on himself. Preoccupied with his thoughts, it took him a moment to realise that LaCroix was speaking again.

"I take it then that rumour does not lie, and you intend a rescue mission," LaCroix was saying. "Ever the Don Quixote, Nicholas?"

Of course Janette would have told him. "I'll give the searchers what help I can," said Nick. "But I'm not optimistic. There's no real reason to think the man is still alive."

"No, Nicholas. I meant in the general sense." LaCroix's weary tone reduced Nick to the role of an unsatisfactory schoolboy who had once again failed to meet even the most modest expectations of his intelligence. "Why go at all? Why not accept the general judgment of our kind, that Sierra Leone is to be avoided? Just out of curiosity, have you ever asked yourself why we tend to avoid the tropics?"

"Yes, in fact," Nick answered. "They're no worse than Copenhagen in June. Better, in fact; the night is longer."

There was a momentary silence. "But the day, Nicholas," LaCroix said. "The sun is more direct. Death comes more quickly for those of our kind trapped outdoors."

"It's not as if it's slow anywhere else," said Nick. "And I'm not in the habit of going out in the noonday sun." He was almost certain LaCroix had been about to say something else. "Are there any other dangers I should know about?" he prodded.

As he spoke, Nick opened the box and checked off the contents. Banana Boat Baby Sunblock Lotion, SPF 50, with titanium dioxide. And Nat thought the sunscreen was a joke. Sharksuit SPF 100 long-sleeved t-shirt and bike shorts. To wear under his clothes, naturally. Tilly hat, foldable, to keep tucked in his pocket against a crisis. SPF-60 sunglasses. Nick didn't intend to be caught out in the tropical sun, but if it were unavoidable he planned to be able to survive for the two minutes or so it might take him to find shelter. In a long life it had never taken him longer than 20 seconds, but he was planning for emergencies.

There was another pause. "I don't know the area," LaCroix said at last. "From time to time one hears — disturbing stories. But we travel there so little that even I have not heard much."

LaCroix sighed. "Does it matter? You can hardly expect to enjoy the visit in any case. Is the good doctor still so important to you?"

Nick straightened up. He set the sunglasses down on the side table. "I might ask you the same question," he said. "I understand you visited her. Why?"

"Curiosity, Nicholas. I wished to see what the years had made of her. I hoped to understand your continuing attraction. Which I do, incidentally. She is an admirable woman. But let us be reasonable. What point is there in your pursuit?"

"Why torment yourself with love, or even friendship, for someone whose loss will inevitably haunt you? At least I would have given your sister immortality. Without it, our love can only bring pain. To them, and to us also. Blink, and they'll all be ghosts, Nicholas."

"Blink, and they'll all be gone," Nick agreed. "I know." He settled back onto his heels on the floor beside the box. His eyes fell upon a seventeenth-century miniature hanging over his bookcase, showing a pensive young noblewoman, painted just before her wedding. He remembered the artist. Poor Gustav, he thought idly. Tuberculosis had taken him when he had scarcely begun fulfil his early promise. The woman in the painting had herself died of a fever scarcely a year after the wedding. "But that is the point, LaCroix," he said at last. "Their lives are so short. They have so little time for happiness."

"No, " said Nick. "I just want to give those I can more of a chance to find it for themselves."

"Very noble, Nicholas. I'm aware of your recent philanthropic quests, but they are hardly to the point. Vaccinating children in India, an exercise in futility though it may be, is hardly the same as risking life and limb to save a man whose only claim on your attention is that your surgeon friend is fond of him. So I ask again. What do you hope to gain from this, Nicholas? Or are you setting one foot blindly in front of the other in your usual wilful ignorance?"

"It's no concern of yours, LaCroix," Nick said. "You gave me my freedom, or had you forgotten?"

"Really? I thought you expected me to realise that I couldn't live without you, and beg you to take me back."

"It would do you no good if you did," said LaCroix shortly. "Your perennial lack of judgment may well lead you into yet another situation from which you can only escape with my assistance. But I will not rescue you again from the consequences of your own folly, Nicholas."

"If that's the price of freedom, I'll take it," Nick said. "Is that what you called to say?"

There was a brief silence. "No," LaCroix replied. "I called because I'm concerned. I haven't seen you so energetic since we left Toronto. You've been displaying admirable forethought and restraint in the last few years. You spend months planning each new venture. I've applauded your new caution. And when we spoke in Vancouver you did not seem about to do anything rash. But now, at the merest hint that Dr. Lambert needs help, you're barely in Paris before you go off again, half-packed and, dare I say, half-cocked. And I find myself wondering, as I did five years ago, if you have really thought this through."

Nick sat down on the couch behind him, holding the phone. "Think about it now, I beg you, Nicholas," LaCroix prodded gently. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because —" Nick began, and finished slowly. "It just seems to be the thing to do."

A vivid image rose in Nick's mind, of Natalie sitting at her kitchen table weeping three mornings before. "Yes, I suppose," he said. "It's something I can do for her. She did her best to be a good friend to me."

"And if you find and rescue her lover, you'll be quits? All debts paid, no further accounts owing?"

"It's not like that," Nick said. As so often in conversation with LaCroix, he began to feel boxed in, subtly nudged away from his original position into another he never meant to take. But he was finding it hard to put his reasons into words.

"Are you sure? Is this mission not simply an attempt to relinquish the load of guilt you still feel over her?"

Nick shook his head. "I don't think so, no. Whatever wrong I did her in the past, it's done. I can't erase it by balancing it with good deeds now. All I can do is go on and not repeat my mistakes."

'Nicholas, you astonish me. I never thought to hear such good sense from your lips." LaCroix added before Nick could respond, "though I am at a loss, then, to understand what you hope to gain from this expedition."

Nick exhaled slowly. "I'm going because not going doesn't seem like an option, LaCroix. That's all."

"You must know by now that I don't think that way." Nick was beginning to feel exasperated. "I don't plan every move and calculate advantages twenty years from now. I'm not like you."

"I could hardly fail to be aware of that. I gave the best part of eight centuries to your training, Nicholas, apparently entirely in vain. Had I not washed my hands of you the temptation to kill you might at last have overwhelmed me."

"Hardly." This was old territory, and Nick rose and moved back to the box of supplies. "If you'd succeeded in making me like you I would have bored you. You would have killed me long ago." He continued to unpack as he spoke. "In any case, you had your chance."

LaCroix was silent for so long Nick wondered if he had lost the connection. When he spoke at last his voice was uncharacteristically quiet. "Why do you keep it?"

Nick looked up at the mantlepiece and the carved wooden staff that stood beside it, one of the few items he had brought with him from Toronto. Janette had handled it the night before. The light dawned. So that was why LaCroix had called.

"Seeing Natalie again won't make me suicidal, LaCroix," he said gently. "I keep the stake only as a reminder."

"A reminder that I shouldn't succumb to despair," Nick continued. "You and she agree, you know. Life is a gift. It should never be thrown away."

"She drove you to it once before, Nicholas. Naturally I wondered." LaCroix sounded somewhat reassured, despite his words.

"You needn't, LaCroix. I won't attempt suicide again, by my own hand or another's."

"Which is why you're flying into a tropical war zone, of course." The older vampire had recovered his sardonic tone. "One more question, Nicholas, if you will humour me so far. Have you thought what you will do after the trip?"

"What's your plan? To deliver the man to the good doctor's door with a bow around his neck? Or had you not thought even that far ahead?"

Nick shrugged. "I don't have any elaborate plans, no. I intend to find out what I can, rescue him if he's alive to be rescued, and then — " he paused.

"Deliver him with a bow around his neck, I suppose, as you say," said Nick, feeling obscurely uncomfortable. "Leave them to work out their relationship, and get out of the way."

"As always, your altruism leaves me at a loss for words. "LaCroix' even tone gave nothing away. "Enjoy your trip, then. And do give me a call when you're next in Paris."

"I will. One thing, Lacroix — " he added as the other prepared to hang up. "About your visit to Nat. I trust you won't be repeating it."

"I see no need," LaCroix assured him. "My curiosity is satisfied. As long as your friend does not resume her research for a cure, she need not fear a second appointment."

"What do you care if she does look for a cure?" asked Nick. "You don't believe there is one."

"True. But such work would inevitably attract the interest of Enforcers, who would not confine their attentions only to her. And as I said before, Nicholas, I cannot act as your guardian angel forever. Nor am I willing to be dragged down in your private catastrophe." He rang off, leaving Nick feeling unsettled. How like LaCroix to end a conversation on a veiled threat. And he hadn't elaborated on the "disturbing stories", either. Was it worth calling him back? No, Nick thought. LaCroix had told him as much as he wanted him to know. Nick dismissed the question from his mind and turned back to unpacking his purchases.

A dozen foil packages lay at the bottom of the box. Nick lifted one out to examine it. Vacuum-packed freeze-dried cows' blood, just add water. He had got the idea from a truly awful film he'd watched with Nat one evening in Toronto, "Taste the Blood of Dracula". The plot had pivoted on the existence of the freeze-dried blood of Dracula, which, when mixed with water, turned the hapless idiot who drank it into Christopher Lee. The story had gone downhill from there, but idea had stayed in Nick's mind, and he'd found a plant in Marseilles a couple of years ago which was willing to try freeze-drying bull's blood from the local abattoir. He'd claimed he was experimenting with its role in boosting the immune system; in the last decade or so that magic phrase would explain almost any dietary eccentricity. A package, mixed with a litre of water and shaken vigorously, produced a rust-brown liquid that was almost as undrinkable as one of Nat's protein shakes. But it did satisfy hunger in an emergency, and it was easier to carry than a case of bottles.

In another package he found the plane tickets, open return, couriered over by his travel agent, along with the other items he'd requested. A guidebook to Sierra Leone, distressingly slim. He had the impression no one had wanted to stay in Sierra Leone long enough to do any detailed research. The best road map of Sierra Leone his agent could find; ten years old, but perhaps not many new roads had been built in the last decade. A pocket phrasebook, English-Krio. Nick leafed through it and sighed. It used to be so easy to pick up another language; the knowledge could be found in the blood of his victims, and practice would make it his own in a few hours or days. Now that he no longer drank human blood, although his perfect memory made him a quick study, it still took him at least a month to be able to converse easily in a new language; three months or more before he sounded like a native. He had no time to learn more than the basic phrases of Krio before this trip, and hoped fervently that it was true that most of the population spoke some English. A typed note informed him that a jeep would be waiting for him for pickup at Lunghi Airport. Closed-roof, as specified.

Finally, in a separate box, an item he had hesitated before ordering, and finally decided was a justifiable expense - an Ericsson satellite cell phone. He unwrapped and examined it. At only twelve ounces, it was a marvel of compact technology. It was smaller than the cell phone he had used as a homicide detective in Toronto, only ten years before, but it would give him a satellite uplink anywhere in the world. He'd decided on it once he discovered that not only were ground lines in Sierra Leone unreliable, but there was no cell phone coverage outside the Freetown area. While the phone charged he called the 24-hour service to activate his account and global number.

Nick pulled out a soft-sided carry-on bag and stowed his purchases, along with a couple of changes of clothes, toiletries, and a murder mystery for the airport. Three extra bottles of liquid cow's blood went into the bag for the trip; an insulated hip flask into one pocket of the tropical-weight grey duster he planned to wear on the plane. The phone and plane tickets went into the inside pocket of the coat, along with the instructions for meeting the MSF plane in Lagos.

All set. He zipped up the bag and poured himself a glass of cow's blood from a fresh bottle while he walked into his office. Another scan of the web and his email brought him nothing new from what sources he had on Sierra Leone. If the doctor had been found, alive or dead, no one knew about it yet. He sighed. Although he had kept it from LaCroix, he had been hoping that his presence in Sierra Leone would be unnecessary. Nothing he'd heard so far made it sound like a desirable vacation spot. But duty called. He would just have to hope that there were community members there whom he could hook up with somehow. Otherwise the search could drag on for weeks, and he had a strong intuition that speed was essential.

He checked his watch. A couple of hours yet before he needed to leave for the airport. Nat would be awake now; he should give her the satellite phone number while he thought of it. He was conscious of a certain eagerness as he dialled, and was unreasonably disappointed when she didn't answer. Where was she? Wasn't she supposed to be at home on complete bed rest? A small internal voice said irritably that when he was going to all this trouble for her, the least she could do was pick up the phone. He suppressed the thought and left a message giving her the number, in case she needed it. According to the makers, she should be able to just dial it plus the country and local area codes; he gave her those for Sierra Leone as an afterthought. "I hope you're doing okay, Nat," he ended. "I'm sure everything will be fine. I'll call you when I have news, or in a few days in any case, just to check in."

Which is more than St. Marcus the Wonder Doctor did for you, my lady, he thought uncharitably as he hung up. I hope he's worth all this. He poured himself another glass of blood and took it to the small cast-iron balcony off the living room, where he leaned against the railing, drinking with no pleasure as he gazed without seeing at the lights of the suburb below. He felt surly and out of sorts. Why was he going to Sierra Leone, anyway? Why should he care if Nat's ex-boyfriend was basted over a slow fire? He'd never met the man, it was nothing to him. If he wanted to repay Nat for all she'd tried to do for him, surely there were easier ways. He could just underwrite a new obstetrics wing for Vancouver hospital. Call it after her brother. She'd like that. But no, he had to volunteer to go to Sierra Leone.

But he had to admit that it still felt like the right thing to do. Or, at least, that the alternative of not going felt worse. He just had a hunch that he needed to be there. His lips twitched in a smile as he remembered Schanke's reaction to his hunches. "Oh God, Nick, not another 'feeeling'. Give me a break, partner, I was hoping to make it home for dinner one night this week!" Well, Schanke, this one's for you, he thought, and raised his glass in a silent toast to his absent friend.

As he drained the glass when he heard a buzz from his coat, draped over the back of the couch in the living room. He was puzzled for an instant, then remembered the cell phone. He found himself moving with vampire speed to answer it. "Nat?"

"Oh good, it worked!" said a pleased feminine voice. "Sorry I missed your call, I was in the Jacuzzi forgetting my sorrows. I heard the ring but I knew I'd never get there in time."

She sounded faintly embarrassed. "I had it put in when I bought the condo. I always wanted one. It does seem a bit decadent, I admit. But I love it."

"Nah. As long as I don't let it get too hot. Though there's not much point in a lukewarm hot tub. So when did you get the phone?"

"Just today," Nick said. "Glad you gave it a test run. I have nothing to report, I'm sorry to say. I'm off to Lagos in a few hours. I just wanted to make sure you knew how to get in touch with me while I was gone."

"I don't know how to thank you, again," said Natalie. "This is so far beyond …" She broke off uncertainly.

"Don't even think about it," Nick assured her. "I don't expect any trouble. I'll be there and back before you know it. And I've always been curious about Africa."

"North Africa, South Africa, yes. Nothing in between. This will give me a chance to fill in the gap."

"I think so," said Nat. In fact he could tell from her voice that she was feeling better; she sounded relaxed, not as anxious as she had even the day before. "No more bleeding, at least. I have another ultrasound in a couple of days. I think everything's fine though."

"Yes. Well, I'm pretty much done, but I do have a few things to tie up." Nick hesitated. "I'll call you in a few days then, just to fill you in."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. If I didn't hear from you I'd start to worry," said Nat.

"Okay. Take care." Nick rang off, feeling unaccountably awkward. At least Nat was okay, he thought; he didn't need to be anxious about her while he was gone. He crossed the room to his land line and called to arrange for an airport limo to pick him up an hour before sunrise. Then he rummaged through his bag for the Krio phrasebook and settled into his reading chair. After all, he thought, I may turn out to be the world's only Krio-speaking vampire.