Collateral Damage by Corbeau -------- Back to Part 1 SVS-18: Collateral Damage by Corbeau, Part 2 -------- "You shit!" Blair hissed as he and Jim left the dining room. "You knew all the time!" "Not right away," Jim demurred. "Not until I realized they smelled as much like each other as themselves." "Are you telling me you didn't recognize their voices last night?" "They weren't exactly having a conversation then, Sandburg. Do you think any of your former students would recognize their articulate lecturer from the noises you make when --" "All right, you've made your point. Boy, I didn't see this coming." "I figured that when you almost choked on your coffee. There's Ted, let's ask him about the Sheriff. I wanted to get on the road earlier than this... it's halfway to lunch time already." Ted Morris gave them a desultory wave. Most of his attention was on his phone conversation. He kept nodding but said little; obviously the other party was doing most of the talking. Extending his hearing -- unlike Blair, he still didn't trust their host completely -- Jim listened in. Ted's end was mostly monosyllables of agreement or commiseration; the other party spent a lot of time swearing and complaining. "Understaffed" and "underfunded" came up frequently. The tirade reminded Jim of Simon after one of his budget meetings. Clearly extricating himself with difficulty, Ted hung up and turned toward Jim and Blair. "That was the Sheriff. A lot of trees are coming down in this rain, and it's going to get worse. Seems like the jet stream has shifted north and we're going to get the brunt of the storm after all. He and his people are up to their ears, what with accidents and power outages and God knows what all. He says you're welcome to bring the trap in and make a statement, but it might be a while before anybody can do anything about it." "At least he knows about it now," Jim sighed. "I don't really hold out a lot of hope about fingerprints or any trace evidence, but I'll feel better when the thing's in official hands. Besides, maybe we can help out the Sheriff." "Hell of a way to spend your vacation," Ted remarked as he led them to a locked storage closet near the office. He retrieved the trap, now wrapped in kraft paper, and handed it to Jim. "Want some plastic to put over that? I don't know why you wouldn't let me wrap it in plastic in the first place." "Some kinds of plastic can react and contaminate evidence," Blair explained. Jim frowned. "It'll be all right to put a big plastic bag over it to take it out to the truck. It's raining more heavily now, and the wind's a lot stronger than when we came over here." The other men paused to listen. Even through the thick walls of the Lodge, the constant sound of wind could be heard, as it flung torrents of rain against the windows and whipped tree branches into constant collision. Blair seemed particularly morose. "You don't exactly look like a happy camper, Chief," Jim commented as they left Ted. He'd showed them a route to the parking lot used by the staff, one that saved them from trooping past the other guests with their odd-looking and bulky package. "Ted was right, this is a hell of a way to spend what's supposed to be your vacation. I agree we should help out the Sheriff under the circumstances, but it sucks that you can't catch a break and really relax. Wish I could've taken you to Maui. There are plenty of places to commune with nature on the eastern side. As long as we don't go in hurricane season..." "Sounds great. We should do it." "Jim, I can't afford to go to Maui. I can't even afford this, really. If Ted weren't giving us a good deal, and you weren't paying for most of it..." "Blair, we are not having this conversation again. We can afford it. And it's not really a vacation, it's Sentinel maintenance. Too bad that isn't tax-deductible; it oughtta be. Now cut it out, and save your energy for getting to the truck without melting." "Who am I, the Wicked Witch of the West?" "More like a flying monkey." When they opened the door, the full force of the wind and rain hit them. It surprised even Jim, who'd been able to hear its ferocity from inside the Lodge. They sprinted for the truck, heads down against the rain. Blair jumped into the passenger side; Jim handed him the trap and sprinted for the opposite side. He was about to yank open the door that his partner had unlocked for him when belated realization hit him. He stopped, staring downward, then flung himself into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and began to swear fluently, utilizing the rich vocabulary with which years in the Army and police force had provided him. Blair stared at him, clearly startled at first, then looking impressed as Jim segued into words and phrases even the fascinated anthropologist hadn't heard before. Finally the former Captain Ellison ran out of invective and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. "I'm almost afraid to ask," Blair admitted, "what brought that on." "The damn tires are flat," Jim growled. "Every one of them." "What? You mean somebody let the air out?" Jim leaned back against the seat and rubbed a hand over his face. "I wish. They've been slashed. At least the left front is, I could see the cut. I presume it's the same with the other three." "Is it just us? Can you tell if any other cars were affected?" "Good question." Blair sat quietly as his Sentinel scanned the parking lot. It wasn't easy to focus, even for Jim. The heavy rain was blown around by the wind, now obscuring, now revealing the other vehicles, showing a constantly changing reflection of what light there was. "I can't see them all from here, but the ones around us look intact." "It sure looks like we were targeted because we're planning to go to the Sheriff. Maybe there's something on the trap after all. Maybe you should check it again." Jim shook his head. "I gave that thing a good once-over before we handed it to Ted. I'm sure I didn't miss anything that I possibly could have sensed." "You're not telling me this is a coincidence? Random vandalism that just happened to hit our truck?" "No, but it could well be meant as a warning. An attempt to keep us from getting involved, scare us off." "Don't know us very well, do they?" Blair gave a resigned sigh and reached over, attempting to smooth out the deep fissure that had grown between his partner's eyebrows. After a moment, Jim took the hand in his own, kissing the palm. "Sorry, babe." "For what? It's not your fault we landed in the middle of somebody else's problem again." "Yeah. Sure." Afraid he'd revealed too much, Jim gave the hand a final squeeze and released it reluctantly. "Come on, let's see if we can find some alternate transportation. Ted must have something we can borrow." Once more they braved the weather, getting thoroughly drenched before they made it back to the Lodge. They roamed the corridors as unobtrusively as two dripping men carrying a large plastic bag possibly could, looking for Ted. Unable to find him, they were forced into the public rooms, hoping to get to the lobby without attracting too much attention. Most people had gone to back to their rooms, or the TV lounge, or the library. The only other guests still at large managed to emerge from the dining room just as Jim and Blair passed by the door. "This is not a good day for the hiking, Jim." Katrina Vaslova's face was as impassive as ever, but the crinkling around her eyes betrayed her amusement. Micki, with her greater knowledge of the two men, didn't look amused at all. "Something is wrong." "Come on, Jim," Blair encouraged. "Katrina's a police officer too. We should let them know what's going on." After a long look at the Russian detective, Jim nodded. Stashing the package behind a large sofa in the lobby, Jim quickly and quietly related the events of the previoous day and that morning, including their talk with Ted Morris. "We borrowed a van for our trip," Katrina said. "Very sturdy." "With four-wheel drive?" The Russian woman nodded. "If no one has cut our tires, it would be very good to use in such weather. Also, I too am trained to help in emergency. Helping American Sheriff would be excellent for international relations. My superiors will continue to be happy." "OK," Jim agreed. "Sounds like a plan, if you're willing." He turned to Blair. "There's no need for you to come along, Chief. You're drenched, and you must be cold." "You could stay with Micki," Katrina agreed. "You have much to catch up to, I think." "Catch up on," Blair corrected automatically. "But I have no intention of sitting around by the fire while you two play cop all by yourselves. I've been wetter and colder than this before and will be again." He looked his Sentinel right in the eye. "You may need my help." "Mine too," added Micki. "We are partners, yes? Russian women are strong." Katrina pointed at Micki. "This Russian woman is very stubborn. All right, we waste time -- all of us will go." She led them to a tough but ancient van that looked like it could easily have taken on an expedition to Siberia. There was plenty of room for the four of them plus the trap, and no sign of vandalism on its well-cared-for exterior. Jim was clearly uncomfortable riding in the back seat, but Katrina pointed out they had promised the owner -- Katria Kamerev's new boyfriend -- that only she or Micki would drive it. Jim doubted he'd have won that particular argument in any case, since he was in the position of the beggar without choices. He tried not to squirm too much as they made their careful way down the rutted gravel road that led back to the highway. Katrina was a confident and competent driver, but she needed every bit of her skill to keep them out of trouble. The winds had to be close to gale force by now. Strong gusts slammed against the side of the big van at regular intervals, moving them sideways briefly until she wrestled with the steering wheel, getting them back on track. The cacophony of wind, rain, and flying debris was a continuous assault on Jim's hearing, almost as bad as a noisy day in Cascade. Sight didn't fare much better, with the ever-changing direction of the windswept rain alternately hiding and revealing the landscape in an unpredictable pattern. The inside of the van became concentrated fog of aftershave, perfume, wet clothes, wet humans, and wet plastic. A sharp metallic note cut through the softer scents. Part of it was the steel of the trap, still obvious to Jim despite its double wrapping. Another source was the gun that now felt like a boulder at his back. A similar odor wafted back from the front seats, and Jim concluded that Katrina was as reluctant as he to abandon her weapon, even on a presumed vacation. To distract himself from the almost uncontrollable urge to commit back seat driving, he concentrated on teasing out the similar but not quite identical scents of his own gun oil and whatever brand -- presumably a Russian one -- the Moscow Metro Militia used. If he hadn't been so focused on smell, he might not have noticed for some time that another scent was much stronger than it should be. It was part of the collection that Jim thought of as "car smell," such a familiar medley of scents that he usually paid it no more attention than the average non-Sentinel paid to the ubiquitous "elevator music" (which was unfortunately not confined to elevators). It took a few seconds for him to identify the exact substance, and when he did he must have given some sign of his fear, because he felt the touch of Blair's hand on his arm. Touching his partner's hand in reassurance, he spoke calmly, no sign of tension in his voice. "Katrina -- try putting on the brakes." Surprised, Katrina met his eyes in the rear-view mirror. Whatever she saw in them caused her do as he asked without question. Her own eyes widened in alarm. "They are not working." Everyone tensed as she kept her foot off the accelerator, slowing them down as much as possible without losing traction completely, preparing to downshift. It would have succeeded, given more time. Time ran out as they rounded the next curve, where a wall of green and brown blocked their path. "Govno!" Reflexively pumping non-existent brakes, Katrina swung the wheel, putting them into a skid. The rain had turned the road into a thick soup. Jim threw his arm across Blair as the van swung around, heading straight for the edge of the road and the ditch beyond. Katrina played the steering wheel like a virtuoso, and just before they reached the drop-off, the back of the vehicle came to a crashing halt against the fallen tree, stopping them dead, facing back they way they'd just come. The echoes of the crash still reverberated, and the sound of four hearts beating like a percussion ensemble on fast forward made Jim long to clap his hands over his ears. Those hands, however, were too busy reassuring him that his Guide was still in one piece. "Everyone OK in front?" Katrina and Micki were staring at each other, hands clasped, breathing hard. "OK." Katrina turned around to survey the crumpled rear end of the van, watching the rain pour in through gaps between the frame and the back door. "This will not be easy to explain to Pyotr and Katria." "That was great piece of driving, Katrina," Blair said when he got back enough breath to speak. "Spaceba. If you drive in Moscow in winter, you learn these things. Van is sturdy, but too old for airbags. Better its back end smashed than our fronts, nyet?" "Much better," Jim agreed fervently. "Is that a tarp in the back?" "Yes," Micki answered. "But what..." Unhooking his seat belt, Jim clambered into the rear, pulling at the tarp. "I want to look under the car. There was a strong smell of brake fluid; I think the lines were cut." Not looking at the two women, Jim pulled the door open, exiting as quickly as he could so the interior wouldn't get soaked. Before he could say "Sandburg, stay in the truck," Blair was behind him. They wedged branches under the wheels; then Jim spread the tarp on the muddy road and his head and shoulders disappeared under the van. It didn't take long to discover obvious evidence of tampering with the brake lines, and even less time to discover that the tarp wasn't helping much. Lying directly in the mud would have been worse, but not by much. Jim insisted that Blair get back into the van, while he removed the branches under the wheels and let the rain wash the mud off both him and the tarp. No reason to get this Pyotr guy any more pissed off than he was going to be already. Katria Kamerev was a good kid; he had no desire to screw up her love life a second time. When Jim got inside the vehicle, Katrina tried to start it. Her loud sigh of relief when the engine caught was almost funny. "If I drive back, even in first or second gear, it will be faster and drier than walking. We will not get there quickly, but at least we will be in one piece. We can all watch for any more problems." They crept back at no more than fifteen miles an hour, too concerned about being crushed by falling trees or getting stuck on the fast-deteriorating road to have much energy left over for talking. The Lodge was a welcome sight when they finally reached it. Katrina coasted into a parking space until she was stopped by the log barrier that separated it from the surrounding trees. A frazzled-looking Ted Morris came out onto the porch as they sprinted from the parking lot, although Jim and Blair were so wet already that moving fast hardly mattered. "God, what happened? I couldn't find you, and I saw Jim's truck out there with all its tires flat. Now this -- who ran into your van?" "Nothing. We ran into one of your natural wonders," Katrina answered. Jim brought Ted up-to-date on the latest attack. "This thing is escalating, Ted. If we'd been going faster, or Katrina hadn't been such a good driver, somebody could have been badly hurt, even killed. With that tree across the road, nobody's getting in or out of here for awhile, so we can forget about the Sheriff. How long will it take you to make a list of all your employees and guests, with names and addresses?" "What are you going to do with it? I'll do it, but I want to know." "I'm calling the Cascade PD, and asking them to start running checks. This isn't an isolated incident now, it's a pattern -- and I don't like the shape it's taking. Next time someone could die." "I'll have it for you within the hour. Look, I have some heavy-duty rain gear I can lend you. Why don't you go back to your cabins and get cleaned up, then come back here. You can make your phone call from the office." When they reached cabin eleven, Jim and Katrina went in first, guns drawn. They checked it for booby traps with the combined thoroughness of a Sentinel and an ex-KGB agent. Only when they were both sure it was safe did they let Micki enter. Jim did the same with cabin twelve, finding no danger there either. They took a quick shower, warming up a bit as well as washing off layers of mud. Despite great temptation, they limited themselves to some wet, soapy embraces and thorough kissing. Jim wanted desperately to stay, crawl between the flannel sheets, and drive the demons away by making love to his partner. That would warm him up even better, but he was afraid to delay setting the investigative wheels in motion. He had his suspicions about what was going on, and the fact that Blair and others had gotten dragged in ate at him. They made their way back to the Lodge, staying relatively dry this time thanks to Ted's slickers and rain hats. Micki and Katrina arrived before they'd finished divesting themselves of the heavy rain gear, and they all followed Ted into his office. Its owner stood morosely in a corner, leaning against the wall, as Jim dialed the Cascade PD. "Simon? Jim. I need a favor... OK, I won't tell you that we've stepped into it again. I don't know, this stuff just happens... so far, somewhere between malicious mischief and reckless endangerment, but it's getting worse. I need some names run for background checks. I know it's not Cascade's jurisdiction, but the local Sheriff is up to his ears in natural disasters and he can't... yeah, seems like we're right in the path of the storm, too. Yes, sir. Thanks, Simon." Jim turned to the others. "He went for it; he's switching me to -- hi, Megan." He began to recite the list of names, spelling out the more challenging ones. He'd made it through the staff and a few of the guests when that eloquent muscle in his cheek began twitching. "Megan? Megan?" He clicked the phone a few times, and checked the receiver jack. "Jim -- what's wrong?" He could feel Blair's eyes on him, hear the concern in his voice and the spike in his heart rate. "The line went dead." "What?" Ted launched himself from the wall, dejection turning into confusion. "That never happens. My grandad put our phone line underground, so it wouldn't come down in storms." Katrina looked at Jim, and their eyes locked in mutual understanding. "You think it was cut." "Cut?" Micki breathed nervously. "Are you sure?" Jim rose abruptly from his seat at the desk. "Not completely, but there's only one way to find out. Time to haul out that rain gear again." Ted joined Jim and Blair outside. The rain had let up a bit, although the wind was worsening by the minute. With Ted's guidance, it didn't take long to discover the break along the outside wall. The line had been cut in two places and a piece removed, making splicing it back together impossible. "We're screwed, aren't we?" Blair asked. "Pretty much," Ted groaned. "We've got a short-wave radio for real emergencies, not that anybody could get to us here with the road blocked. Let's hope we don't need any major help." Jim commandeered an unoccupied study while Ted went off to tell his wife the bad news and begin preparations for lunch. Blair lit the fire as soon as they entered the chilly room, then sat down with the other three. The comfortable, relaxing room was in stark contrast to the tense expressions on all their faces. For several minutes they all sat staring at the fire as the kindling, and then the larger logs, caught, casting a deceptively cheery glow on the two couples who clustered around it. Finally Katrina broke the oppressive silence. "I am not liking this. If road were clear, I would say leaving is best thing to do." "And abandon Ted?" Blair asked. "He might need us. It sure looks like somebody's out to get him again." "Maybe." Jim was sunk into a corner of the sofa, glaring at the floor. He could feel Blair's eyes boring into him. The tone of his voice must have revealed more than he intended. Damn. Keeping secrets from Blair hadn't been that easy before they became life partners; their ever-increasing intimacy was making it damn near impossible. He felt the touch of Blair's hand on his shoulder. "Spill it, Ellison." Jim sighed mightily, but began spilling. "It seems unlikely that someone would target Ted again after a gap of over three years. He found a pretty effective solution to the harassment by ensuring that nobody who might have been willing to use pressure tactics would ever get to buy his land. And that appears to be the only logical motivation, unless you know of a reason somebody might have it in for Ted personally." Blair shook his head. "Ted's one of the most easygoing guys I know. I never ran across anybody at Rainier who didn't like him, and getting that bunch to agree on anything is a major feat. I suppose he could have some deep dark secret in his past, but I doubt it. He just doesn't seem like the type." "If no one is trying to hurt Ted," Micki wondered, "then why are these things happening? They seem to be... what do you say, random?" Jim leaned forward, clasping his hands tightly between his knees. "They may not be as random as they looked like at first. That trap wasn't there for long before we went hiking. Slashing the tires on my truck was pretty focused. None of the vehicles around us was damaged." Blair leaned forward as well. "But we assumed that was because we were going to the Sheriff." "We didn't make our intentions common knowledge. We only told Ted." "But we didn't really try to hide it either. There were always other people around, we could have been overheard -- especially if the person behind this is on the staff, or even one of the guests. They'd be keeping an eye on us." "What about Pyotr's van?" Micki interjected. "That was not directed at you." "It could have been," Jim disagreed. "It doesn't take that long to cut a brake line. Anybody could have heard Katrina offer to drive us, and nipped out to the parking lot. Pretty much everybody around here carries a pocket knife. Or they could have nicked a knife from the kitchen." "You are sure there was enough time?" Katrina frowned. "They could have left as soon as we ran into you," Jim continued. "It was clear from our meeting in the dining room that we all knew each other. Our perp could have just assumed you'd offer to help, and tampered with your brakes just in case. That's what bothers me about this guy -- he doesn't seem to care who gets hurt." Katrina looked at Jim, nodding. "Collateral damage." Jim's reply was quiet, with an undertone of pain. "Yeah." Micki looked around at the others, all of whom seemed lost in thought. "What is this 'collateral damage?'" Blair lifted his head and looked at her. "It's a military term. It means damage incidental to your actual target. Unintended, but acceptable to the side doing the shooting, or the bombing, or whatever. Like in the Gulf War, when a lot of those so-called 'smart bombs' hit non-military targets." He turned toward Jim, looking closely at his shuttered face. "I get it now. You think somebody's after you." "Chief, the people who've told me over the years they were going to get me someday... some are dead, more are in the joint, but there's plenty left to do the job. I'm sorry you had to get caught in the crossfire." Jim looked around. "All of you." Katrina spoke from her place on the arm of Micki's chair. "It need not be you." She bowed her head. "When I was in KGB -- there are many who would like to see me dead, and I do not blame some of them. At the time, I thought I did what I must do, for my country. Now..." "Hush, vozlyublennaya." Micki laid a gentle hand on Katrina's knee. "That was long time ago, back in Russia. This is America." "Many Russians are in America, too. How many have lost someone they loved because of me? Russians have long memories." Jim shifted uncomfortably. "If it comes to that, there could be plenty of time bombs ticking away from my years in Covert Ops. Some of the things I -- well, never mind. The question is, what do we do now?" "What can we do?" Blair asked. "Even if one of us wanted to risk hiking out of here in this storm, what could we say? We don't have a suspect -- or, more accurately, we have a lodge full." "What about a search?" Katrina suggested. "We could try to find out who has been outside. To look for the knife would be a waste of time. We have no crime lab to test for trace evidence." "Besides," Jim added quickly, "the perp could have just chucked whatever he used into the woods. That's what I'd do, if I knew I was trapped in this place with a couple of cops until that road gets cleared." "Finding out who's been outside wouldn't be that easy as far as the guests are concerned," Blair chimed in. "Anyone could have borrowed that extra rain gear Ted keeps around, and be back in their room by now, all dry and cozy. The staff seem to be in and out all the time, too." Micki broke the logjam of indecision by rising abruptly out of her chair and tugging Katrina's arm. "We cannot think what to do because our brains are hungry. We will go have lunch, and some good strong Russian tea. Then we can decide." No one had a better idea, and Blair began a lecture on the effect of diminished glucose uptake on brain activity, but clearly his heart wasn't in it. They moved to the dining room in a group and sat at a table away from the others. Partly from concern at being overheard, and partly from a lack of new ideas, they limited their conversation to the sort of topics that friends meeting on vacation might discuss. Blair shared anecdotes from his days as an undergraduate taking classes from Ted. Katrina and Micki talked about the earlier part of their trip, especially Katrina's reaction to the urban charms of Seattle and the sheer natural beauty of the Olympic National Forest. They finally began to relax a little, helped by cups of fragrant Russian tea and a thoroughly decadent chocolate torte. Jim was just insisting the dessert should be treated as a controlled substance, when the building shuddered under the onslaught of the strongest wind yet. The lights flickered, then went out. Jim scanned the room, while extending his hearing as well. The expressions of surprise and complaint from the other guests hardly needed a Sentinel to detect. He picked up expressions of dismay and a few swear words from the kitchen, then good-natured banter as the staff dug out candles and matches. Soon Topher and a younger, olive-skinned man -- presumably Luis -- were lighting the candles on each table, protecting them against drafts with glass hurricane-style chimneys. Although it wasn't much past midday, the dark, clouded sky and the tall trees surrounding the Lodge made it seem more like night. Between the candles and the large fireplace, there was enough light to move around with reasonable safety, but the shadows were many and deep in the room's corners. Annie emerged from the kitchen. "Sorry, folks. Just enjoy the romantic lighting for a bit at no extra charge while my husband gets the generator going. All part of the excitement of country living." Her announcement was greeting with resigned laughter. Staff busily refilled coffee cups and offered after-dinner drinks on the house to soothe the customers. From the ensuing conversations, Jim gathered that this wasn't exactly an unprecedented event, or even an unexpected one on the part of some of the more frequent customers. It was just part of the package when you went off to stay in a rustic place in March, next door to someplace that wasn't called a rainforest for nothing. The phone lines were underground, but Jim had noticed the power lines weren't, so this was probably due to the storm and not human mischief. He let himself relax a bit, dialing his sight down to normal so he could enjoy the sight of Blair's face by candlelight. God, the man was beautiful. If he wasn't careful, he'd zone out just on the way the flickering light painted those curls with moving light and shadow. "How far is this generator?" Katrina's sharp question dragged Jim's attention away from his partner. "How long should it take to start it?" Jim glanced at his watch, and was about to speak when he felt Blair grab his wrist and drag it closer to the candle. "Yeah, it's been almost ten minutes. Maybe I'm just getting paranoid here..." "But I've got a bad feeling," Jim finished. He was about to get up and investigate when Ted entered the dining room. He was outwardly calm, but his heart rate was elevated and Jim detected the chemical signatures of both fear and anger. "Sorry about this, but it seems our generator is having some problems. In technical terms, it's fried." Laughter greeted his words, but now it seemed more nervous than resigned. "Unfortunately, we're all stuck here until someone comes with chain saws in hand to unblock the road." Annie emerged from the kitchen once more to stand beside her husband, who slipped an arm around her shoulders. "The good news is, my wife can whip up a gourmet meal with nothing more than a Bic lighter." Annie snorted. "With a little help from a huge wood-burning stove that's been here since the Lodge was built. We've got plenty of firewood, and we'll put kerosene lamps in all the rooms. If any of you need a refresher course in wick trimming, talk to one of the staff. Think of it as The 1900 House, Washington style." Ted spoke up again. "Naturally, your bills will all be adjusted to make up the inconvenience of all this. Food and drink are on the house until this is fixed, but don't overdo it -- we don't want you stumbling around in the dark, drunk to the gills. Thanks for your patience, folks." More laughter and a spontaneous round of applause broke out. Jim watched and listened as Ted wove between the tables, chatting with the guests, reassuring them, answering questions. He saved their table for last, pulled up a chair, and sat down heavily. "All right," Blair said softly, "what's the real story? Is this another attack?" "Only if you believe in the Wrath of God," Ted replied. "The power line to the Lodge is intact. Some tree probably knocked it out somewhere down the line; it's not uncommon this time of year. But somehow I doubt it was God who put sugar in the gas and fucked up my generator. Sorry, ladies." "I have heard worse," Katrina assured him, "and in several languages." Jim frowned. "Our perp may not have caused this, but he may try to take advantage of it. Even with the fires and lamps, it's going to be dark in here and easier to lay traps. I know the four of us wanted isolated cabins, but I don't think that's a good idea right now -- makes us too vulnerable." Katrina nodded. "I agree. It will be easier to protect ourselves, and each other, inside the Lodge." She turned to Micki. "Is that all right, dushchka?" "Of course. And we can observe the others more easily as well." Ted stood up. "Good idea. I've got plenty of extra space at this time year. I'll put you near each other; I've got a nice suite of adjoining rooms. Let me get the fires going and make sure you've got what you need, including some high-powered flashlights. Go get your stuff and your new keys will be at the front desk when you get back." --------

SVS-18: Collateral Damage by Corbeau, Part 2