Disclaimers:  All things Raven belong to Frank Lupo and associates, and paramount, I think.  All things Poltergeist the Legacy belong to -- uh -- showtime?  USA?  The Sci Fi Channel?  Anyway, they don't belong to dragon.  Cheri Yuconovich in all her incarnations is dragon's.  <g>

Time:  The Present
Place: Hawaii -- as usual
Spoilers:  MMmmmm -- don't think so.
Rating:  PG-14; Drama; Romance; Cross-over.

Thieves & Murderers

© 2000, dragon

Midnight.  The museum was silent.  Jonathan Raven, having been sub-contracted by his friend Herman "Ski" Jablonski to help with beefing up the security for the place, was making one final round to make certain all his changes had been implemented and were working correctly.  He stopped at the doorway leading to the Hall of Mysteries where the Shikitami Skull sat on a bed of black velvet and gleamed wickedly in the darkness.

He frowned into the room.  There was something wrong.  There was no gleam from the display case containing the skull.  The lighting was blocked.  He flipped the light switch for the room.  Ah.  There was the reason.  A black clad figure stood between the display case and the door way.  The figure turned toward him, infra-red goggles hiding the face.  Wires led from the goggles to a control unit at the waist.  Slender fingers touched the controls.  Apparently, they weren't just infra red.

Discovered, the figure pushed the display glass aside, dropping it onto the floor with a crash.  The skull was scooped into a bag as the alarms went off.  Jonathan charged across the room, breaking the beams that protected the displays from theft.  He leaped at the intruder as the figure triggered a retrieval winch to pull it out of there with its prize.

He caught the thief around the knees.  The winch strained and continued pulling them upward.  Time enough to subdue the thief on the roof, or so he thought.  Ever resourceful, the thief pulled Mag <tm> flashlight just before clearing the edge of the skylight and shone it full in Jonathan's face, temporarily blinding him and using the distraction to try to wriggle loose of his hold.

The ploy only half worked.  Jonathan having long practiced martial arts blindfolded, was not nearly as distressed with his sudden blindness as another would have been.  He kept his hold on one of his quarry's legs.  His hands told him the leg was probably a woman's.  He reached out and caught the edge of the skylight as she tried to kick him loose again.  She pulled out of his grasp and onto the roof, again kicking at him to dislodge him from his grip on the edge of the skylight.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision of the dancing lights obscuring his sight.  He heaved, pulling himself up and over the edge onto the roof, into the darkness.  With his eyes closed, he listened.  His quarry was breaking down her equipment, and leaving.  He homed in on the sounds.  He managed to lay hands on the thief for a brief moment, the goggles she had worn coming away in his hand.

She landed two swift kick attacks and returned to her packing.  He shook his head to clear it, his sight finally returning to normal.  He got to his feet and went toward the thief again, then stopped as she stood at the edge of the roof and grinned at him, black hair lifting on a slight breeze.  She blew him a kiss and stepped backward off the roof.  It took him only a moment to realize she had a lifeline attached that controlled her fall from the roof to the ground.  He reached the edge just as she landed and released the line.  There was no way he could get to her now.

The police cars swarmed in as she ran lightly across the alleyway and into the next building.  He knew there was no way the police would find her or the skull tonight.  He sat down and waited for the police to arrive.  He frowned as he realized that the skull was the objective of the exercise, and that bothered him.  The thing was not particularly beautiful, or of great intrinsic value.  The only value it possessed was due to its age, and the

legends attached to it.  Why would someone go to all that trouble, including trying to kill him, to get the skull?  And why go for it here?  Why not wait until it was shipped back to Japan at the end of the month?

He was left with too many questions and no reasonable answers.  So were the police.  By the time he finished up with the police and getting the skylight secured, it was daylight and he was too tired to call his friend to let him know what had happened.

Ski didn't seem too annoyed by learning from the newspapers that the skull had been stolen while Jonathan was finishing up the security checks on the building.  "After all, if it hadn't been for that thief, you'd never have

realized the skylight wasn't tied into the master security circuits," Ski told him over lunch.

"I might have found out anyway," Jonathan temporized.  "It just wouldn't have been as annoying to find out some other way."

"You mean, if someone had come in and walked off with the diamond display on loan from the Smithsonian?"

"All right, that would have been more embarrassing.  As it is, I want to know why the skull was important enough to take now instead of waiting for its return to Japan.  I need the background on the thing."

"I'll see what I can find out, Jonathan."




By the next evening, he didn't have any answers, but he did have a reception to attend.  He approached it philosophically as he donned his formal attire.  At least there wasn't anything internationally critical missing from the museum.  The finalized security plans accounted for the skylights as well as everything else in the museum.  The small Japanese religious sect that claimed the skull as one of its relics had not yet made any protests to the museum.  All in all, things were not going as badly as they could.  He just had an evening of boring small talk to endure.

The reception was just beginning to live up to his expectations of incredibly boring when the music started.  Jonathan looked around curiously to see the double doors flung open and a "gypsy" troupe danced in; bells, drums and stringed instruments playing in Middle Eastern tones.  A slender woman in frothy garments entered with them and began to dance to the music.  She was graceful, veiled and seemed well versed in the cabaret version of Middle Eastern dancing sometimes referred to as belly dancing.

The veil came off and Jonathan froze in recognition of the face.  His thief from the night before was brazenly playing the entertainer tonight.  He waited until she finished up her first dance close to where he stood.  He reached out as she held a graceful pose, grabbed one slender wrist, bracelets and all and dragged her out into the garden with a quick smile and a "she'll be right back" comment.

She went with him without protest, but with a bemused look on her lovely face.  Once they were well away from the windows, he turned, catching her other wrist in his hand so he could judge by her pulse rate her reactions to him.  For the moment, her pulse was elevated, but no more so than it should be by the strenuous movements of the dance.

"Where is it?" he demanded.

The woman regarded him with her head tilted slightly to one side, her eyes looking dark in the night.  "Ow," she complained about the mistreatment of her wrists.  "Which of many "its" I know about do you want?  I mean, the Taj Mahal is still in India, being somewhat difficult to remove.  The Hope diamond is in the Smithsonian, or its replica is, anyway.  They cut up and sold the original a few years ago when they were having financial problems.  Ow!" she complained as his grip tightened over her foolishness.  "You gonna break that any time soon?"

"The Shikatami Skull."

After the easy irrelevant banter, and regardless of the callous attitudes she had displayed in the museum, he hadn't expected his captive to turn abruptly lethal.  She wrenched from his grasp, ignoring any collateral damage she might have done to herself and turned from a bemused dancer into a skilled and deadly opponent.  Whoever had trained her had assured she was as deadly as any assassin he had met.  He found himself on the defensive, not a place he'd been in some time.  The swirling skirt hampered her not at all as she launched attack after attack.

They migrated farther into the garden as they fought.  He grabbed for the flimsy seeming fabric of her skirt, an attempt to entangle her in its folds.  Instead, it came away, tangling around his arm while she was still attached to the other end, efficiently trapping him in the silken folds.

Trying to relieve himself of the yards of fabric, he missed her dive for his feet.  He hit the concrete hard, face down, and froze as her weight hit the middle of his back.  The cold, cold metal of a gun barrel touched the back of his neck.

"Over and under .38 caliber derringer.  Short on range, but that hardly matters at this distance," she hissed.  "Now, who are you and why do you want the skull."

Silence.

"Answer me, or your friends, assuming you have any, will need dental records and finger prints to ID you."

He sensed the finger tightening on the trigger.  "Jonathan Raven.  I'm working security for the museum you stole it from."  His voice was also low and filled with danger.

She lifted slightly and hauled him over onto his back before thumping down on the bottom of his rib cage.  The derringer was no more than two inches from his chin.  She stared into his face, judging his answer.  Her face lost color under the exotic makeup, her eyes widening, the pupils, already wide to see in the near dark, swallowed whatever color there was.

She pulled back the gun.  He heard the safety engage as she sagged back on to his stomach, her tension relaxing, turning into fear before his eyes.

"You really believe you had the skull," she whispered, more to herself than to him.  "Oh, Hell."

He could sense the true feeling behind the almost banal words.  "You're sitting on me," he pointed out conversationally.  He hadn't expected a scalded cat response to his observation.  He, and those he trained with, moved with swiftness, precision and deadly force.  This woman was better than most he had known.

She helped him sit up and unwrapped him, neatly twirling the fabric back into the skirt of her cabaret costume.  She regarded him steadily.

"Look, whatever you were guarding, it wasn't the real thing.  Guarantee it."

"How?" he asked getting to his feet.

"Because I know where the real one is.  I hid it."

"Then I need it back."

"You didn't have it."

"You already said that.  I need proof."

"What's it worth?"

He frowned at her.  "What's the price?"

"What are you willing to pay?"

Suddenly the pale face framed by black hair seemed more sinister than any other he had seen.  "All right.  *What * is it?"

"You really don't know, do you?"

"No."

"I need to finish the set," she changed the subject abruptly.  "Afterwards.  Find me."  She turned with a swish of fabric and ran lightly back to the mansion.

He followed her slowly, trying to make sense of what had transpired.  He had been taken down with appalling ease.  He had no answers.  She had come very close to killing him.  And now, he sensed that the question she had asked was critical.

What would he pay for the skull?  What  was the skull that she would ask the question that seriously?  What had he gotten himself into this time?

He stood by the velvet shrouded French windows and watched as she danced.  He had never really appreciated the art of belly dancing.  Yet, as she danced, he saw a muscular control that paralleled the masters from whom he had learned martial arts and ninja skills.  Then he began to see that she incorporated familiar martial arts movements into her presentation.

He frowned as her performance ended.  She ran swiftly from the floor and the room.  He moved around the perimeter of the room as she left.  He stepped into an empty hallway.

Which way?  The musicians began exiting the room.  They went left.  Jonathan considered this and went to the right.  He was almost surprised when he found her.

She was out of the sparkling costume and half into her favorite outfit of denims, t-shirt and moccasin boots.  He caught a glimmer of pale skin, small, high set breasts with dark nipples as she pulled on the soft black

shirt.

She turned toward him as she gathered up a leather jacket and motorcycle helmet.  She walked past him, leaving the costume behind.  He followed her in silence.

The waiting motorcycle was big, old and black.  She threw a leg over the machine and tossed him the helmet.  She turned the key in the ignition.  The machine roared under her.  He drew on the helmet and slid onto the seat behind her as she put up the kickstand.

He wrapped his long arms around her waist and held on.  Her hair whipped back around his head making him glad that the helmet had a faceplate.  The machine cut through the night, traveling on and on until they came to a small, secluded beach.

She parked the bike and waited for him to move.  He let go and pulled off the helmet.  He did not recognize the area, but he did not ask where they were.  He waited.  For several long minutes she stared out at the water.  Then she abruptly turned on the seat to face him, one leg folded on the seat between them to help balance her.  She stared at him, wide eyed, the pupils of her eyes dilating as she did.

"What is it?"

She smiled, a mirthless stretch of the lips.  "Part of me wants kill you, right here, right now," she said softly.  He was startled by the almost emotionless response and his face showed it.  "Not your fault," she assured him.  "You bear a terrifying resemblance to someone."

"Who?"

She shook her head, dismissing the question or the answer.  "Unimportant now.  Why did you think I took the skull?"

"I saw you."

"You couldn't have.  I didn't take it -- because I already know where it is -- all right, you don't know about that," she ended more to herself than to him.  She brought her gaze back to his face again, her winging black eyebrows pulled together in a frown.  "I know you from somewhere.  But where?"

"The museum?"

"Which museum?" she asked seriously.

"The one here locally where the skull was on display?" he prompted gently.

"It -- The Shikatami Skull wasn't in your museum.  Whatever * was * there, it wasn't the real thing.  And I can't think of a really good reason to steal a fake one."

"To keep someone from finding out it was a fake?"

She blinked.  "Well, yes.  That might make sense.  But who?" She focused somewhere past his face and looked like she might have gotten the answer.  It wasn't the answer he had already.  "Tanya."

"What?"

She pulled her gaze back to his face.  "Tanya Kropotkin.  A little out of her league, of course.  But it would explain why you thought you saw me."  She frowned at him, and reached up to touch his face, running a fingertip gently along the line of his lower lip.  "Although it wouldn't explain why I keep -- what *is * your name?"

"Jonathan Raven."

She blinked again.  It was an unnerving combination of refocusing and mechanical movement.  "You're -- I -- "

Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted.  He caught her before she could topple off the motorcycle.  He checked her pulse.  It was extremely slow.  He kept an arm around her as he climbed off the bike and then picked her up and set her down on the sand.  He sat next to her, frowning as he watched her nearly white pale face in the moonlight.  A hint of familiarity tugged at the corners of his mind, but he couldn't quite manage to make a connection that was eluding him.

Half an hour passed.  She stirred, mumbled something incomprehensible and her eyes opened.  She stared up at the moon and stars for a moment, wondering how they'd gotten into her room.  Then she heard the surf.  She wasn't in her room.  Then she realized she was not alone.  She sat up and turned, almost as though expecting an attack.  She focused on his face and relaxed.

"Oh.  It's you."

"You were expecting someone else?"

"Uh -- no.  I was a bit -- disoriented -- I passed out?"

"Yes.  I told you my name and you seemed upset."

"Jonathan Raven.  I'm sorry.  I -- I don't think you'd believe my explanation.  I think I'd told you that the probability is your mystery thief is the Kropotkin."

"Yes.  Who is Tanya Kropotkin?"

"My cousin.  International assassin.  Freelance.  All around not real nice lady.  Not usually into stealing stuff from museums, though."  She sighed.  "I suspect she thought it was the real thing.  She is not going to be happy when she finds out it's not."

"Why would she want it?"

"How much do you know about it?"

"The skull?"

"Yes."

"It's old, it's valuable, it has some religious significance to a small cult in Japan.  That's about it."

"The Shon-rei.  The cult is devoted to the pursuit of immortality on several levels, including the physical.  The skull, when appropriately propitiated and used in conjunction with some other items, is supposed to confer immortality, or bring a strong spirit back from -- the -- dead.  Oh, no.  No.  No.  No.  No.  No.  Bad idea.  Really bad idea.  We've got find her."

"We?"

She looked at him suddenly as though rediscovering his presence.  "Me.  I.  You need to stay out it.  Please.  You really don't want to get any further involved in this."  She got to her feet and was heading for the motorcycle as she spoke.

He got to his feet and grabbed for her arm as she moved past him.  "Wait a -- minute," he finished as she turned on him again.  He backed across the sand to avoid her flying fists and feet.  "Hold it."  He caught her wrist again and just held it.

She managed to pull her next strike.  "Let go."

"No."

That stopped her for the moment.  "No?"

"No.  I'm already involved."

That unnerving stare held him for a long moment.  Her shoulders sagged and her gaze dropped.  "You are, aren't you."  Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.  "Damn.  No."  She sounded tired, exhausted.  "Here, you drive."  She handed the keys to the motorcycle to him.

"Me?"

She looked up into his face and blinked.  "Unless you want to walk back."

Continued

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