FORTY-EIGHT

WASHINGTON, DC

STEPHANIE FROZE. HEATHER DIXON WAS ARMED AND ON guard. Cassiopeia's eyes raked the bedroom, and she knew that her cohort was looking for anything that could be used as a weapon.

What is it? she heard Daley ask Dixon.

Your alarm is off. That means somebody's here.

Big leap in logic, wouldn't you say?

Did you arm the panel before you left?

A moment of silence passed. Stephanie knew they were trapped.

I don't know, Daley said. I may have forgotten. Wouldn't be the first time.

Why don't I take a look just to be sure?

Because I don't have time for you to play soldier, and that gun in your hand is getting me hot.

You're some kind of sexy.

A flatterer today. That'll get you everything.

More silence, then a protest with a half-smothered moan.

Easy on my head. That knot hurts.

You okay? Daley asked.

A zipper released.

Toss that gun down, Daley said.

Footsteps thumped up the stairway.

She stared at Cassiopeia and whispered, I don't believe this.

At least we know where both of them are.

Good point, but little comfort. I've got to check this out.

Cassiopeia clamped a hand onto her arm. Leave them be.

Contrary to the past twelve hours where she'd made, at best, questionable decisions, she was thinking clearly now. She knew what needed to be done.

She crept from the bedroom and entered the den. A stairway just beyond led up, the front door to her right. She heard murmured voices, laughter, and the sound of the floorboards being challenged.

What the hell's going on? Stephanie wondered out loud.

Didn't your investigation find this?

She shook her head. Not a word. Must be recent.

Cassiopeia disappeared back down the hall. She lingered a moment and spotted the same revolver Heather Dixon had drawn on her yesterday, lying in one of the chairs.

She grabbed the gun and left the den.

MALONE STARED AT THE ROSE WINDOW AND CHECKED HIS watch: 4:40 PM. This late in the year, the sun would start to set sometime in the next ninety minutes.

This building is oriented on an eastuwest axis, he said to Pam. That window is there to catch the evening sun. We need to go up there.

He spotted a doorway where an arrow indicated the upper choir. He walked over and found, nestled against the church's north wall, a wide stone stairway with a barrel-vaulted ceiling that made it look more like a tunnel.

He followed a crowd up.

At the top they entered the choir.

Two rows of high-backed wooden benches faced each other, ornamented with festoons and arabesques. Above them hung baroque paintings of various apostles. The aisle between the benches led to the church's west wall and the rose window thirty feet above.

He stared up.

Dust motes floated in the sheets of bright sunlight. He turned and studied the cross rising at the far end of the upper choir. He and Pam approached the balustrade and he admired the dramatic realism of the carved image of Christ. A placard at its base informed in two languages CRISTO NA CRUZ