Birthright, Shapeshifters, TEEN, S1 COMPLETE, Epilogue, 2/2

[Kathy W 2200]

Banner by Misha. Thanks a million, Misha!


TITLE: Birthright, the 6th and final book in the Shapeshifters series.


SUMMARY: We've finally arrived where this series was heading from the beginning: September, 1999, and a particular shooting at a particular café with which we are all particularly familiar. This is the book which runs alongside all 3 seasons of the show, expanding what we saw on screen, filling in blanks, and adding the perspectives of the shapeshifters, along with others entrusted with protecting the Royal Four. Once again this leaves the show intact; I've stayed 99% faithful to what we saw on screen with minor exceptions, such as when the dates given in the show didn't line up with the actual calendar, or setting the events of two episodes in close proximity even though those episodes aired a week apart. This book is divided into 3 parts (1 for each season) which are further divided into chapters. It begins with the shooting at the Crashdown and ends a few weeks after the final episode of the series.


CAN YOU JUMP IN AT BOOK 6? : Yes! The opening posts contain a character guide and synopses of the first 5 books. That, along with what you know from the show, will give you enough background to start reading with Book 6.

Note: I've tried very hard not to rehash scenes from the show unless I'm adding another angle to them. If it's been a while since you've watched Roswell, you may want to break out your tapes/VCD's/DVD's and watch again as this book expands on the series.



AUTHOR: Kathy W


RATING: TEEN, for occasional language.


CATEGORY: Backstory/Conventional. All couples as they were on the show.


PERSPECTIVE: As always, the main perspective is that of those responsible for making it happen—the shapeshifters.


SERIES SUMMARY: I’ve always been fascinated with what happened before the pod squad hatched, and I’ve had a million questions. Why don’t the hybrids remember more? Why was the Destiny Book in the library instead of in the pod chamber? Why did the Dupes wind up in a sewer in New York City? Why did both shapeshifters appear to abandon their charges after hiding them so well in the very beginning? Was Nasedo really working for the Skins? Why was Langley so unwilling to help Max? And so on and so forth.

This is the story from the viewpoint of the shapeshifters, my own little fantasy about what happened, why it happened, and what went wrong. This is the sixth and last book in the series, each a sequel to the others and which have closely tracked the show; my intention is not to rewrite Roswell, but to fill in some of the blanks. The story began on the ship headed to Earth and will end a few weeks after the last episode of the series.



SEQUEL TO:


And the Stars Fell From the Sky: First book in the series. Chronicles the shapeshifters journey to Earth and the creation of the hybrids. Can be found here: http://majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewtopic ... 6292#16292

Alien Sky: Second book in the series. Covers the aftermath of the crash and the capture of the two surviving shapeshifters. Written around and through the Roswell episode "Summer of '47". Can be found here: http://majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewtopic ... c&start=10

Comes The Inquisitor: Third book in the series. Covers the period from 1947-1950 when one of the shapeshifters was held captive by the U.S. military. Can be found here: http://majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewtopic ... 61&start=0

All Too Human: Fourth book in the series. Covers a period of several months in 1959 including the filming of the movie "They Are Among Us" in Roswell, James Atherton's friendship with one of the shapeshifters, and the formation of the Special Unit. Can be found here: http://majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewtopic.php?f=2&t=1448

Awakening: Fifth book in the series. Covers the period when the hybrids emerge from the pods, including the final fall of Grandpa Valenti and the rise of Daniel Pierce Jr. (Pierce from the show.) Explains how Max and Isabel wound up with the Evans family, Michael landed in foster care, and Tess went with Nasedo....and why they don't remember who they are. Can be found here: http://majiksfanfic.com/phpbb/viewtopic.php?f=2&t=3006



DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Nothing anyone wants, anyway. :D I’m just borrowing these wonderful characters to amuse myself. And hopefully you.

Some of the events in this story are taken from Roswell episodes. In addition to characters from the show, there are also a few real people in this story. I know precisely none of these people, and am borrowing them strictly for this little tale.

[Kathy W 2200]

If you're new to this series, here's a Character Guide and Synopses of the first 5 books to get you started.



Pronunciation and Character Guide

Some of these characters have come and gone and are not in this book. I include them here because they are referenced, and this can act as a "quick start" guide for those who haven't read the other books.

Aliens

Antarians:

Brivari—Zan’s Warder: “var” rhymes with “far”. Brivari.
Jaddo—Rath’s Warder: “a” as in “ah”, soft “J”. Jaddo.
Valeris—Ava’s Warder, now dead: “ler” sounds like “lair”. Valeris.
Urza—Vilandra’s Warder, now dead: Urza.
Covari—The name of the shapeshifters’ race: Rhymes with “Brivari”. Covari.
Riall—Zan’s father: Ree-all.
Malik, Amar—Two of the five shapeshifters who helped perfect the Argilian's (Skins) husks after they faked their own deaths and remained behind while on a mission to Earth. Both are now dead. Ma-lick ("a" as in apple), A-mar (rhymes with “far”)





Argilians (Skins):

Argilians—The name of Khivar’s race: “g” is soft, like “j”.
Athenor—Khivar's second-in-command, known to his inner circle by the human name of "Nicholas" and based in Copper Summit. Ordered the deaths of the Royal Four without Khivar's knowledge; killed Rath himself. Ath-eh-nore.
Greer: Nicholas's second-in-command.
Walt and Ida Crawford: Nicholas's real parents.
Vanessa Crawford/Whitaker: Nicholas's lover, posing as his human sister.
Courtney Harris: Our Courtney from the show. Daughter of the leader of the rebel Argilians, those who want Rath on the throne.
Michael Harris: Courtney's father and leader of the Argilian resistance. Took his own life when captured by Nicholas to prevent him from reading his mind and exposing both the resistance and the Warders.



Humans

Civilians:

Dee Proctor—First discovered the Antarians’ ship on Pohlman Ranch when she was 8 years old; a lawyer, married to...
Anthony Evans: Dee's childhood friend, now husband.
Philip Evans: Anthony and Dee's firstborn, also a lawyer.
Diane Evans: Philip's wife.
David and Emily Proctor—Dee’s parents
James Valenti, Sr.—Roswell Sheriff until he lost his job over the Silo incident.
Andrea Valenti (Andi): James Sr.'s wife
James Valenti, Jr.: Our very own Valenti from the show
River Dog: A Mescalero Apache whose family helped hide one of the shapeshifters.
Quanah: River Dog's father, and good friend of Brivari's
Audrey Tate: Lead actress on the movie They are Among Us which was filmed in Roswell in 1959. Befriended Brivari and was killed by Jaddo after she witnessed he and Brivari using their powers.
James Atherton: Self-described "alienologist" who wrote the book Among Us. Befriended Brivari in 1959, but tried to share the knowledge of his existence with his fellow alienologists. Killed by Brivari in 1959.



The Army:

Lieutenant Colonel Sheridan Cavitt—Co-commander of the operation concerned with experimenting on aliens in the late forties at Eagle Rock Military Base. In charge of security and military intelligence. Killed by Jaddo in 1950.
Lieutenant Colonel (Dr.) Daniel Pierce—MD/Psychiatrist and co-commander of the operation concerned with experimenting on aliens at Eagle Rock Military Base. In charge of the medical and psychological aspects. Future father of Special Unit Head Daniel Pierce. Killed by Jaddo in 1959.
Lieutenant (Nurse) Yvonne White—From the episode "Summer of '47". Assigned to assist in experimentation on the captive aliens. Assisted in the escape of the alien prisoner. Went AWOL in 1950 with Stephen Spade, and now goes by the name of "Marie Johnson". Is a practicing neurologist at Columbia Medical Center and married to....
Lieutenant Stephen Spade—Was in command of the security detail at Eagle Rock. Assisted in the escape of the alien prisoner. Went AWOL in 1950 with Yvonne White, and now goes by the name "Steven Johnson". Head of security at Columbia Medical Center.


The FBI:

Agent (Former Major) Bernard Lewis—Army physician who advocated a "living autopsy" on the alien prisoner in order to study it without it turning to dust. Resigned from the Army in 1950 rather than face a court martial and went to work for the FBI. First head of the Special Unit. Killed by Jaddo in 1962.

Agent Daniel Summers—head of the FBI's Special Unit until May, 1999, when he was found dead bearing a silver handprint.

Agent Daniel Pierce Jr.—our very own Pierce from the show and heir to the serum which blocks the aliens' powers which was developed by his father, Lieutenant Colonel Daniel Pierce, who held Jaddo captive for 3 years at Eagle Rock Military base.






AND THE STARS FELL FROM THE SKY


There has been a coup on Antar. The King's chief rival, Khivar, convinced the king's sister, Vilandra, that he would ask for her hand in marriage, causing her to lower the palace's defenses to allow him inside. But instead of a marriage proposal, Khivar appears with an army which takes down the unprepared capital city and kills the royal family.

Each member of the royal family is assigned a Warder, or bodyguard, from a race of shapeshifters known as "Covari". In the wake of the capital's fall, the Royal Warders flee the planet with the dead bodies of their Wards: The king, Zan, his wife, Ava, his sister, Vilandra, and his chief military officer and second-in-command, Rath. Also on board is a piece of experimental technology called the Granolith, which Antar was building secretly in defiance of a treaty which mandated the sharing of new technology with their sister planets. On board the ship, the Warders begin the attempt to resurrect their Wards by combining genetic material from their bodies with that of donors from a species on a distant planet called "Earth" for two reasons: Direct cloning produces too many errors in the copy, and the donor species possesses a powerful brain which will make their Wards incredibly powerful in their new incarnations. The result is 200 embryonic Antarian-human hybrids, or 50 sets of the Royal Four. A malfunction in their ship causes it to crash land on Earth, damaging the incubation chambers in which the hybrids are housed. The crash is witnessed by an 8 year-old girl named Dee Proctor, who thinks she saw a shooting star.



ALIEN SKY


(The events in Alien Sky are woven around and through the episode "Summer of '47".)

The Warders' ship crashes during a thunderstorm, hiding the event from all but an 8 year-old girl named Dee Proctor who happens to be looking out the window when it occurs. Thinking it to be a meteorite, she tells her next door neighbor, William "Mac" Brazel, that she thinks it fell on the grounds of Pohlman Ranch where he works. Mac agrees to let her accompany him to the ranch to look for her "meteorite".

On board the ship, the news is not good. The crash has seriously damaged not only the ship but the incubation pods in which the hybrids were housed, causing many to die. The Warders decide to hide both the remaining hybrids and the Granolith in a nearby abandoned experimentation chamber once used to conduct tests on human subjects. It needs to be enlarged, and the work begins.

Meanwhile, Dee has found her "meteorite"; she only sees it for a moment, and Mac doesn't see it at all as Valeris, Ava's Warder, is capable of shielding it from view with a mind warp. Mac finds several pieces of a strange metal which he collects and brings to Chaves County Sheriff George Wilcox, who calls the nearby Eagle Rock Military Base.

Dee befriends the aliens and discovers that she is capable of communicating with them via their telepathic speech. The Warders heal her after an encounter with a bully, and when the military locates the ship before all the hybrids are moved to their new hiding place, Dee convinces her father to help. Two sets of hybrids and two Warders are still on board when the Army arrives, along with Dee. Only Dee escapes. Urza (Vilandra's Warder) and Valeris (Ava's Warder) are killed, and the hybrids captured. The two remaining Warders, Brivari (Zan's Warder) and Jaddo (Rath's Warder) make plans to rescue them.

A Roswell deputy, one James Valenti, has seen some things that don't add up. He relentlessly pursues the Proctor family and tries to answer as many of the endless "alien calls" the sheriff's station receives in hopes of finding information on the real aliens, which he is sure exist.

Within the Army, Captain Sheridan Cavitt leads the hunt for the aliens, establishing a compound in an unused building on the grounds of Eagle Rock, while two of his subordinates, Private Stephen Spade and nurse Yvonne White, begin to question the way the situation is being handled. The two remaining Warders manage to rescue the captured hybrids with the unwitting help of one Captain Hal Carver, but Brivari is captured with the aid of tranquilizer darts. Jaddo is also hit by a dart and only barely escapes; it falls to the Proctor family to retrieve the hybrids and bring them back to their house for safekeeping.

When Jaddo revives, he hides the hybrids in the pod chamber and attempts to rescue Brivari. He fails, and winds up captured himself. The book ends with a new arrival at the Army base, one Major Daniel Pierce, a psychiatrist and neurologist assigned to study the aliens.



COMES THE INQUISITOR



Both surviving aliens have been captured by the military, but Brivari (Zan's Warder), manages to escape. Based on data gleaned during that escape, Dr. Pierce concocts a serum to suppress the remaining alien's (Jaddo, Rath's Warder) ability to shapeshift and the use of his powers, allowing the humans to keep him prisoner.

Both Nurse Yvonne White and Lieutenant Stephen Spade, who is in charge of the compound's security detail, agree to help Brivari free Jaddo. Yvonne allows Brivari to take her shape at various times during the day, enabling him to visit his colleague and search for a means of escape. Brivari encourages Jaddo to give the humans what they want, or at least appear to, so they will keep him alive, and after a series of confrontations with Dr. Pierce and Major Cavitt, he reluctantly complies.

The first escape attempt is foiled by two other Covari (shapeshifters) living here on Earth in the Arizona town of Copper Summit, defectors from a previous expedition to Earth. Both are now working for the Argilians (Khivar's race), helping them construct a seal for the shells they are building which will allow them to survive in Earth's atmosphere. One, Amar, is a sworn enemy of the crown, and blames Zan and his father before him for breaking faith with the Covari race which helped him attain the throne. The other, Malik, shares Amar's concerns but is uncomfortable with Khivar's coup and the way he is behaving. In the absence of a body to prove Zan's death, Khivar is both unable to convince the people that the king is truly dead and unable to obtain the royal mark (royal seal) which identifies Antar's ruler. In order to distract his detractors, he flings accusations at neighboring worlds, accusing them of harboring the royals' bodies and the Granolith, among other things. The distrust Khivar sows destabilizes the five planets, causing a breakdown of diplomatic relations and periodic fighting between them.

The second escape attempt is foiled by the arrival of two more Covari and four hunters, who attack the base and attempt to capture both Warders. All Covari are capable of seeing the infrared spectrum, and all emit an infrared signature that makes them recognizable to others of their race. Hunters are Covari specially bred to lack this signature, making them invisible to other Covari. Besieged by his own kind, Brivari flees south of Roswell to a cave on the grounds of the Mescalero Indian Reservation, where he is befriended by a teenaged boy named River Dog and his family. In the wake of the aliens' attack, the Army constructs a more secure holding cell for Jaddo made of white tile.

The compound at Eagle Rock where Jaddo is held prisoner is led by Major General Roger Ramey, a decent man at odds with those in the military who feel the alien is too much of a security risk and wish to have him killed and dissected, chief among them Major Sheridan Cavitt and Major Bernard Lewis (future first head of the Special Unit). Ramey introduces a new method of alien detection, an x-ray which reveals the aliens' very different bone structure no matter what form they take, and lays his career on the line to keep Jaddo alive. In return Jaddo willingly works with Ramey to provide the human military with tactical advantages, the first being a night vision device and the second being the repair of their ship, while Brivari takes down the hunters one by one. It is in the summer of 1949 when the last two hunters locate Brivari near River Dog's village and the events described by the elderly River Dog in "The Balance" occur. In the wake of the sweat and Brivari's near fatal reaction to it, both remaining hunters are killed, River Dog learns of Brivari's extra-terrestrial origins, and the friendship between Brivari and River Dog's family is strengthened.

This is no shortage of people who claim to have been abducted by aliens, and by sheer chance, David Proctor meets one of them, a man by the name of Charles Dupree. Charles' story is quite a bit different from that of other abductees, but it rings true for David, who recognizes several details. The Proctors subsequently learn why the Antarians had been coming to Earth for years prior to the crash—to harness the power of the human brain in an effort to enhance their own race. Experiments were conducted in hidden experimentation chambers like the one which eventually became the pod chamber, and the subjects were always young children, young enough that parts of their brains had not atrophied from lack of use. This revelation angers Emily Proctor so much that she bars Brivari from their house, touching off a year-long feud with her daughter, Dee. Everyone eventually reconciles, largely by agreeing to disagree, and the Proctor family continues to be a source of support for the Warders. And Dee now has an accomplice, one Anthony Evans, who lives a few houses away. Anthony is instrumental in helping Dee out of several sticky alien situations, but Dee is reluctant to tell him everything she knows for fear that doing so will put him in danger. Dee and Anthony will become Max and Isabel's paternal grandparents.

On other fronts, Yvonne White is on a mission to discover what happened to Betty Osorio, the reporter from "Summer of '47". With her and Spade's determined digging plus the efforts of Deputy Jim Valenti, they locate Richard Dodie, who harbors a grudge against Cavitt, and Hal Carver, who is holed up south of Roswell and reveals the events which led to his resignation. Their suspicions that Cavitt is responsible for Betty's death cannot be proven, however, and further investigation is halted by a disaster. Dr. Pierce has discovered the aliens' reproductive cells and has been secretly attempting to impregnate Yvonne with an alien-human hybrid. When he succeeds, she nearly dies, and it takes Brivari and a healing stone to save her life. In the process, Brivari and Malik reach an understanding of a sort, and Malik decides to help Jaddo escape.

When repairs on the ship are nearly complete, the Warders contact home via the ship's communications equipment and speak with Larak, who warns them that Khivar's second-in command, Athenor (Nicholas), is on the way to Earth with a task force dedicated to hunting them down. Removing Jaddo from the compound becomes a necessity as he is a sitting duck while captive and without powers. Plans for his escape are coming along nicely when an engineer working on the aliens' ship accidentally activates the security system, which locks it, leaving it in the condition in which Max finds it in "Busted". The ship cannot be opened without a particular power crystal (the key), and no one is able to find it. General Ramey's detractors blame the prisoner for this occurrence and take the opportunity to seize control of the compound and attempt to execute Jaddo. Brivari convinces Ramey to work with him, and Jaddo is successfully rescued in June of 1950. The remaining Covari pursue; all are killed except for Malik.

Jaddo kills Sheridan Cavitt in retaliation for his captivity, making it look like a suicide, and ushers General Ramey past an attempt to murder him and on his way to Korea, where war has broken out. Dr. Pierce attempts to abduct Yvonne White and continue his hybrid experiments, but Spade flees with her to safety; Pierce continues his work in secrecy at a mental hospital, using the female inmates as incubators. Major Lewis resigns from the military to avoid a court martial. Richard Dodie pays a visit to Hal Carver to tell him that Cavitt is dead, keeping to himself the revelations that it was he who sent Betty the key to the morgue where the glowing sacs were being held, and he who ran her off the road on Cavitt's orders in order to retrieve the files Carver had given her. Anthony Evans becomes a full member of the "I Know An Alien" club, and Malik sells the house that belonged to him and his fellow defectors in Copper Summit. Unfortunately he doesn't see who buys it. It's Walt and Ida Crawford and their two children, Vanessa.....and Nicholas.

[Kathy W 2200]

ALL TOO HUMAN



It's June of 1959, and Dee Evans, formerly Dee Proctor, returns home with her husband, Anthony, and their toddler son, Philip, to spend the summer with her parents, David and Emily Proctor. Malik, one of the remaining Covari (shapeshifting aliens) meets her at the bus station, filling her in on what's happened while she and Anthony have been busy attending college, getting married, and having a baby. All's been quiet on the alien front for the past 9 years, so much so that even Roswell's sheriff, Jim Valenti Sr., has pretty much given up alien-hunting. A UFO convention comes to Roswell bringing with it charlatans of all sorts including one James Atherton, and provides a good laugh for Dee, not to mention something to do to get away from her disapproving mother, who objects to the way her grandson, Philip, is being raised.

Elsewhere, in the little Arizona town of Copper Summit, Courtney Harris (Courtney from the show) is very unhappy to be moving next door to Nicholas, the leader of the Argilian (Skins) contingent on Earth with marching orders to find the Royal Four and their remaining Warders (the shapeshifters): Brivari, Zan's Warder, and Jaddo, Rath's Warder. Courtney's father, Michael, is Nicholas' third, right behind Greer, Nicholas' second. Unbeknownst to either Nicholas or Greer is that Michael is also the leader of the Argilian resistance, a group of Argilians who championed Rath for the throne and once offered to help him attain it. Unhappy with Khivar's rule, the resistance has infiltrated Nicholas' troops and is also quietly searching for the Warders and the Royal Four, hoping to find them before Nicholas does and offer their assistance in restoring them to the throne. After a run-in with Nicholas, Courtney finds herself assigned to live in Roswell and keep watch for any sign of the Warders or the hybrids. Trouble is, Courtney has never lived on her own in human society before. As luck would have it, she gets some help from one Dee Evans, who is completely unaware that the new friend she's just made is an alien.

As Courtney settles into Roswell, the Warders have located Daniel Pierce Sr., future father of Daniel Jr. (Pierce on the show) and one time captor of Jaddo. Jaddo and Brivari execute Pierce with the intention of leaving no trail, but that backfires when Jaddo leaves a silver handprint behind which piques the interest of both Nicholas and the FBI, drawing both toward Roswell.

Meanwhile, Brivari has become concerned that the hybrids are growing much more slowly than expected, so slowly that they may not be born until decades later than they'd hoped. That, plus the death of his Indian friend Quanah (River Dog's father) sends him in search of company and something to do. That something turns out to be a job as a clapper loader on the set of an alien-themed movie filming in Roswell, "They are Among Us". While working on the movie, Brivari befriends both the crew and the lead actress, one Audrey Tate, socializing with them, taking up a residence in town, and going by the name of "Langley". He also strikes up a friendship with James Atherton, a man who considers himself a serious "alienologist" and whose latest book is merely a sensational piece intended to make money. Atherton becomes Brivari's closest confidante since Quanah.

Brivari's increasing association with humans angers Jaddo, and when Audrey witnesses him roughing up the movie's lead actor, her jealous boyfriend, Jaddo kills her to keep her from talking. The method he uses resembles a lightning strike, but is still unusual enough to draw the notice of Nicholas, the FBI, and Roswell's Jim Valenti Sr.. Eventually Brivari falls under suspicion and has to disappear. Suspicion also falls on Atherton because of his association with "Langley", and when the FBI comes for Atherton, Brivari intervenes, revealing his true nature to his friend. Atherton vows to keep his secret and goes undercover to gather information from both the FBI and Nicholas's operatives, who descend upon Roswell in droves, having recognized the actress' death as being caused by a shapeshifter.

Things come to a head when the Warders discover Courtney is a Skin. Managing to convince them that she's a member of the resistance and wants to help them, Courtney facilitates communication between the resistance and the Warders. The resistance wants custody of some of the hybrids, being unaware that the Warders have only 3 sets left instead of the dozens of sets they started with. Brivari is adamantly opposed to this idea, but Jaddo believes it makes sense, as they are the only ones who know where the hybrids are hidden; should something happen to them, that knowledge would be lost. When Malik is captured by Nicholas and commits suicide to prevent Nicholas from reading his mind, Jaddo goes behind Brivari's back and gives 2 sets of hybrids to the resistance for safekeeping, retaining the set with the Zan hybrid which bears the royal mark (seal) in the pod chamber. One of the sets given to the Skins is captured and the resistance is revealed; Courtney's father, Michael, commits suicide to prevent Nicholas from learning more from him, but Courtney manages to escape. The second set of hybrids is lost in New York City when the operative assigned to them is executed before she can reveal where they're hidden.

These events convince Atherton to contact his alienologist colleagues over Brivari's objections, and this breach of trust causes Brivari to reluctantly execute his friend. The body bearing a silver handprint is discovered before he has a chance to dispose of it, once again drawing the attention of the Skins, the FBI, and Sheriff Valenti, whose wife is very upset about his increasing interest in aliens and worried about the effect it will have on their son, Jimmy. With all their enemies converging once again, the Warders decide to leave Roswell. In case the hybrids are ever discovered, they decide to remove the control crystal and instructions for operating the Granolith from the pod chamber. In case something happens to them, a "trail of breadcrumbs" is left for the hybrids, with a code of Rath's making left above Rath's pod which will guide them to the map in the cave on River Dog's reservation, which will in turn guide them to the library where the Destiny Book and control crystal are hidden. Angry at Jaddo's behavior and his giving away hybrids without Brivari's consent, Brivari and Jaddo part company, with Jaddo planning to leave a false trail to lead their enemies away from Roswell and Brivari saying he will go anywhere Jaddo isn't.

The resistance Skins leave the area, meaning to hide from Nicholas until the hybrids emerge. Nicholas is taken to task by Khivar for allowing the resistance to infiltrate his troops, for the loss of their ship, which was captured by the shapeshifters, and for briefly having possession of both a shapeshifter and a set of pods only to lose both. Khivar's punishment is to strand Nicholas and his troops here, refusing to send another ship or reinforcements. This strengthens Nicholas' resolve to find the hybrids and especially the Granolith, which may be their only way home now. Valenti and his wife remain at odds over his increasing pursuit of aliens. The Evans family goes back to college. And in NYC, an old subway tunnel containing the Dupes' pods is walled up with no one the wiser about what's been hidden inside.



AWAKENING



It's 1989, and Jeff Parker is all excited. The gaudy new sign he ordered for Parker's, his family's restaurant in Roswell, has finally arrived. Residents gawk at the huge saucer covered with blinking lights which is hoisted by crane into position over the front door and ushers in a new era for this Roswell fixture, beginning with a new name: The Crashdown Café. Jeff has other ideas as well, including alien-themed names for everything on the menu, an alien-themed décor, and a new uniform for for his staff that his waitresses have made clear they're not thrilled about. Even little Lizzie, Jeff's kindergarten-aged daughter, gives it a thumbs down, but Jeff is not deterred. Change comes slowly, and he's positive these changes will bring in more business.

Jeff Parker isn't the only one experiencing change. Jim Valenti Jr. is the new sheriff in Roswell, and he brings with him a load of baggage from when his father, Jim Sr., was sheriff. Jim Sr. was fired from his post after shooting an innocent man at Silo in 1972, and now lives with Jim Jr., also known as Jimmy, and Jimmy's son, Kyle. Jimmy is determined to escape his father's shadow, which proves difficult; the Valenti name has everyone making assumptions, and the fact that some of his father's old deputies are still working at the station doesn't help, nor does it help that his father, long uncommunicative and in need of constant supervision, is behaving more strangely than ever, upsetting everyone including Kyle's babysitter.

Elsewhere in town, Philip Evans and his wife, Diane, are moving into a newly bought house with a shadow over them. Diane has learned she can't have children, and even though they're on a waiting list for adoption, the odds that they'll ever receive the infant she dreams of are slim. Philip has bought out a law practice in town and moved his wife there in the hopes they can have a new beginning. When Anthony Evans, Philip's dad, heads out to the hardware store to fetch his son a refrigerator cable, he runs into Brivari, Zan's Warder, at the Crashdown. No one has seen Brivari since 1959, when he and Jaddo (Rath's Warder, and the only other surviving shapeshifter) parted company after Jaddo gave two sets of hybrids to the Argilian resistance without consulting him. Brivari explains that he visits yearly to check on the still much-too-slowly growing hybrids, while Jaddo spends his time hunting the Special Unit. Brivari is disturbed to see how his friends have aged and reluctantly agrees to visit everyone for the first time in decades.

He is waylaid, however, by an unexpected emergency. While visiting the pod chamber, he notices that the pods have become transparent. Retrieving the book Valeris (Ava's Warder) wrote from its hiding spot in Roswell's library, he learns what that means: the gestational fluid inside the pods is failing, and the hybrids' emergence is imminent. Alarmed, he leaves for New York City to consult Yvonne White, the former Army nurse stationed at Eagle Rock during Jaddo's three year captivity, now living under the pseudonym of Marie Johnson and a physician at Columbia Medical Center. Yvonne/Marie agrees to return with him to Roswell to do what she can for the hybrids.

But he's too late. Three of the hybrids emerge, and two are found wandering a desert road late at night by Philip and Diane Evans with Philip's mother, Dee Evans, in the back seat. Dee realizes immediately who these children are and takes them to her parents' house, intent on keeping them away from the authorities. But Philip calls the police, who take the children to the nearest hospital, raising all sorts of fears that their true nature will be discovered.

Fortunately Brivari returns with Yvonne White, who poses as the children's physician. A series of tests reveals that the hybrids have human bodies with the exception of their blood cells. Philip and Diane Evans visit the children they rescued, and Diane begins to bond with them, the girl especially. With one hybrid having still not emerged (Ava) and one missing (Rath), Brivari decides to allow the human childcare system to care for the hybrids. The two who have been found are transferred to the care of social services at Westlake Villa, a local orphanage, and Diane names them Max and Isabel, two names from the Evans' side of the family.

On the other side of the country, Daniel Pierce Jr. reaches two milestones: He qualifies as an FBI agent, and he reaches his 30th birthday. A meeting with the FBI academy's director informs him that he is due to inherit something from his father, something the Bureau wants badly. Pierce has a mysterious visitor later that night who claims to have known his father and to have been entrusted with his inheritance. He also warns Pierce that he needs to fear for his life, a claim Pierce initially dismisses but reconsiders when he realizes the Bureau is having him followed. Wary now, Pierce begins to do his own investigating into just what exactly his father has left him.

Back in Roswell Rath appears at the orphanage, having followed the other two there, and quickly bonds with Max and Isabel. Dee names him Michael in honor of Courtney's father. None of the hybrids appear to remember who they are, but all are exhibiting signs of unusual intelligence and post-human powers and communicate with each other, although none are speaking. Things are complicated when Jaddo arrives, having heard rumblings within the Special Unit and wanting to make certain the hybrids are safe. When he discovers they're emerging he advocates connecting with them immediately to jump start their memories, but Yvonne White urges caution because she's not certain how they will deal with tragic adult memories in their current state. Jaddo agrees to take it slowly, and he and Brivari connect briefly with each hybrid to impart one happy memory.

The effect is immediate. Max, Michael, and Isabel begin speaking, and start to question the differences in their Earth environment, such as the sun being the wrong color. Yvonne is alarmed at the speed of their progress and urges the Warders to back off; they agree, only to have Diane show up with the hybrids. Brivari tries to leave, but Max orders him to stay, and as he must obey an order from the king, he's stuck. Yvonne advises him that he and Jaddo must keep their distance from Max, at least, until he shows he is responsible enough to wield this power, and Brivari takes refuge on the second floor of the house, waiting for Max to leave. But Max and the others find him, fully aware now of who they are and full of questions about how they got there. Brivari and Jaddo attempt to limit the flow of information, but Max and Michael become more and more insistent on being told everything right away, although Isabel shies away. Their confrontation culminates with Max ordering Brivari and Jaddo to connect with them and show them what happened to land them on a strange planet in new bodies. The Warders hold off as long as possible, but in the end, they must obey.

The hybrids suffer a breakdown; Isabel screams, Max goes into shock, and Michael lashes out at everyone, including Isabel. They are taken to the hospital where Yvonne sedates them, and when they awaken they have regressed, appearing to have forgotten everything they knew about themselves. Yvonne theorizes that their immature brains simply couldn't handle what they were shown and advises the Warders to keep their distance and wait until the hybrids have reached adulthood before telling them the truth. Jaddo objects, holding the opinion that allowing the hybrids to be raised as humans will make them too human. Jaddo tries connecting with Michael again, but finds he has no memory or awareness of who he really is; distraught, he concludes that Rath is unsalvageable, and when Ava finally emerges from her pod, he keeps that secret from Brivari. When Brivari discovers she's gone, Jaddo insists they raise their only uncompromised hybrid together, while Brivari argues that he and Jaddo would make terrible parents and that Ava must be raised in the same environment as the others or she'll never be accepted by them. The two fight and Jaddo departs with Ava, leaving the others with Brivari. Brivari ultimately lets him go because he can't afford to leave the others unguarded for the length of time necessary to locate Jaddo. He allows Philip and Diane to foster Max and Isabel with the intention of adopting them, and Michael to move in with a foster family named Guerin.

Meanwhile, Pierce has discovered his inheritance—a serum which blocks an alien's powers. After a furious round of negotiations with interested parties, he throws in his lot with the FBI and becomes the protege of Daniel Summers, current head of the Special Unit. Jim Valenti Sr. mistakes Kyle's babysitter for an alien and pulls a gun on her, prompting Jimmy to have his father admitted to a nursing home. The hybrids settle into their new lives, all secretly aware that they're different but unable to understand why. Brivari buys a house in Roswell where he will live part time in order to keep an eye on the hybrids and becomes furious with Jaddo all over again when he discovers that he's taken not only Ava, but the crystal which operates the Granolith. And in an abandoned section of the New York City subway, a vagrant who turned his life around when he saw another set of hybrids in '59 and mistook them for tiny angels is delighted to see them break through the wall behind which they were entombed years ago.

[Kathy W 2200]

BIRTHRIGHT


SEASON ONE




CHAPTER ONE


September 19, 1999, 11:45 a.m.

Crashdown Café



"Maxwell, would you please stop doing that?"

Max's eyes dropped. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"So am I. Every time you look at her, you get this expression like a kicked puppy. It's embarrassing."

Max went back to his lunch, his eyes on his food. For a change, Michael thought as the object of Max's interest swished by, arms laden with plates. It took only seconds before his eyes darted up and sideways.

"You're hopeless," Michael said sadly. "What do you see in her, anyway? Girls are useless."

"I'll be sure and mention that to Isabel," Max said dryly.

"Isabel's not a girl," Michael answered as Max's eyebrows rose. "Not the way those two are. Just look at that friend of hers, that other waitress. At least she's blonde on the inside and the outside. Airheads, all of them."

"Liz isn't an airhead, Michael. And I seriously doubt she'd put up with anyone who is, so I'm thinking Maria isn't one either."

"Who?"

"Maria," Max said patiently. "The blonde waitress. She goes to school with us, remember?"

"Not really. And what makes you think Liz isn't an airhead?"

"She's got like the highest grade point average in our class,” Max said.

"So she's a bookworm. Big deal. Grades don't mean you're smart."

"Says the guy who's always failing," Max noted.

"Says the guy who's always pretending to be learning," Michael retorted. "We could learn that stuff with our eyes closed."

"So why don't you?"

"Because it's beneath me. It's beneath you too. You just haven't figured that out yet."

Max shook his head and went back to his lunch as Michael stewed silently about a pet peeve of his, that being his reputation as a loser. School was deadly boring, consisting of vast quantities of useless information disgorged by teachers into their captive audiences who were then obliged to spit it back in the form of homework and tests, which weren't hard, exactly, just time consuming. When he was younger and with the Guerins, he'd been willing to play the game, at least to a certain extent. But ever since they'd divorced and he'd been moved to a different foster home, he'd found it hard to care. His foster father made it hard to care about anything.

The sound of raised voices caught his attention. Two men seated on the opposite side of the diner were engaged in what sounded like the beginnings of a heated argument. "That's not gonna end well," Michael muttered.

"What isn't?" Max asked, his eyes still mercifully on his lunch.

"Those dudes having an argument."

"Who? I haven't heard anything."

No, you wouldn't, Michael sighed. Because he was the one who had the knack for honing in on conflict, who was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Maybe it came from watching the Guerins fight all the time, to the point where he could predict who would start the fight and when. Although that didn't explain his habit of sizing up every place in which he set foot, mentally cataloging the number of people present, their general demeanor, the number and placement of exits, and a host of other details which lined up in his brain like soldiers marching in parade. Why did he do that? He had no idea. It was like he was born knowing how to sniff out trouble. Maybe that's why he was so good at causing it.

Michael's self analysis stopped abruptly as Max succumbed to the lure of the bookworm and took another peek. "Great," Michael muttered when it became clear that he wasn't the only one who had noticed. "Now blondie's watching. And now she's telling Liz."

"They're just talking, Michael," Max said, glancing again.

"No, she's telling her you're staring," Michael said. "Wait for it....wait for it....."

Sure enough, after a brief conversation with blondie, Liz's head swung toward Max, who quickly looked away. "Nice, Maxwell," Michael deadpanned. "Very covert, very...."

He stopped, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. "What's wrong?" Max asked.

"Those guys," Michael whispered. "They're about to blow."

Max glanced toward the men. "They are? Says who?"

"Says me," Michael answered. "We should go."

"Why? Is this because of Liz? Because if it is, I—"

A loud crash cut him off. Every muscle in Michael's body tensed as both of the men leaped to their feet shouting, the dishes one had just swept off their table in pieces on the floor. "Maybe you're right," Max whispered. "Let's go."

Too late. "Get down!" Michael ordered only seconds before one of the men pulled a gun. Screams echoed across the café followed by a curious sinking noise as those screaming dropped to the floor. All except one, that is. Liz Parker, the bookworm, the smartest girl in the class, stood gaping at the gunman, frozen to the spot.

The gun went off. Liz crumpled to the floor just as the men decided that hanging around probably wasn't such a great idea. They left in a big hurry with very few noticing, almost every eye in the diner on the girl on the ground....except Michael's. He was watching Max, who was doing more than just watching. He was vaulting out of his seat.

"What are you doing?" Max hissed when Michael stopped him. "Let go of me!"

"Max, what are you gonna do?" Michael demanded.

But Max pushed past him. "Call an ambulance," he said to blondie, who was goggling in shock.

Holy shit, Michael thought desperately as Max went for Liz. Was he really going to try it right here, right now, in front of all these people?

Max bent over Liz and ripped her uniform open, settling that question. "Oh, my god!" breathed a woman with black lipstick as the crowd surged forward to see better.

"Hey, get back!" Michael ordered, throwing up his arms to block them. It was too late to stop Max from doing something idiotic, but maybe he could cut down on the number of witnesses. Everyone was staring, their eyes as wide as dinner plates as Max bent over the girl on the ground, touched her, seemed to crumple over her.....

"Is he okay?" black lipstick asked.

God only knows, Michael thought desperately, every second he stood there seeming to take forever. Max had healed small things before, but never anything this large. He had no idea if Max could even do that.

Or if they'd survive it if he did. "Keys! Now!" Michael barked as a siren blared in the distance, wondering if Max was even capable of responding or if he'd have to carry him out of here. Power did that to you, drained you of energy. But Max promptly reached into his pocket and tossed him the keys; Michael bolted for the door, practically vaulting into the jeep and jamming the keys into the ignition. The jeep roared to life and he slammed it into gear, pulling up just outside the Crashdown's door. C'mon, c'mon, he thought impatiently when Max wasn't instantly there. Times up, Maxwell. Time to run.

And run Max did, flying out the diner's door and into the jeep's passenger seat. Michael roared off, tires squealing, so intent on getting out of there that he only caught a glimpse of the girl with long dark hair and a large red stain on her front who watched them leave, wide-eyed.




***************************************************




Valenti residence




Swish

Jim Valenti blinked as he pulled the curtains aside, the morning sun blinding him. Make that "almost morning", he added sheepishly after glancing at the clock. 11:45 a.m.? Jesus, that was late. Ever since he'd started taking weekends off, or trying to, anyway, it seemed he'd been reverting to teenaged behaviors. Maybe it was true that you actually became more like the people you lived with.

The carpet was scratchy under his feet as he padded toward his son's bedroom and carefully cracked the door open. Kyle was sound asleep as he usually was at this hour on a Sunday, sprawled in one of his famous ungainly positions that looked dreadfully uncomfortable but apparently wasn't. Sleeping till noon....God, but that brought back memories. When he'd been a teenager he'd slept past noon at every available opportunity. It always felt decadent getting up when the sun was high in the sky and the rest of the world had been up for hours. "Getting up" didn't mean "waking up", of course; he woke up at the same time every morning, school or no school, with or without an alarm clock. His alarm clock had been the sound of his parents arguing, an almost daily occurrence in his house since the age of eight. On school days or during his summer jobs, his parents' angry voices floating down the hall or up the stairs had meant it was time to get up; days off allowed him to pull the covers over his head and roll over, waking up hours later when his father was long gone and his mother at least a little calmer. His friends had always complained about their alarm clocks, but at least theirs had had snooze buttons and batteries that could be removed or plugs that could be pulled, and if all else failed, you could hurl it across the room He'd had none of those options.

Valenti closed the door softly, catching a glimpse of the photo on the wall beside Kyle's bed just before the door swung shut. That picture had been taken when Kyle was very young, too young to remember the smiling woman on whose lap he'd been sitting, sunglasses perched jauntily on her head. Whenever he regretted being a single parent, whenever he felt like he'd failed his son by giving his mother the divorce she'd wanted, he reminded himself of what he'd spared Kyle by doing just that, all the arguments and the slammed doors, the accusations and the yelling. Having experienced both the noise of parents staying together longer than they should have and the relative silence of an early parting, he much preferred the latter. He could only hope Kyle felt the same.

The phone rang, and Valenti headed for the living room, stubbing his toe on the football pads left haphazardly on the floor. Cursing, he limped to the phone's cradle only to find it empty. And so the latest hunt for the handset began, a ritual now all too familiar in the Valenti household. It didn't help that two men tended to be messy creatures, which explained why he finally found the handset beneath a pile of laundry at the east end of the couch.

"Hello?" he said breathlessly.

"Sheriff Valenti? Did I wake you?"

Damn! In the race to find the handset, he'd neglected to check his Caller ID, just assuming it was the station, which would have been worlds better than who it was. "No," he answered, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Cartwright?"

"There was an important matter I needed to discuss with you, Sheriff—"

"Important enough to bother me on a Sunday?" Valenti interrupted. "Look, I know my last check bounced, but that was the bank's mistake. I thought that was all cleared up."

"It is," Mrs. Cartwright answered, "and the late payment fee was deleted. This isn't about your father's account. It's about your father."

"What about my father?"

"You haven't been to see him in quite some time, and he's asking for you. Here at the The Haven, we take great pride in fostering the needs of our residents, and....."

Blah, blah, blah, Valenti thought as she droned on. Sophia Cartwright had been his father's case manager since he'd been admitted to The Haven back in '89 after he'd threatened Kyle's babysitter with a gun because he thought she was an alien. The Haven knew nothing about that, of course. Just like he knew nothing about the mysterious doctor whose signature had made it possible for his father to get into The Haven, the one who'd claimed to have known him. In the whirl of emotions he’d neglected to commit her name to memory, and he'd been afraid to ask, afraid to jinx his sudden good fortune.

"Therefore I would be derelict in my duty if I failed to inform you that nursing home residents thrive best when surrounded by friends and family," Mrs. Cartwright continued. "And given how long it's been since you visited—"

"Mrs. Cartwright, I really appreciate your concern," Valenti broke in, annoyed that the peace of his Sunday had been shattered and furious with himself for not checking the Caller ID. "But I really think that calling me on a Sunday morning is a bit over the top."

"Well, then, when should I call you?" Mrs. Cartwright asked, a faint note of exasperation in her voice. "I call the station, and you don't call back. I call your house, and I get the machine. This is the first time I've reached you after two weeks of trying."

"Have you ever considered that I'm not in a hurry to talk to you precisely because I get a lecture every single time we chat?" Valenti demanded.

"I'm not trying to 'lecture' you," Mrs. Cartwright said patiently. "I'm merely trying to—"

"Look, you and Dad both are going to have to realize something," Valenti said. "I'm his only son, so I'm the only one to field these calls. I'm also a single parent and the town sheriff. I have other responsibilities besides my father, and you're just going to have to accept that. Like I have to accept that I and I alone am responsible for my father, and I'll never make him happy even if I go up there six times a day for the rest of my life."

"I realize a parent's waning years can be trying," Mrs. Cartwright said soothingly, "but perhaps you could—"

"Perhaps you could stop badgering me," Valenti said tersely. "The nature of my job doesn't afford me the luxury of trotting up there every time he wants me to. I hope you have a nice Sunday, Mrs. Cartwright, in spite of the fact that you've ruined mine."

Valenti thwacked the phone into its cradle and leaned against the table, one hand over his eyes. God, but he'd just behaved badly. Not only had he hung up on his father's case manager, he'd also resorted to the dreaded phrase "nature of the job". His father had used that excuse constantly to explain everything from his work hours to his endless tromps through the woods hunting for aliens. It had been one of his mother's chief complaints, and to hear those words come out of his mouth now was nothing short of disturbing. He'd tried so hard not to follow in his father's shaky footsteps. Was it all for nothing? Was he destined to become his father anyway?

The phone rang again. Still mad at himself for having uttered that hated phrase, Valenti snatched it up and jabbed the button. "Yes?"

There was a long pause, so long it became annoying. "Hello?" he said sharply. "Say something, or I'm hanging up."

"Uh....sorry, sir," came a reluctant voice. "You know I wouldn't bother you at home on a weekend unless it was important."

Owen. "Deputy Blackwood," Valenti sighed. "I....I'm sorry. What is it?"

"There's been an incident, sir."

"What kind of incident?"

"A shooting, sir."

"A shooting?"

"Yes, sir."

"Someone fired a gun on a Sunday morning in my town?"

"Yes, sir. No one was hurt....at least, I don't think so."

Valenti blinked. "You don't 'think so'? What is there to think about? Either someone was hurt, or they weren't."

"Right. Well...I think you should come down here, sir. That's why I called you."

"And where's 'here'?"

"Dad?"

Valenti whirled around. Kyle was standing in his bedroom doorway, boxers askew and hair a mess. "I'll be there in a few minutes," Valenti said into the phone. "I just need to get dressed. Hold the fort, keep all witnesses there, and see to it that anyone who 'might' have been hurt gets looked at."

"Is something wrong?" Kyle asked as Valenti hung up the phone. "You sounded upset."

"Just some idiots stirring up trouble, and on a weekend, no less," Valenti said lightly. "Probably Crash Festival tourists who landed early. I'll take care of it. Go back to bed."

Kyle waited uncertainly for a moment before shuffling back to bed. Valenti heard the bed springs creak just as he turned on the water for a fast shower. Long practiced in the art of the quick exit, he was dressed and heading out the door only ten minutes later, buckling on his gun and shaking his head as he went. The Crashdown? he thought skeptically. Since when did anything bad ever happen at the Crashdown?




***************************************************




Evans residence



Michael pulled the jeep into the driveway of the Evans' house, shut off the engine, and punched the garage door opener. The door rumbled open as he and Max sat in silence, the same silence in which they'd ridden all the way from the café, both staring into space, lost in their own thoughts. Well, make that Max who was lost in his own thoughts. Michael wasn't thinking, he was seething.

"Did I see what I thought I saw back there?" Michael demanded.

There was a pause before Max answered. "I don't know. What do you think you saw?"

"I thought I saw a girl get shot, Maxwell. I thought I saw her fall. And then....and then I thought I saw her standing on her own two feet just before we left."

Silence. Max stared straight ahead. "So....does that mean it worked?" Michael ventured.

Max hesitated. "Yes," he said finally. "It worked. At least....I think it did."

"You 'think' it did," Michael echoed. "Does that mean it did, or didn't?"

"I.....it did. It worked."

Michael felt his chest constrict. "Christ, Maxwell, it worked? You've never fixed anything that big before."

"I know."

"I didn't even know you could do that."

"Neither did I," Max whispered.

"But now we do," Michael said. "And we're not the only ones. You know who else knows?" He leaned in closer, fastened his eyes on Max. "The whole God-damned town knows because you did it right in front of them!"

Max looked away, his jaw twitching. "Honestly, what got into you?" Michael exclaimed. "What made you blast out of your seat and try out for Superman in front of a crowd?"

"Liz was shot, Michael," Max said tersely. "She might have died."

"Then she would have died," Michael said bluntly. "That's a hell of a lot better than you dying."

"I'm not dead," Max retorted.

"Not yet," Michael corrected. "Just give them time. They'll catch up with you."

"Who is they?" Max demanded in exasperation. "And besides, I dumped a bottle of ketchup all over her dress and told her to say she'd spilled it."

"Oh, you 'told her'," Michael said scornfully. "Well, that settles it, doesn't it? I feel so much better."

"I told her not to say anything—"

"I don't care what you 'told her'," Michael interrupted sharply. "What makes you think she's actually going to keep her mouth shut?"

"She will," Max said. "Liz won't talk."

"Forgive me if I don't share your confidence in the female of the species," Michael said. "We don't know she won't talk. She could be blabbering right now to whoever was driving that siren."

"She won't talk," Max said firmly. "I know she won't."

"You don't even know her, so you don't—"

"Michael, don't waste your time," Max said firmly. "It's done."

"Oh, it's done, all right," Michael said bitterly. "That's the one thing we can agree on. It's done....and so are we."

"What's done?" another voice asked.

Max hesitated for just a moment before climbing out of the jeep and stalking past his sister, who was standing in the mouth of the garage. "What's done?" Isabel repeated as Max went by. "Max? What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Max's voice called back, followed by the sound of a door closing.

Isabel's eyes swung back to Michael as he gave a soft snort. " 'Nothing'?" he said skeptically. "Wow. Kind of makes me afraid to ask what he'd call 'something'."

"What happened?" Isabel demanded in alarm. "Did something bad happen?"

"If you call getting shot 'bad', then yes, something bad happened."

Isabel's eyes popped. " 'Shot'? Max got shot?"

"No, Max is fine. For now."

Isabel's eyes raked him anxiously. "Then...you got shot?"

"No, I'm fine too. For now."

"Michael, stop horsing around, and tell me what happened!" Isabel exclaimed.

Michael grabbed the jeep's roll cage and hoisted himself out. "Two guys were arguing at the Crashdown. They had a gun, and one of the waitresses was shot. Liz Parker."

"Oh, my God!" Isabel breathed. "Is she okay?"

"She is now. Maxwell saw to that."

He brushed past her, heading through the empty garage which announced their parents' absence and into the house as feet scrambled after him. "Michael! Michael, wait! What does that mean?"

"Ask Max," Michael said shortly.

A hand grabbed him, spun him around. "Believe me, I plan to," Isabel said firmly. "But now I'm asking you. What happened?"

Michael sighed and dug his hands into his pockets. There was no putting her off when she got like this. Isabel would hound you all the way to the ends of the Earth if that's what it took to get what she wanted.

"I told you: Two guys were fighting, one of them had a gun. The gun went off; Liz went down. And Max got up."

"Got up, and did....what?" Isabel asked warily.

Michael stared at the ceiling. "He fixed her, Isabel."

Isabel blinked. "Fixed...you mean....you mean he healed her? He healed a gunshot wound? Can he even do that?"

"I think we've settled that one, don't you?"

"But are you sure?" Isabel pressed. "Are you sure it worked?"

"She was down, and then she was up. Sure looked like it worked to me."

"But...." Isabel hesitated, swallowing hard. "Was anyone else there?"

"It was a Sunday afternoon at the Crashdown. What do you think?"

Isabel's eyes widened in horror. "So did anyone else see it?"

"Not 'anyone'," Michael corrected. " 'Everyone'."

Everyone. Isabel's mouth mouthed the word soundlessly as though unwilling to say it out loud as he pushed past her, heading down the hallway to Max's bedroom. Max was slumped on his bed, bent over, his hands laced behind his neck. "Max, is this true?" Isabel demanded in a brittle voice, having lost no time in following him. "Liz Parker got shot, and you healed her? Right in front of everyone?"

"Don't panic, Isabel," Max said. "It'll be all right."

"All right? All right?" Isabel echoed incredulously. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Max said, fastening his eyes on his sister. "I saved her life."

"You're sure of that?" Isabel said. "What if you're wrong? You've never done anything like this before, so maybe it didn't work. Or even if it worked, maybe it won't last. Maybe—"

"Maybe she'll be dead?" Max finished. "Yeah, that would make it all better, wouldn't it?"

Brother and sister eyed each other for a moment. "Yes, it would," Isabel said finally. " I'm sorry to say it, but it would make it better."

"You're not sorry," Max retorted. "Jesus, Iz, how selfish can you get?"

"I am not selfish!" Isabel exclaimed. "Do you realize what this means, Max? How is it selfish to not want what this means?"

"It doesn't mean anything, Isabel. I poured ketchup all over her and told her to say the bottle had broken. They'll buy it."

"You don't know that!" Isabel argued. "And even if they do, what makes you think she won't tell them anyway?"

"She won't," Max insisted.

"But how do you know?" Isabel demanded.

"Because she won't," Max said sharply, rising from the bed. "Because I know she won't. Because....because she's Liz."

Michael watched sympathetically as Isabel's mouth dropped open. He's got it bad, he thought. He'd had no idea Max was so far gone. And neither, apparently, had Isabel.

"Why, Max?" Isabel wailed as he stood at the window with his back to her. "Why would you do something like this? We never tell. That's the rule. We never tell anyone."

"I didn't tell her a thing," Max said.

"Don't you try that with me!" Isabel said angrily. "Showing involves telling, and you know it! And we never tell. Never. So why now? Why tell now?"

Max sighed, a weary resigned sound that made it clear he was tired of the harangue. "Because she was dying, Isabel," he said quietly. "Because she'd be dead right now if I hadn't. I couldn't let her die. I just couldn't."

"But you could let us die?" Isabel exclaimed.

"Stop it," Max said firmly. " No one's dying, not Liz, not me, not you, not Michael. No one."

Michael shook his head as Isabel looked at him, pleading with him for support. He was on her side, but what difference did it make? Max was right about one thing—it was done, and there was no undoing it, either the healing or his crush. Isabel seemed to sense that too because she sank down on the bed, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

"So who do you think will come for us?" she said faintly.

"No one's coming for us," Max said.

Michael looked out the window. "You hope."




***************************************************



Crashdown Cafe



"Need me for anything else?" Valenti asked.

"No sir, we're fine," Hanson answered. "We've got a pile of statements; Owen is just finishing up the last two. Turns out there was only minimal damage to the café, and Jeff said insurance should cover it, no problem."

"Good," Valenti said. "If I shake a leg, I might make it home before Kyle gets up."

Hanson shook his head, grinning. "Teenagers. Don't remember ever sleeping that late when I was that age. Do you?"

"I remember wanting to more than I got the chance to," Valenti said. "Hope the rest of the day is dead boring for you."

"Me too, sir. Enjoy your Sunday."

"Sheriff, wait!" a voice called just as Valenti put his hand on the door. "Wait!"

Valenti turned around. A man and a woman were charging toward him like they were being chased, which they were; Owen Blackwood was hot on their heels, looking madder than a hornet. "Sheriff, I'm sorry about this," Owen said, flustered, an oddity given that very little flustered Owen. "Mr. Trilling, Miss Kattler, would you please stop bothering the sheriff and let us follow procedure? You've given your statements, and I took down every single word, word for word. Your comments have been noted."

"And we've already talked," Valenti said. "What's the problem?"

"The problem is that no one's taking us seriously," the woman declared.

"About?"

"Sheriff, that girl was shot," the man said firmly. "You weren't there, but we were. We know it. We saw it. She didn't just fall, she was shot. And then that boy went up to her and....did something to her."

Valenti looked at Owen, who rolled his eyes. "Mr....Trilling, was it?"

"Larry," the man said quickly. "Call me Larry. And this is Jen."

"Larry, then," Valenti said. "I know I wasn't there when the shooting occurred, but I also know that Miss Parker wasn't injured when I arrived. And you know that too."

"That's exactly the point," Jen said in exasperation. "She was shot, and then she wasn't. Doesn't that interest anyone, even a little bit?"

"And what about that boy, the one who ran out?" Larry interjected. "Doesn't anyone want to know who he is?"

"Or the other one, the one who held us back," Jen added. "They were sitting together, and that girl who was shot knew them. I know she said she didn't, but you saw her face, Sheriff. You know she was lying."

Valenti looked at Owen, who shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir, but it looks like the girl fell, and the boy was just concerned about her. She said she broke the ketchup bottle—"

"No, no, she didn't," Larry said firmly. "The boy broke the bottle."

"We saw him," Jen nodded vigorously. "He broke the bottle and poured ketchup all over her."

"Now, why on earth would he do that?" Owen demanded.

"That's what we'd like to know!" Larry exclaimed. "And I'd think you'd want to know too!"

"So why didn't anyone else mention him doing that?" Owen asked. "Everyone else said he just bent over her. You're the only two who said different."

"Well, then, why did he run?" Jen asked. "Why would he run away?"

"Any number of reasons," Owen answered. "Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he has feelings for this girl and doesn't want her boyfriend to know. These are teenagers we're talking about. Could be anything."

"Perhaps this isn't the best place for this conversation," Valenti said as Larry and Jen began erupting again, steering everyone toward the back as Owen shot him a sympathetic look. Wouldn't be the first time he hadn't been able to leave when he wanted to, and it wouldn't be the last. The door closed behind them, and Valenti put on his best concerned law enforcement face.

"Mr. Trilling, Miss....."

"Kattler," Owen said.

"Miss Kattler," Valenti finished, "I appreciate you taking the time to give us your statements and voice your concerns. I really do. It's responsible citizens like you that make this great democracy of ours what it is. Now," he continued as the two beamed at him, "I need to ask you something. Do you feel Deputy Blackwood honestly recorded your observations of this incident?"

"Well....yes," Larry allowed. "But he doesn't believe us."

"I'm not asking if you feel he believed you," Valenti said. "I'm asking if you feel your statements were recorded accurately."

Larry and Jen exchanged glances. "I....we....guess so," Jen said uncertainly.

"You 'guess so'?" Valenti echoed. "Does this mean you feel Deputy Blackwood did not faithfully record your account of the shooting this morning?"

Caught, Jen gave an impatient sigh. "Yes, he recorded everything we said," she admitted, "but—"

"No buts," Valenti said firmly. "If you're satisfied that Deputy Blackwood recorded your observations accurately, then you're done here. The incident is still under investigation, and you have my word we'll take your account of events into consideration, just as we will everyone else's accounts as well."

Larry and Jen exchanged another set of glances which made it clear that they knew where their observations would fall on the witness spectrum. Behind them, Owen Blackwood was giving them a satisfied told ya so look which he promptly dropped when he glanced at his boss. Granted these two were just tourists in town for the Crash Festival, that bane of his father's existence and, to a lesser extent, of his. But even alien crazy thrill seekers deserved at least a basic level of respect in his town, and he'd see to it they got it, even if their behavior would be the butt of jokes around the coffee pot for days to come.

"So no one's interested in the fact that a bullet was never found?" Larry asked.

" 'Never' is too ambitious a word for something that happened a couple of hours ago," Valenti answered. "We're still investigating the scene. We'll find it."

"No, you won't, because it went into the girl," Jen muttered.

"It's all in your statements, right?" Valenti asked as Owen nodded vigorously and waved the papers in his hand. "Then I'll read them myself, and you'll hear from me if I have any questions."

"You should have questions now!" Jen exclaimed. "A girl gets shot, then gets....'unshot', and nobody wants to know why?"

"If she was shot, why wasn't she bleeding?" Owen asked.

"She was!" Larry said in exasperation. "I tell you, she wasn't moving until....."

Damn it, Valenti sighed inwardly as Larry and Jen took off again. He'd been trying to wind this down, and here his own deputy had gone and fanned the flames again.

".....and then he bent over her for a good solid minute or two, put his hand on her right where she was shot, and—"

"What?"

Larry and Jen abruptly stopped talking. "What...what?" Larry asked.

"You said the boy went up to her," Valenti said. "You didn't say anything about him spending a couple of minutes bending over her or touching her."

"Yes, we did," Jen said deliberately, plucking their statements from Deputy Blackwood's hand. "In here. Our statements. You know, the ones you haven't read yet, but promised you will?"

"So what exactly did the boy do to her?" Valenti asked.

Jen looked ready to continue castigating him about their statements, but was shushed by a look from Larry, who wasn't about to squander the sudden gift of Valenti's attention. "The friend he was eating lunch with tried to hold him back, but this kid pushed him out of the way and went up to the girl on the floor," Larry said intently. "He opened up her uniform—"

"With both hands, just ripped it open," Jen added dramatically.

"Yeah, ripped it," Larry agreed, "and then he put his hand on her and just..."

"Just..... what?" Valenti asked.

"Just....held it there," Jen answered. "While we all stood there, and watched and waited. He just bent over her and held his hand on her....kind of pushed it into her stomach, almost....and then she moved. She was absolutely motionless, Sheriff, and then she moved."

"And then he broke the ketchup bottle and poured it all over her, and he and his friend hit the road fast," Larry added. "And the girl just stood up...."

"And she was fine," Jen whispered.

"It's all in the report, sir," Owen broke in. "I wrote down every word they said, just the way they said it. I even—"

"Deputy, do we have a copy of last year's high school yearbook at the station?" Valenti asked.

Owen blinked. "Yes, sir, we do. But—"

"Good. Have Mr. Trilling and Miss Kattler look through it and see if they can identify the two boys they saw. Let me know if they recognize anyone."

Valenti walked out, ignoring both his deputy's stunned expression and the triumphant expressions on Larry's and Jen's faces. Tomorrow he would say that all he'd been trying to do was make the tourists feel listened to so they would shut up and go away. If giving them this one last task and refusing to so much as wink at his deputy made them feel vindicated, so be it. A small price to pay for peace and quiet and community relations. He would say that...but he'd be lying. Because the real reason he'd assigned that one last task was that his mind had fastened on a single word, repeating over and over in his mind like a broken record.

Hand.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 2 on Sunday, July 18th, which will get us back on our regular Sunday schedule.

[Island Breeze]

Wow! The 6th book!? I've got some serious catching up to do! I've been totally tied up for like forever between RL and trying to work on my own stories, especially certain original ones, but I haven't forgotten this story. It's still one of my all-time favorites and I very much intend to read it... ALL of it! Back later with more to say. ^__^ Great banner by the way!

[Kathy W 2200]

^^ Hey, Island Breeze! Good to see you! I know what you mean, about both RL and writing. While I'm a little sad this is the last book, It'll be nice to have the time to actually read some FF when I'm done with it! And I agree, Misha made a beautiful banner.



CHAPTER TWO


September 20, 1999, 7:05 a.m.

Evans residence



Isabel Evans tossed another sweater on the bed, the towering pile already there threatening to topple. "No," she muttered, holding up another in front of her full length mirror. Toss. "No." Toss. "No, no, no."

There was a faint knock on her bedroom door; the door cracked open, and Max's head appeared. "Iz? If we wait any longer, we'll be late. Are you...." He paused, pushing the door open. "You're not even dressed yet."

Isabel arched an eyebrow. "Do all brothers wander into their sister's bedrooms while they're dressing?"

"You're way more dressed than you are at the beach, and I didn't wander, I knocked," Max reminded her. "You could have said 'stay out'. Why didn't you?"

"Never mind," Isabel sighed, tossing the latest reject on the pile. "It's just a bra."

"What's all this?" Max asked, gazing at the laden bed. "I know you like your clothes, but this is a whole other level."

"I want to look right."

" 'Right'?"

"Yeah, you know....right."

"You mean....'human'?"

"Yes, Max, I mean 'human'," Isabel said sharply. "And I wouldn't have to worry about this at all if it weren't for you."

Max closed the door behind him and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "It's okay," he said gently. "You saw the paper this morning...not so much as a peep. It'll be okay. Just ignore it."

"And what about Liz? Will she just ignore it?"

"She's probably so confused that she doesn't know what happened," Max said. "I'll see her in Biology today, and then we'll know. But even if she says something, and I don't think she will, she can't prove anything." He paused, snagging the sweater on top of the pile. "Wear this one. It goes with your eyes."

Isabel shook her head. "Too ostentatious. The last thing I want to do today is stand out."

"Well, pick something, because we have to leave."

"No, you have to leave. I've made alternate arrangements. Don't worry, I won't be late to school," Isabel added. "I don't want to stand out by being late either."

He left, and Isabel leaned her head against the mirror, closing her eyes. This wasn't the first time they'd almost been caught. She and Michael had—stupidly—used their powers in ways that had drawn puzzled attention which had served as a reminder to not do that again....until the next time, that is. Her transgressions usually involved not realizing she was being observed, while Michael's involved just plain not thinking. Max was the only one who had never been in that situation, who had never once stumbled and done something he shouldn't have, so to have him do something so massive so publicly was virtually unheard of. Interestingly, the only one who didn't seem concerned about that was Max. Michael, by contrast, had left yesterday afternoon to prepare for the onslaught of whatever, and she....she had curled on her bed in her room, absolutely terrified, not even willing to come out for dinner. Her mother had kindly brought a tray to her room and, not for the first time, Isabel had been almost overwhelmed by the urge to tell her the truth, to spill the secret they had all kept so carefully. The need to confide had always been strong, but the need to have an adult on their side suddenly loomed larger than ever. She swore that if her mom had stayed so much as 30 more seconds in her room last night, she would have blurted out everything.

But Diane had left promptly, after the standard parental probings to see if this was illness, friends, or boys, that is. Isabel had fallen into an exhausted sleep which had mercifully lasted until morning, when she'd been awakened by the sound of a newspaper being shoved under her door. The shooting at the Crashdown had, not unexpectedly, made the front page, the words wobbling in front of her as she held the newspaper with hands that shook badly. But there had been no mention of anyone being hurt or anything weird happening, not even a hint. Max was right; whatever he'd done had apparently been missed. A few early morning phone calls to friends disguised as musings about what to wear had confirmed that; no one was overly concerned about it, probably because it hadn't happened to anyone they cared about, Liz Parker not being one of the "it" crowd. So Isabel had finally emerged from her bedroom to have breakfast with the family, breathing easily for the first time since yesterday afternoon.

But doubt had set in again when she'd gone to get dressed. Her friends were one thing, but the whole school was another. Liz Parker may be the quintessential bookworm, but presumably she had some friends somewhere, so someone must be interested in what had happened to her. What if one of those someones had noticed something and it just wasn't showing up on the radar because Liz didn't move in Isabel's circle? She needed to make extra certain that she called no attention to herself, a tall order as she drew people's attention even when actively trying not to. Being gorgeous could be a burden, and that burden had never seemed heavier as she pawed through her extensive wardrobe for something that was understated, but not so different that it would cancel out the "understated" part.

Isabel glanced at the clock; it was almost 7:10, which meant her ride was leaving. Settling on a plain sweater with small earrings and no other jewelry, she pulled her hair back into a utilitarian ponytail, slipped her feet into the most boring pair of shoes she owned, grabbed her books, and made a beeline for the driveway.

"I'm here," she said breathlessly, climbing into the car. "We can go."

The car pulled out, and Isabel felt her breakfast churning in her stomach like this weekend's laundry. Everyone in Roswell went to the Crashdown. Everyone in Roswell knew the Parkers, the Crashdown's owners; that was one of the reasons Liz Parker got a pass in the catty department, because no one wanted to tick off her parents and risk being barred from the local watering hole. No matter what the newspaper said, someone must have noticed something yesterday. The fact that the paper hadn't reported it could mean nothing; didn't the sheriff keep certain details quiet when something was under investigation? Would there be cars with flashing lights waiting for her at school? Was it wise to have let Max go on ahead of her? What if someone had been waiting for him? What if they took him away, and she never saw him again? What if....

Stop it, she told herself fiercely. If there had been any question, any road that led to Max, someone would have come to their house, not waited for them at school. And Max was right; no one could prove anything, including Liz. Government officials always used the term "plausible denial" when they wanted to hide something. Perhaps that was the best strategy here, that and convincing her lovesick brother not to heal chicks in public. But since he'd lapsed on the latter, the former would have to do. They would all have to act normal, and in an effort to practice doing just that, Isabel rummaged through her pile of books and binders, mentally ticking down the homework that was due and the quizzes which were looming. Crap....she'd remembered to tuck her new pencils in her pencil case, but she'd forgotten to sharpen them.....

A moment later, Isabel froze in horror. She'd just sharpened one of her pencils....without the aid of a pencil sharpener. She did that all the time without even thinking about it, but she'd have to think about it now. Imagine if someone saw her do that. Imagine if what had never meant a thing now meant a good deal more in the wake of her brother's foolishness....

"Isabel? We're here."

Isabel startled back to the present. The car had pulled up beside the curb outside the school, and she hadn't even noticed, so preoccupied was she with the offending pencil held up in front of her like it was a recently discovered grenade. "Right," she said quickly, setting it down in the cup holder, unwilling to bring it inside, as though anyone seeing it would know right away that it hadn't been sharpened in any conventional manner. "Sorry."

"You okay? You haven't said a word."

Isabel managed a smile. "I'm fine. I'm just...preoccupied. School and all. You remember, right?" She gathered her books, leaned in for a kiss. "Thanks for the ride, Grandma Dee. You're the best."

She climbed out slowly, scoping the place out. No flashing lights, no paddy wagons, nothing unusual at all. Just kids streaming into school, all blissfully ignoring her except for the knot of friends headed her way, the looks on their faces already registering their disbelief at her plain Jane outfit. Excellent. She'd worried for nothing, and now she could go inside, safely surrounded by friends.

So intent was she on entering that protective bubble that she didn't see her Grandmother pick up the abandoned pencil and gaze at it thoughtfully.




*****************************************************



West Roswell High School




West Roswell's school secretary shifted uncomfortably behind her counter. "But why do you want to know, sheriff? Did they do something wrong? If it were anything serious, you'd be asking for records, not my personal experience."

"I'm just tying up some lose ends in an investigation, that's all," Valenti said soothingly. "And of course I'm not asking for records; that would have to be an official request, and this is just a friendly conversation. Kind of like that friendly conversation we had a few weeks ago when you were doing 50 in a 35 mile per hour zone."

Mrs. Wilson reddened. "You mean the one where I begged you not to write me a ticket because my insurance would skyrocket?"

"That would be the one," Valenti confirmed. "We made a deal, you and I, that I'd let you off as long as I didn't catch you at it again. And I'll make you a deal here and now that if I need actual records, I'll jump through all the necessary hoops. All I need now is to see these kids through your eyes because I know you see everything that goes on in this school, and I trust your interpretation of what you see."

Mrs. Wilson's smile told Valenti he'd hit the right button. Flattery always worked, but it never hurt to remind someone when they owed you a favor. "Well," Mrs. Wilson said, leaning further over the counter and lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "the first one, Max Evans, is an all around good kid. Quiet, good student, good grades, never gets into trouble. Michael Guerin, on the other hand, is just the opposite: Cuts classes, mouths off, pretty much has a seat in the principal's office with his name on it."

"Is he passing?" Valenti asked.

"Just barely," Mrs. Wilson answered. "Everything with Michael is 'just barely'. Just barely passes, just barely misses getting suspended, just barely gets moved on to the next grade. Then again, I'm not surprised given his upbringing."

"Which is.....?"

"He's a foster kid," Mrs. Wilson explained. "Since he was quite young, 6 or 7 or so. I gather he started with a stable family, but they divorced, and he's been bounced around. His latest is no prize, I can tell you that. He's only darkened the door of this school once, and that was quite enough for me."

"And the Evans kid?"

"Oh, very nice family," Mrs. Wilson beamed. "Mr. Evans is a lawyer, and Mrs. Evans is a homemaker, I think. There's just the two kids, Max and his sister Isabel. All around good eggs. You'd never know they were adopted."

"Adopted?" Valenti repeated. "You mean all three of those kids, the Evans kids and Guerin, were adopted?"

"They sure were," Mrs. Wilson nodded. "Although in Michael's case, it didn't work out as well."

"Guess not," Valenti agreed. "Thanks for the lowdown. I really appreciate it."

"Any time," Mrs. Wilson assured him.

That's not what you told me when I first asked, Valenti thought dryly as he made his way out to his cruiser. But no matter; she'd talked, and that was what counted. Of the two kids fingered by the very persistent Larry and Jen, it would appear Guerin would be the one most likely to have passed his way. But neither boy had a record, nor was there anything to charge them with or even suspect them of; even if Larry's and Jen's fantastic story were true, it was hardly against the law to help the injured. But the continued absence of a bullet still piqued his interest, as did the specter of a boy bending over an injured girl and placing his hand on her. Wild horses wouldn't drag out of him what that image brought to mind, so he was reduced to more underhanded ways of getting information, like shaking down the school secretary.

Or the good old tail, he added when he spotted his two suspects and a girl hopping into a jeep at the far end of the parking lot. Larry and Jen had claimed Evans and Guerin had left the Crashdown yesterday in a jeep and in a big hurry, with Guerin driving. Now Evans was driving, and Valenti hurried to his cruiser and tailed them from a distance. They stopped at a roadside roach coach, got their food, sat down together, appeared to be having some sort of argument....and then the Guerin kid abruptly got up and left, the other two following. Or that's what it looked like through his binoculars, anyway, the pair he kept in the glove compartment for just such occasions. Mr. Evans, Valenti thought, pulling out after them and stepping on the accelerator, it's time that you and I met.

He turned on his lights, watching with interest to see what the kids would do. After a moment's hesitation where he thought they might run, the jeep pulled over to the side of the road and stopped, Valenti pulling up behind. So far, so good. How people behaved at traffic stops told you all sorts of things about them.

Three pairs of eyes fastened on him when he drew abreast of the vehicle. The driver was a serious, dark-haired kid who watched him warily. In the passenger seat was a wild-haired boy of about the same age who made no effort to hide the resentment in his eyes. The girl in back was also about the same age, and scared. Quite scared.

"Your license and registration please," Valenti said.

"Of course, officer."

The dark-haired driver handed over the documents. So this was Max Evans. The jeep was registered in his father's name.

"Thank you, Mr. Evans," Valenti said, handing back the documents. “We had a little trouble at the Crashdown Café yesterday. You kids be careful out there."

"Yes, sir," Max said quickly. A little too quickly, which Valenti didn't miss, nor did he miss a faint clink. Max's foot had bumped a bottle on the floor of the jeep.

"Watch your speed," Valenti advised. "Arrive alive."

"We will," Max assured him.

Valenti took his time walking back to his cruiser and pulling away, driving slowly, watching the little group in his rear view mirror. They sat there for a minute having what appeared to be yet another heated conversation before the boy on the passenger side got out and walked away, apparently in a huff. He had no idea what that was all about, but one thing was clear—Max Evans had been at the Crashdown yesterday. Those bottles of Tabasco sauce on the floor of his jeep, which Valenti had inspected closely to make certain they're weren't beer bottles, matched the Tabasco bottles at the table where Larry and Jen said Max had been sitting. An odd culinary habit, if ever there was one.

But hardly illegal, he added as he sped up, the jeep now far behind him. The kids had pulled over promptly and behaved respectfully. However interesting Larry and Jen's tale, the fact remained that no one had accused them of wrongdoing, and Liz Parker remained unscathed. The memories that tale had dredged up, the associations he was making in the dark corners of his mind, could be safely abandoned. And it was just as well.

After all, look what had happened to his father.




******************************************************



Westside Manor




"It's almost lunch time," Emily said. "Are you ready to go?"

"Almost," David answered. "I just need to put my shoes on."

"Well, put them on, then. It's almost time to go."

Dee gave her father a sympathetic look as he avoided further discussion and put his shoes on even though it was a good thirty minutes before lunch would be served. She wasn't looking forward to the day when her world shrank to the point where meals were the most exciting thing she had to look forward to.

"I see they put some fall decorations up," Dee said in an attempt to change the subject. "Your Activities Director really goes all out. I've never seen this many scarecrows indoors."

"Sometimes she goes a little too far," David answered. "Like all those hot dogs at the Fourth of July picnic. Most of the people here can't eat hot dogs."

"Maybe they were for the guests," Dee suggested.

"Do you have your shoes on?" Emily asked. "It's time to go to lunch."

"Lunch isn't until noon, Em," David said gently. "We've still got a few minutes."

"You do what you want, but I'm going now," Emily declared. "I'll hold your place."

"No, I'll go with you," David sighed. "Let me get your walker."

"No," Emily said, rising slowly from her chair. "I don't need that thing."

"It makes walking a lot easier, Mama," Dee said. "The dining room is a ways away."

"I live here, so I know how far away the dining room is, thank you very much," Emily said tartly. "And I don't need that. I'll use the hand rails."

Dee looked at her father, who shrugged and waited patiently while Emily shuffled slowly toward the door of their room. It was the same every week; repeated announcements that lunch was imminent as much as an hour beforehand, followed by a much too early trek to the dining room, always without the walker which Medicare had paid for and which Emily needed badly. The arthritis which had annoyed her while in her seventies had progressed to the point where she was now stooped and shuffled painfully everywhere she went, steadying herself on nearby walls and furniture with hands whose joints were permanently stiffened and sore. She'd lost none of her fierce independence or her sharp tongue, however, which made for a challenging package. David, as usual, managed better than Dee, being long practiced in the art of diplomacy, while Dee usually spent these weekly visits biting her tongue into tiny little pieces with varying degrees of success.

They finally reached the hallway, and the marathon began, Emily moving slowly with one hand on the rails which lined the Manor's hallways, David and Dee following behind. Emily's daily premature anticipation of meals was hardly unique; most of the Manor's residents had hit the road, some shuffling like Emily, most pushing walkers, a few on electric scooters. Westside was an assisted living facility which had one golden rule: You had to be able to make it to the dining room under your own steam. Once you reached the point where you couldn't voluntarily leave your own room, the next step up was a nursing home. And for her parents that would mean separation because, so far, time had largely spared David. He was remarkably spry for a man in his eighties, much more so than most of Westside's residents, who more closely resembled Emily. David was here not because he needed this level of care, but because he wanted to be with his wife, a wife who apparently felt that her thrice daily painful journeys to the dining room put off the day when she would have to leave. Dee was of the opinion that using the walker might be a better way to do that, but she'd never be able to get that through to her mother.

"So what's on your mind?" David asked, dodging a little old lady doing 50 mph. down the hall and threatening to use her walker as a battering ram.

"Do I look like there's something on my mind?" Dee asked.

"Yes," David said blandly, "and something more than just your mother's stubbornness. Which is all that gets her out of bed some days, by the way."

Dee drifted further toward the wall as the stream of Manor residents anticipating a meal swelled to a flood. "I took Isabel to school today. Something happened yesterday that upset her badly, something that kept her in her room most of yesterday afternoon and evening. She didn't reappear until breakfast this morning."

"What happened?"

"I don't know," Dee answered in frustration. "My son is oblivious, and my dear darling daughter-in-law didn't do much besides bring her a tray of dinner and pat her on the head."

"Diane has always been very in tune with Isabel," David reminded her. "I'd trust her instincts."

"She may be 'in tune' with Isabel, but I'm the one in tune with Max. And something was up with him too. He wasn't hiding, but he looked like he'd like to. And Michael was there looking like the end of the world was coming."

"How is Michael?"

"All right, I guess," Dee sighed. "I do wish Brivari would do something about that awful foster father of his. He says he tried, but there are very few fosters parents for older teenagers."

"He 'says' he tried....does that mean you don't believe him?" David asked.

They had reached the center lounge, where the main entrance and front desk were located. Straight ahead was the hallway which held all the administrative offices, the activity room, and, at the end, the dining room, a large airy room nicely decorated like an upscale restaurant. While the dining room may be large and airy, the hallway leading to it was standard issue, which accounted for the traffic jam currently clogging it. Emily slowed to a stop ahead of them, leaning on someone else's walker for support.

"I'm sure he tried," Dee allowed. "It's just that he isn't here as much as he used to be. He was around all the time until a year or so ago, and now I haven't seen him in months. It's like he's given up."

"Can you blame him?" David said gently. "They haven't remembered. We were all expecting them to snap back pretty quickly. Who would have guessed that a decade later, they still wouldn't remember."

"But they know they're different," Dee insisted. "I know they do."

"Knowing they're different and knowing why are two different things," David said. "And they're still not old enough to tell them why, not by Dr. Johnson's standards."

"I know," Dee sighed. "I just...." She paused, wrestling with that niggling feeling she'd been having all morning. "It wasn't just Isabel hiding. She sharpened her pencil in the car on the way to school this morning....you know....they way they do. And then she looked shocked, like she shouldn't have done that. Like she was scared someone had seen her."

"Maybe she was," David said. "She doesn't know you know."

"But she's done things like that ever since she was a child, and she's never worried about it before," Dee said. "She wasn't obvious about it; no one else would have noticed but me. So why was she looking so scared?"

"Look," David said, "if anything major had happened, you would have heard about it, right? It's probably just some teenage thing. They are teenagers, after all." He paused, watching the traffic jam thin. "I should go join your mother before she forgets I came with her. Don't worry, honey. It's been ten years, and no one's found them. There's no reason to expect anyone will now."




******************************************************



10:00 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's station



"Dad?"

Valenti looked up from his desk to find Kyle poking his head into the office. "I was on my way home, and I saw your car here," Kyle explained. "Just wondered if anything was wrong."

"No, nothing's wrong," Valenti answered. "Just finishing up some paperwork. I came back after we had dinner because I was out for awhile this afternoon and didn't get to everything."

"Yeah, I know," Kyle said. "You were at school."

Valenti blinked. "How'd you know that?"

"I saw you. It was lunchtime, and you were on the other side of the parking lot. I called half a dozen times, but you just hopped in your car and took off."

After Max Evans, Valenti thought. Jesus; his own son had been within yelling distance, and he hadn't even heard him, so intent had he been on his target. Shades of his father.

"I'm sorry about that, Kyle. Guess I had a lot on my mind. How'd your date go?"

Kyle hesitated. "That's.....kinda why I'm here."

"Oh? Liz okay?"

"Yeah, but....."

"But....what?"

Kyle glanced back down the hallway. "Can we talk? Privately?"

"Sure thing," Valenti said promptly, setting down his pen and pushing his chair away from the desk the way he often wished his father had. "Come on in. Close the door."

Valenti wheeled his chair around to the front side of his desk, expecting Kyle to take a seat opposite him. But he didn't, just stood there with his hands jammed in his pockets looking supremely uncomfortable.

"Geez Louise," Valenti said lightly. "We already had that talk about how to put on a condom, so I hope this isn't—"

"Dad!" Kyle said quickly, holding up a hand. "Don't go there. Besides, Liz isn't like that. She's not....easy. And neither am I," he added quickly, as though that may be in doubt.

"Good to know," Valenti said. "What, then? I gather this is about more than just a really bad movie."

Not sure I'm ready for this, Valenti thought uneasily as Kyle dithered further. His son was usually blunt to a fault, so to see him so tongue-tied was downright alarming. "For God's sake, Kyle, spit it out! You're giving me a heart attack."

"Okay," Kyle said, perching on the edge of a chair. "I'm just afraid I'm going to sound....nuts. Promise me you won't have me committed?"

"Not without a twenty-four hour waiting period," Valenti deadpanned.

"Dad, I'm serious," Kyle said disapprovingly.

"So am I."

"Dad!"

"Okay, fine, I won't have you committed," Valenti said soothingly. "I won't laugh, I won't even smile. You're not usually this serious, so I was just trying to lighten the mood. Now....out with it."

"Okay. Well....you know how you said a gun went off at the Crashdown yesterday, but nobody was hurt?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Well....Maria DeLuca....she's a waitress at the Crashdown, and she was—"

"There yesterday. I know."

"Okay....well, the word is that Maria thinks Liz was hurt."

"You're friends with Maria?"

"No. Not my type. But some people overheard Maria talking....frankly, it's a miracle the whole county doesn't hear Maria talking, the way her voice carries.....and they say that she says that she thinks that Liz got hurt somehow."

A prickle of unease crept along Valenti's spine. This was exactly the same claim made by Larry and Jen. He'd dismissed their story earlier today, partly on the basis of his uneventful encounter with Max Evans and partly because they were the only witnesses to what they claimed had happened. If there was another witness, that changed the picture.

"So what exactly does Maria think happened?" Valenti asked.

"That's just it, she didn't know," Kyle shrugged. "And I wrote it off because Liz was fine, and she was fine tonight."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is....I saw something tonight, Dad. Something....weird."

"Weird how?"

"Remember, you promised not to laugh." Valenti nodded wordlessly, and Kyle sucked in a breath. "Okay...here goes. Liz had this really weird silver mark on her stomach tonight."

Valenti's heart began to pound. "Silver mark? What kind of silver mark?"

"It looked...." Kyle stopped. "Jesus, this sounds retarded," he muttered.

"Never mind what it sounds like, Kyle. What did it look like?"

"Like.....like a handprint," Kyle said, his eyes on the floor. "Like a silver handprint. Which I know is, like, totally bizarre, and just completely out there. I only saw it for a second, so I've been telling myself that maybe I saw it wrong. But it was so clear, even for that second, and the fact that it's so weird is what makes me think I didn't see wrong. But then I think I'm just obsessing over what Maria said, or what someone said she said, and then....." He paused. "Am I nuts?"

Valenti said nothing for a moment, just sat there watching his son's face, weighing his options. Finally he stood up and headed for a file cabinet directly behind Kyle, rifled through it, pulled something out. Grabbing a couple of pieces of plain paper off his desk, he positioned them carefully and stood back.

"I can't show you the whole thing," he told Kyle. "Confidentiality rules, you know.....but I want you to tell me if this is anything like what you saw tonight."

Kyle hesitated before rising from his chair, looking at the partially obscured photograph almost fearfully. He was taking an awful risk, doing this. If Kyle freaked out....

But Kyle did just the opposite, breaking into a relieved smile. "That's it!" he exclaimed. "That's exactly what I saw. So you know about this. You've seen it before. I'm not crazy. What is it, anyway? Some kind of tattoo?"

"Something like that," Valenti murmured.

"Probably some girl thing," Kyle said in disgust. "Anyway, Liz is okay, so Maria must be imagining things."

Valenti slid the papers over the photograph. "Right. Liz is okay."

"Thanks, Dad," Kyle said gratefully. "I was just all weirded out by what Maria was saying, and then when I saw that hand print....well, I guess I just overreacted. And then I saw your car here on my way home, and.....geez, if I hadn't stopped, I'd be up all night thinking about this, and now I can just forget about it."

"You do that," Valenti said. "Glad to help. I'll be home shortly."

Kyle left a happy camper, and Valenti managed to keep a smile on his face until he was gone before collapsing in a chair, shaking all over. He'd had himself convinced that this Crashdown incident was nothing, that Trilling and Kattler were just a couple of mouth-breathing tourists anxious to find aliens in Roswell. And now his own son, of all people, had gone and reopened a very old memory, one that had been a catalyst in destroying his childhood and had reared its ugly head again in '89, which resulted in him having his father committed. And now here it was again, the elusive silver handprint which had apparently killed a John Doe back in 1959, after which the body had been promptly confiscated by the FBI.

His hand still shaking, Valenti pulled the photograph toward him, the covering pieces of paper falling to the floor. If the handprint had killed back in '59, why was Liz Parker alive? Could it give as well as take? What else could it do? Those questions banged around in Valenti's brain like popcorn in a popper, along with a declaration his father had made when he'd mistaken Kyle's babysitter for an alien.

But that's how they do it, don't you see, Jimmy? They look like us.

Wheeling the chair around to the other side of the desk, Valenti reached into a drawer and pulled out West Roswell High School's latest yearbook. Last year's freshman class had dutifully assembled on the front steps of the school as classes always did, some kids smiling, others mugging, others looking bored. There was Liz Parker, the miracle girl, and Maria DeLuca, the skeptical waitress. Further up the rows was Kyle; goodness, but he'd looked a lot younger just last year. And five kids over from him was Max Evans, his dark eyes burning through the photograph just like they did in real life. And looking just like us, Valenti thought grimly, remembering something else his father had said on that painful night.

I always knew they'd be back. They always come back.

Valenti slammed the book shut and thumped it on the desk, locking both hands behind his neck, rocking back and forth in his chair. He'd always thought his father mad. Everyone had. But what if he wasn't? What if he'd been telling the truth? What if "they" were not only back, but loose in his town? He knew what his father had done about it, or tried to. What was he going to do about it?

Five minutes later Valenti reached across the desk and gave his Rolodex a whirl. He dialed quickly, stabbing the buttons with an impatient finger, drumming his fingers on the desk as the phone rang once, twice, three times before he heard an answering click.

"FBI Headquarters. How may I direct your call?"



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 3 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!



CHAPTER THREE



September 21, 1999, 1:30 p.m.

West Roswell High School



Tweeeeet!

Max Evans felt Tony Percy slam into him, only barely keeping his balance. Across the gymnasium a dozen other Percy clones did the same, trying to take down their teacher-chosen opponent for this day's gym class activity, wrestling. Here he'd thought he'd lucked out today, having been assigned to an opponent much closer to his own size than usual. But whatever Percy lacked in bulk, he made up for in eagerness, so naturally what he'd thought was a reprieve had turned out to be nothing of the sort. Naturally he'd drawn the short straw.

So why wasn't that bothering him? Because nothing is, Max thought, pushing back just enough to hold them at a stalemate. Yesterday he'd woken up to the unthinkable—a world where someone else knew he was an alien. He'd always known that day would come, but contrary to what he'd thought would happen, what they'd all thought would happen....nothing happened. The Earth turned, the sun shone, and breakfast was on the table. The phone did not ring. There were no flashing lights on the lawn, no men in white coats to take him away. No, life had been absolutely, totally normal, if you didn't count the fact that there was one extra person in this building who knew he was an alien.

The whistle blew again. Percy waited a few seconds before reluctantly stopping, eyeing Max like he wanted to eat him. The teacher droned on about some of wrestling's finer points, assuming wrestling had any finer points, and Max let his mind wander, back to last night, when he'd done something with Liz far more terrifying than saving her life.

He almost hadn't. After seeing Michael's and Isabel's reaction to his having told Liz the truth and being stopped by Valenti, he'd been on edge. They were all on edge, Michael especially, who'd blown off the rest of the school day, although frankly, he frequently did that anyway. But as the day had worn on into evening and nothing untoward happened, Max had started wondering what Liz was going through. He and Michael and Isabel were all scared, scared to face something strange and frightening. But wouldn't Liz be feeling exactly the same way and for exactly the same reasons? And if she was, wouldn't staying away from her be the worst thing he could do? Leaving her alone with all those fears and her own imagination seemed much worse than filling that void with the truth. He wasn't happy with the way they'd left things yesterday after the whole cells-under-the microscope bit. The way she'd rushed out, the look on her face....that look still bothered him. That look was his fault. That look was because of him.

He'd waited until Isabel was holed up doing homework before heading out under the pretense of borrowing a textbook, and then waited even longer for Liz's room light to turn on, to hear her moving on the balcony above. It was only then that he'd called to her from the street below, on pins and needles as to the reaction he'd get. Would she let him in? Would she even speak to him? What if she was too afraid of him to let him near her?

But she did let him in, and he made it through the first few sentences of his laboriously prepared speech before blowing it all by laughing at the memory of her in that poofy cupcake dress. He'd almost freaked her out by making her think he could read minds, and in his haste to reassure her, he'd impulsively offered to try to reverse the "connection", their word for those flashes of memory and thought that he, Michael, and Isabel shared on occasion. Which had been exceptionally stupid because, first of all, he had no idea if that would work with her, and secondly, he wasn't at all sure he'd want her to see whatever it was she would see. Then again, he'd just told her the biggest secret of his life. What more was there to tell?

So he'd tried. He'd thought about her, and how he felt about her, and hoped that would come through in whatever she saw, that she'd at least know that he wasn't some monster from outer space looking to turn her into his next snack. She'd told him it had worked, and judging from the look on her face, a slightly dazed but satisfyingly less frightened one than she'd worn earlier that day, it had. He'd left after that, having completely forgotten the rest of his speech but taking comfort in the fact that, whatever she'd seen, it hadn't scared her, but had actually seemed to comfort her. And he'd lain awake much of that night wondering what she'd seen, having wanted to know in the worst way, but been too afraid to ask.

Not that it mattered, because she couldn't have seen much. He led a quiet life in the shadows, the only place he felt comfortable, the only place he felt safe. Even his "otherness" wouldn't have been much on display because all of them knew precious little about themselves, having shared what little they knew years ago when they'd finally been reunited with Michael. They'd always known someone was missing, and they'd spent first and second grade scanning the halls and gazing out windows, looking for the missing piece. That missing piece had finally stepped off a school bus on the first day of third grade, the first time they'd all attended the same school. He, Michael, and Isabel had been inseparable since then, first at school because his mom and dad didn't like Michael much, and then outside of school when they'd gotten older and acquired their own transportation in the form of bikes and cars. One of the first things they'd done was connect with each other, he and Isabel contrasting their memories with Michael's because each of them knew, without saying a word, that they didn't belong here.

It had turned out there hadn't been much to share. All of them remembered breaking free of some sort of suffocating pod, of the air rushing into their lungs; even now, after all this time, Max still sometimes had nightmares about not being able to breathe, clawing at his covers like it was the pod that once held him. They all remembered suddenly being very, very cold, of wandering the desert. They remembered the orphanage, the rows of children sitting at rows of tables, the long hallways, the big windows.

But most of those memories were just pictures, and jumbled, fleeting pictures at that. What most of them remembered was not what they'd seen or what they'd done back when they'd first appeared, but what they'd felt. And what they'd felt was a curious string of emotions beginning with puzzled detachment, advancing to a fierce longing and ending with....fear. All of them recalled a fear so intense it burned them still, but none of them could remember what they'd been afraid of. That fear had lurked in the back of all their minds since childhood, shaping them, directing them. When they were little, it had cautioned them to keep to themselves what they all already knew, that they were different, other. When they were older and able to put words to feelings and do their own investigating, it had led them to investigate the tales of what had occurred here in 1947 more closely and to catalog their various abilities. That's how he'd known he could heal, although all he'd ever done in the past was fix simple cuts and bruises.

"Alright, everybody, on your feet!" Mr. Tryon bellowed.

Max climbed to his feet with a sigh. Across from him Tony Percy was doing the same minus the sigh. Tony loved wrestling, especially with quiet, bookish types like Max, and when the whistle blew he slammed into Max again with admirable gusto, Max holding him off with a combination of muscle and mind. He could have thrown the guy across the room without breaking a sweat, of course, but that wouldn't be safe. It was never safe to use their powers in public, "recreationally" or not. Or is it? Max wondered as Percy gave it his all. He'd just used his powers in public in a way that was far from recreational and gotten away with it. Perhaps people just wrote off what they didn't understand, making up explanations that fit what they saw and that they were willing to accept. He'd healed a gunshot wound in public and someone now knew he wasn't human, yet everything was still the same. Maybe it wasn't as dangerous out there as they'd thought. Maybe they'd been worrying for nothing. Maybe he could have a little fun after all.

Slam.

Tony Percy sprawled on his back, blinking up at the ceiling as the teacher stared. "Nice move, Evans," Mr. Tryon said finally. "Didn't know you had it in you."

You're not the only one, Max thought with satisfaction, Percy eyeing him warily as he climbed to his feet. Actually, he hadn't meant to slam him that hard. That was the thing about power; it required an incredible amount of control, control which one only acquired through practice and the removal of emotion from the equation. That was easier when you were reheating a taco, a lot harder when you were angry or mischievous or scared. Allow emotion to fuel power, and that power became something resembling a rogue power line, snapping and jerking every which way. Which was precisely why Michael had such a hard time controlling his powers. Michael was a rogue power line.

"Places!" Tryon bellowed.

Percy was looking a lot less sure of himself this time, and he tumbled Max to the mat with less gusto than usual. He was toying with the idea of maybe giving Percy another nudge, maybe just a little one, just "recreationally"....and then he looked up to see Liz in the doorway looking like she'd just seen a ghost.

Or maybe not...




******************************************************




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"Call me, sheriff, if you ever have anything....real."

Only nine words, most of them one syllable, but that was all it took for Jim Valenti's life to flash before his eyes as Agent Stevens stuffed the offending waitress's uniform into his briefcase and headed for the stairs, Valenti scrambling to follow. Here he'd just made the biggest discovery of his life, a discovery that threw everything he'd ever believed into doubt and made his father suddenly look much more sane than he ever had, and this is what it came to?

The possibility that he'd be dismissed as a crackpot had certainly occurred to him. After impulsively phoning Stevens last night after his conversation with Kyle, Valenti had spent a largely sleepless night wondering if he should cancel their meeting. What did he have to go on, really? Only the word of a couple of tourists and a kid. Granted that kid was his son, but that was unlikely to hold water with the FBI. He needed more than that, and he'd stopped at the Crashdown this morning to see Liz Parker and settle the matter for himself. But Liz had been late for school, cramming her books into her bookbag on the other side of the diner as Jeff assured him he could talk to her later. Valenti almost hadn't heard him, so fixated was he on something which had flashed by as Liz zipped her bookbag closed and made a beeline for the bus, something turquoise, the same color as the Crashdown uniforms. He'd meant to ask Jeff for the uniform Liz had been wearing on Sunday, had even thought her absence would make it easier to obtain. But as it appeared it was leaving with her, he'd thanked Jeff for his permission and quickly excused himself, following the school bus to the high school, using a back entrance to avoid the throngs of incoming students. If memory served, Kyle's first period was an unusually large history class which necessitated everyone leaving their backpacks in the back of the room...and Liz was also in that class. The history classrooms were on the east side of the building, and Valenti bided his time through homeroom and two bells until the hallways had emptied.

So this is what you've come to, Jim, old boy, he thought ruefully as he moved carefully through the halls, peeking in the largely open doorways. Stalking teenaged girls. Or one teenaged girl in particular, rather, whom he finally spotted toward the front of the row nearest the door in the classroom closest to the library. Kyle was on the other side, quite obviously doodling while the teacher droned on about the First World War. But his son's inattention was the last thing on his mind as he spotted his target; everyone's backpacks were indeed lined up along the back wall of the crowded classroom, and Liz's was very near the door. Five minutes worth of dithering over how to acquire it was rewarded when the teacher turned on an overheard projector and turned off the lights, allowing Valenti to nip in and snag the bag with no one being the wiser. A quick peek confirmed his suspicion; along with the usual assortment of notebooks and pencils, Liz Parker's bookbag contained one Crashdown waitress uniform with a large red stain on the front. He had to resist the urge to run red lights on the way back to the station, but finally, after what seemed like forever, he'd locked his office door and pulled the crumpled uniform from the bag, spreading it out on his desk. He'd know in a minute if he needed to call Agent Stevens and cancel.

At first, he thought he might have to. The uniform had apparently dried while it was balled up; there was no way to tell from visual inspection if there was any blood in the tomato-smelling red stain, and it took some doing to flatten it out. But what he'd found when he'd finally done so was enough to make him sit back and look away, shaking all over.

They had finally found their elusive bullet hole.

It had taken a good five minutes for Valenti to compose himself enough to think. There was clearly a hole in the dress, right where Kyle had said he'd seen the silver handprint. Now that he had definitive proof that a gun had been fired and that the product of that firing had pierced this uniform, it was time to talk to the one who had been wearing that uniform. Owen Blackwood had been dispatched to fetch Miss Parker from school and deliver her to his office, where Valenti had shown her the photographs of his father's John Doe from 1959. The look on her face had told him everything he needed to know, as had the look on her face when he'd insisted she show him her stomach, and the look on her face when she had. There was no handprint there any longer, and she was surprised; it had disappeared, just like it had on the body in '59. She'd denied Max's presence in the Crashdown on Sunday, and he'd sent her on her way after returning her bookbag, minus the uniform, of course, something she clearly expected. Turned out young Miss Parker didn't have much of a poker face.

And so it was that he'd kept his meeting with Agent Stevens and enthusiastically detailed the results of his investigation only to have Stevens look at him like he had snails coming out of his ears, utter a few unflattering remarks, and march off. With the uniform, of course. Stevens wasn't so skeptical that he'd left the uniform.

"Listen," Valenti called as they hit the street, "you guys told me to call you if I saw anything. Well, my son saw that handprint."

"I'm sure he did," Agent Stevens said tonelessly.

"What happens now?" Valenti demanded.

"I'll have the lab check out the dress. I'm gonna handle this case in the proper manner, without getting too personal. I suggest you do the same."

Stevens' dismissiveness was already bugging him, but now Valenti's alarms were all going off. That sounded like a brush off, a "stay out of my way" kind of statement. No way in hell.

"I'm not walking away from this," Valenti declared. "I'm gonna be part of this investigation."

"Sheriff, do you know what everyone used to call your father? Sergeant Martian. You don't want to end up like him."

Valenti's jaw clenched. Oh, really? Like he didn't know that. Like he hadn't spent most of his childhood enduring the taunts about "Sergeant Martian". "Agent Stevens," he said tightly, "I was 8 years old when my father discovered that corpse. My whole life I thought he was as crazy as everyone else did. Crazy to believe. Well, now I’m not so sure."

"Thank you, Sheriff," Stevens said blandly. "Your work is done now. We'll take it from here."

Stevens drove off as Valenti's life flashed before him again, this time his childhood. His father had never trusted the FBI ever since that incident right before the John Doe had been found. His memories of that event consisted of surly, dark-suited men and being entrusted with calling for help without waking his mother; pulling that off had made him mighty proud at the time. But that pride had been drowned out by the following years of his mother's assertions that his father should stop chasing whatever it was he thought he was chasing and leave it to the FBI. That was one of the reasons he'd welcomed an overture from the Bureau shortly after he'd taken the badge, a request to keep an eye out for someone they were looking for that had blossomed into several contacts a year. Stevens had been his liaison from the start, and every time Valenti had spoken with him, he'd felt vindicated, like he was repudiating his father and all his wild beliefs, proving that he was different, better, more deserving of the badge.

"Sir?"

It was Owen Blackwood, looking quizzically in the direction which Steven's car had taken. "Everything okay, sir?"

"I need to find someone, Owen," Valenti said. "A high school kid named Max Evans."

"You want him brought in? The festival doesn't start for a few hours, so I can send someone after him."

Festival. Ah, yes, the Crash Festival, that bane of his father's existence. Back then it had been in the summer and featured hordes of both locals and tourists; moving it to the fall had calmed things somewhat. "No," Valenti said, sensing an opportunity. "I'm betting Mr. Evans will be at the festival, and I'll catch up with him there. But I could use help locating him."

"His picture was in the yearbook, right? I'll have it copied off and—"

"No," Valenti said quickly. "I want this quiet. Just you and me, Owen. Not a word to anyone else. If you see him tonight, you let me know."

"Sure, Jim." Owen paused, looking at him closely. "You okay? What'd he do?"

"I'm fine," Valenti said flatly. "And I'm gonna find out. One way or another."




****************************************************




Evans residence




"So how's Grandma and Grandpa?"

"Fine, if you don't mind being asked the same question five times in three minutes," Dee answered.

Diane looked up from the dishes she was rinsing. "Oh. That would be Grandma, wouldn't it."

"Yes, that would be Grandma," Dee sighed. "My mother's losing it. Never thought I'd see the day."

"She's 84," Diane reminded her. "I think she's earned the right to lose it. What about Grandpa?"

"He's still very much with it," Dee replied. "He's got his problems, like high blood pressure, but it's under control. Looks like he'll outlast her and then some."

"Maybe," Diane said thoughtfully. "Maybe not. Not that I'm wishing anything on them," she added quickly. "I just know it's not always the one in worse shape who goes first. Lots of my friends have learned that the hard way." She paused. "Do you think he'll be all right if she dies first?"

"I don't know," Dee said, stacking the last of the leftovers in the fridge. "It'll certainly be easier for me. Mama can't live without Daddy, or someone functioning as Daddy, and if I move her in with us, we'll both kill each other. But let's talk about something else. Did you ever find out what was bothering Isabel?"

"Nope. Not a word. But she's fine now, so whatever it was, it's over."

"Well, aren't you the least bit curious?"

"Of course I am, Mom," Diane said patiently. "But you don't pry with teenagers. You just ask a few questions, and if you don't get anywhere, you let it drop and keep an eye on things. They don't like it when you pry."

"Like it or not, I'd pry if something kept Philip in his room all afternoon and evening," Dee said. "Especially if it made him miss dinner."

"That's boys. Girls are different. Boys just let it all hang out. Well....not Max," Diane amended. "He's not the 'let it all hang out' type. Never has been."

Dee watched her daughter-in-law load the dishwasher for a moment. "Diane," she said slowly, "do the kids ever talk about what happened to them before you found them?"

Diane shook her head. "No. Never."

"Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"No. Why?"

"I was just wondering if they'd ever remembered anything," Dee said. "I thought they might have over the years."

"Why would you think that? The more time that goes by, the less I think they'd remember."

Which is exactly what we're all afraid of, Dee thought. Her father had reminded her today of how they'd all expected the kids to remember what they had so briefly remembered and then forgotten shortly after they had come out of the pods—who they were and where they had come from. Certainly they wouldn't have been surprised if it had taken some time for them to recover from the effects of the connection Max had forced on their Warders and which had unfortunately illustrated their own demises in living color. But "some time" had now stretched to a decade, something none of them would have guessed when it had all gone bad back in '89.

"Anyway, I'm not certain I'd want them to," Diane was saying. "Remember how distraught they were after whatever happened at Grandma and Grandpa's house when they were little? Anything that upsets them that badly might be better off forgotten."

"Maybe," Dee murmured.

"Definitely," Diane said firmly. "We've been so lucky, Mom. Lots of adopted kids have all sorts of troubles, but not Max and Isabel. They've been just fine; no behavior problems, no academic problems, no social problems. I feel like we dodged a bullet, two bullets, really. I'm really happy to just leave it."

"Okay, honest opinions," a voice said behind them. "How do I look?"

Dee turned around....and burst out laughing. "Oh, honey, that's very.....shiny," Diane finished, throwing a disapproving look in Dee's direction as Isabel blinked and looked back and forth from one to the other. "Very....unique."

"Sorry," Dee chuckled, "I just....I mean, you don't really think this is what aliens look like, do you?"

A flicker crossed Isabel's face, barely noticeable, but there nonetheless as she stood there all decked out in silver lame, a pointy bra that could have doubled as two salad bowls, and what must be at least 5 inch heels. "Of course not, Grandma," Isabel answered. "I have no idea what aliens look like. I was just going for maximum impact."

"I'd say you succeeded," Dee smiled.

"You look lovely, honey," Diane said. "You always do."

"But I don't think you've gone far enough," Dee added. "You need more glittery eye make-up, maybe some eyelashes out to there. And the hair. The hair has to be bigger."

Isabel broke into a wide smile. "Now you're talking! Come help?"

"Sure," Dee said, ignoring yet another look from her daughter-in-law as she followed Isabel to her room, where she took a seat at her dressing table and handed her some bobby pins. "I'll brush, you pin," Isabel instructed.

Yes, ma'am, Dee thought dryly, dutifully pushing pins into the big swoops Isabel made with the hair brush. "I think your mother's mad at me. Did I hurt your feelings?"

"No. Don't mind Mom. She's just so....."

"Earnest?" Dee suggested.

"Yeah. That. I mean, I love her. I really do."

"I know you do," Dee said softly.

"It's just that she always says the same thing. She'd tell me I looked great if I was wearing a garbage bag."

"Because you would look great if you were wearing a garbage bag," Dee said. "You're a beautiful young woman, Isabel."

"I know," Isabel said casually, with all the confidence of her predecessor. "It's just that sometimes I like a little more honesty. It gets a little boring when everyone's always telling you you're beautiful."

"Not a problem I ever had, but I'll be sure to mention that you're ugly at least once a day," Dee said. "There—is that big enough?"

"It'll do," Isabel said, casting an appraising look at her hairdo. "Now for the eyes."

"You know what would be really fun?" Dee said, running the hairbrush through Isabel's hair. "If aliens came dressed up as humans."

The eyeshadow wand Isabel was using slipped, leaving a blob of silver by her eye. "What do you mean by that?" she asked sharply.

The hairbrush paused. "I just thought it would be funny if the situation were reversed," Dee said lightly, handing her a tissue.

"Oh." Isabel took the tissue, wiped off the offending streak, tried again. "Yeah. I guess that would be funny."

Dee held her tongue all the way through the rest of the eye make-up, including the eyelash glue and a set of falsies long enough to dust the windows from across the room. Actually she'd been thinking of Courtney's trip to the Crash Festival way back in '59 wearing what was essentially a human costume, but Isabel didn't know that.

"Done," Isabel announced, the twinkle back in her eye. "Thanks, Grandma. I'll go show Mom so she can tell me how beautiful I look."

Now, what brought that on? Dee thought, hearing Diane's dutiful exclamations floating in from the living room. Why had Isabel become so rattled by such a simple comment? It was almost as if she knew what she was.....

The kitchen door slammed. Dee made her way to the kitchen and almost bumped into Max. "There you are! You should see your sister, she's all....Max? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he answered tightly. "Just...preoccupied."

He hurried past her toward his bedroom, Dee eyeing his retreat. He certainly didn't look fine, but then it was hard to tell with Max; sometimes he was so intense that she thought he might spontaneously combust. No wonder he and Brivari used to clash.

"Guess I'll be going," Dee said to Diane, who had plopped on the couch with the TV remote. "Say 'hi' to Philip for me when he gets home. If he gets home."

"Oh, he'll be home," Diane said. "He just—"

"Had a case," Dee said. "Yes, I know; I've had lots of them myself. The trick is to take control of your cases instead of letting them take control of you. I'm just saying," she added, holding up a hand as Diane opened her mouth to leap to her husband's defense. "And now I'll stop saying. Good night."

A minute later, her coat over her arm, Dee came to a halt in the driveway. Max and Isabel were beside Max's jeep, throwing what looked like duffel bags into the back. They both whirled around much too quickly and looked much too guilty for Dee's comfort.

"I'm on my way home," Dee said. "Are you off to the festival?"

"Right," Max said quickly. "The festival."

"Where's your costume?" Dee asked.

"In the bags," Max answered in a clipped tone, climbing into the driver's seat. "Get in, Isabel."

But Isabel hesitated, an anguished look on her face, ultimately bypassing the passenger seat to give Dee a crushing hug, towering over her in those stratospheric heels. "Goodbye, Grandma," she whispered. "And thanks. For everything."

"You're welcome, sweetheart," Dee said, bewildered.

"Tell Mom we love her," Isabel added.

"You can't tell her yourself?"

Isabel's eyes dropped. "I....I don't want to....."

"Isabel," Max broke in. "Now."

"Go ahead," Dee said as Isabel's eyes flicked backward in annoyance. "Have a good time, both of you."

The jeep roared out of the driveway as though something were chasing it, and Dee watched it leave, staring after it for a very long time.




****************************************************




Crash Festival grounds




"Sheriff, are you arresting me?"

God, I'd love to, Jim Valenti thought grimly, perilously close to losing his temper. After spending most of his life watching his father be made a fool of, the hottest of his hot buttons was being made a fool of himself. Which is what he suspected had just happened judging from the silver paint on his hand.

"No," Valenti ground out, turning Max Evans around none too gently and unlocking the cuffs he'd only just slapped on with hands that shook with fury. "Your parents would have you out in an hour." And how, he added darkly. Philip Evans would probably have his son out in less than that, and take Valenti's head off in the process.

"Let me tell you something," Valenti said tersely as Max eyed him warily. "I'm gonna find out what the truth is. You can count on it. You're a real smart guy, Max. Well, so am I."

Valenti stalked off through the crowd, walking quickly lest he act on the almost overpowering urge to slap those cuffs back on that smart-ass teenager, haul him down to the station, and plop him under a bare bulb. Assuming Max Evans even was a teenager, something which was very much in doubt. Or had been, that is, until just minutes ago when a young festival participant had had a run-in with a car and someone wearing a costume that matched Kyle's had planted a silver handprint on her. A painted silver handprint, to be exact. No aliens. Just silver paint.

"Jim?"

It was Owen Blackwood, looking bewildered and concerned at the same time. "How's the girl?" Valenti asked in a clipped tone.

"She's okay. Guess it was just a bump. Say....what was that thing on her chest?"

"Some prank, I'd wager," Valenti said evasively.

"But why would someone come up to her right after she'd been knocked over by a car and—"

"I don't know," Valenti snapped. "All I know is that I'm done here."

"Okay," Owen said slowly. "What do you want me to do about that Evans kid?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? You were all over his ass just a few minutes ago—"

"I said 'nothing', and I meant 'nothing'!" Valenti exploded. "It's a simple, two-syllable word! You ought to be able to handle it!" He stopped, stung by the look on his deputy's face. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm just....irritated."

"I noticed," Owen murmured.

"It's not you," Valenti assured him. "If you need me, I'll be at home."

"Sure thing, boss," Owen nodded. "Don't worry about us. We'll take it from here."

I wish you could take the rest of it as well, Valenti thought, working through the crowd as quickly as possible. Everyone's attention was now on the alien "ship" which had just crashed to the ground, drawing roars of applause which would have sounded familiar in a Roman arena. He spotted Kyle over to one side, clapping and yelling along with everyone else, and he paused, suddenly ashamed. He'd just jumped his own kid in a public place. As a man who had grown up a sheriff's son, he knew how much of a burden the job could place on your family, how embarrassing it could be to have your dad be the law. And how embarrassing it could be when your dad acted like a fool in public, which is exactly what he'd just done. God, but he'd have some apologizing to do later.

He stood watching the crowd for a few minutes when he spotted a familiar figure. That was Max Evans over there, communing with none other than....Liz Parker. And judging from the way he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, they were doing more than casual communing. Valenti waited until Max had walked away before resuming his own walk to his cruiser, trying to put it all together. He worked the problem all the way home and into his empty house, where he stripped off his gun and plopped on the couch, not even bothering to turn on a light. Darkness always made for better thinking.

And what thoughts they were. Here he'd been seeing handprints and aliens, but what if he was way off base? Wasn't Kyle dating Liz? Then what was his son's girlfriend doing leaning into Max Evans in that intimate way? Was she seeing Max on the side? Was that why she'd lied twice about Max being in the diner on the day of the shooting? Was this all just some teenage love triangle he'd stumbled into, with his son's girlfriend not wanting her boyfriend's father to find out she was playing the field? Or had she not been playing the field until the shooting, when Evans had done something that had made her fall in love with him? But if it hadn't happened until the day of the shooting, why the guilty lies about him not being there?

Enough, Valenti thought firmly. He could speculate until he was blue in the face, but in the end, that's all he'd have: Speculation. What were the facts? A shooting had occurred on Sunday at the Crashdown. Liz Parker had fallen to the ground...for some reason. Max Evans had gone up to her and bent over her....for some reason. Liz Parker's uniform had been stained with something, whether ketchup or blood was impossible to tell. And there was a hole in that uniform in the exact spot where Kyle had said he'd seen the handprint. Kyle.... Only Kyle had seen that handprint. Was this just an elaborate set-up to make Kyle look like a fool? Or maybe someone was trying to make him look the fool? But how? Precious few had ever seen that handprint; Kyle certainly never had. The incident had happened so long ago that none of the current staff at the station had been working there at the time that body had been found. And none of this explained the hole in the dress.

The questions whirled in his head, and he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, the front door was opening and the clock read two hours later. He sat up with a start, momentarily disoriented.

"Dad?"

It was Kyle, his mask in his hand. "Uh....why are you sitting here in the dark?"

"I guess I just.....dozed off," Valenti said.

"You 'dozed off'?" Kyle repeated. "At home? In the dark? On the night of the Crash Festival?"

"My staff can handle it. That's why I've spent so much time developing a good staff, so I don't have to be there every minute. They knew where to find me if they needed me."

Valenti blinked as Kyle snapped on the light. "You were certainly there earlier. What was that all about?"

"I....nothing," Valenti answered, running a hand through his hair. "I made a mistake."

"Yeah, I know that. But you had this look in your eye like....I don't know. It was scary."

"I just made a mistake," Valenti said shortly. "Can't a guy make a mistake?" He paused, dropping his eyes. "I'm sorry, Kyle. I didn't mean to embarrass you in front of everyone."

"That's okay," Kyle said. "I don't think anyone else even saw it. Liz certainly didn't. She was supposed to meet me in front of the podium, but she never showed."

Is that so, Valenti thought, keeping to himself where the lovely Miss Parker had been. "Well....I hope everything's okay, and I'm sorry I screwed up."

"No biggie," Kyle shrugged. He began to walk away, stopped. "Dad, are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm sure," Valenti said. "I've just had a long day."

"Right." Kyle hesitated for a moment more before heading for his bedroom, stripping off his costume on the way. Valenti reached over and snapped off the light, the quiet darkness descending like a blanket. But all the darkness in the world couldn't blot out the look he'd just seen in his son's eyes, the same look he'd given his own father for so many years, a look of concern and hesitation and....fear. The same look he'd seen from Owen Blackwood tonight, which had mirrored the looks in the eyes of his father's deputies as he'd descended further and further into madness.

They say you became your own parents. God, but he hoped that wasn't true.




*****************************************************




Los Angeles, California



"Did you see the rider that diva wanted?" demanded the DP. "Blue carpets, and pink flowers, and lace curtains on the windows? Jesus, that dressing room doesn't even have windows!"

"Actresses," muttered a co-producer. "Give'em an inch, they'll take a mile."

"She's not even bringing in that much box office," grumbled another. "You'd think she was carrying the picture all by herself."

"So what are you going to do, Kal?" the DP asked. "Does she get what she wants, or not?"

Across the room, Kal Langley plucked another glass of champagne off a roving waiter's tray. "Of course she will," he told his Director of Photography. "She'll get a blue bathroom rug from Sears, pink plastic flowers, and a lace curtain from K-Mart. What?" he added when blank looks greeted him. "She never specified where these things were to come from, or what quality they should be. If one is going to whine, one had better learn to be specific."

There was a moment of shocked silence before the assemblage burst into simultaneous laughter and applause. "Oh. My. God," the DP chuckled. "I can't wait to see her face when she sees a little blue oval potty rug!"

"Actually, I was thinking of a toilet lid cover, but whatever," Langley answered to more laughter. "But seriously, this isn't the first time someone thinks they're worth more than they are, and it won't be the last."

"She's gonna blow," the co-producer warned.

"Let her," Langley declared. "She doesn't scare me. Bring it on."

"That's what I like about you, Kal," chuckled the DP. "You don't take shit, anyone's shit. Not even mine."

"Especially not yours," Langley agreed. "Excuse me a moment, ladies and gentleman. My phone is ringing."

"I still don't see why you don't have an assistant, or a butler, or someone to fetch and carry," said the DP.

"I've got the catering service to pick up your empty wine glasses," Langley pointed out. "No need to strain yourself."

"Very funny," the DP deadpanned. "And that's not what I meant. Someone of your stature shouldn't be answering his own phone, for heaven's sake. Why are you?"

Because it doesn't pay to have anyone too close, Langley thought, ignoring that last question on the way to the kitchen. He had all kinds of minions at the office, and he brought in help for get-togethers like this, but at home he preferred to be alone. It was safer that way.

"Langley residence," he said into the phone.

"Oh, I'm sorry," a deeply skeptical voice said on the other end of the line. "I must have the wrong number. I was looking for Brivari."

Langley froze, clenching the glass in his hand so tightly it threatened to break. He hadn't heard that voice in ten years.

"Where the hell are you?" he demanded.

"Turn around."

Slowly, Langley did. There was someone out by the pool, waving a cell phone like a groupie at a concert.

"Interesting," Jaddo said. "Your whiny actress doesn't scare you....but I do."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I'll post Chapter 4 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER FOUR



September 21, 1999, 11 p.m.

Langley residence, Los Angeles



Brivari stared out the kitchen window in shock, the phone still pressed to his ear. Ten years, ten long years of absence, of total silence.....and there he sat, lounging in one of the pool chairs like he owned the place. Obviously he hadn't changed a bit.

"For goodness sake, Brivari, say something," Jaddo's voice came over the phone. "You're gaping."

"Mr. Langley?"

Brivari snapped out of his trance as a waiter from the catering company hovered by his arm. "Is....everything all right?" the waiter asked tentatively.

"No," Brivari answered in a strangled whisper, his eyes locked on Jaddo. "Everything is most definitely not all right."

The waiter's gaze shifted out the window. "Is that a guest?"

"An uninvited guest," Brivari muttered.

"I'll call security," the waiter said promptly.

"No," Brivari said quickly. "I'll handle this. Go back to the party. Tell them I'm on the phone."

"Are you sure—"

"Do it. And not a word to anyone. No one goes out there, no one. Understood?"

The waiter's eyes widened. "Of course, but...are you sure? Who is that? Is he dangerous?"

Brivari thwacked the phone back in its cradle. "No more so than I am," he said coldly. "Now, get in there before someone follows me out here."

The waiter hesitated a moment longer before complying, throwing a skeptical look toward the pool as he left. He was barely out of the kitchen before Brivari opened the sliding glass door which led out to the pool, slamming it back on its tracks with a decade's worth of pent up fury, holding up a hand with every intention of sending Jaddo flying into the middle of the next estate. But nothing happened. His power seemed to be enveloped in some sort of cocoon, still there, but muffled, inert.

"Don't bother," Jaddo called, holding up a five-sided device Brivari hadn't seen in ages. "I figured you wouldn't exactly be glad to see me, so I took some precautions. Granted it blocks my powers as well, but there's something to be said for parity."

So furious he could barely see straight, Brivari took a moment to compose himself before sliding the door closed behind him, activating the electric blinds as he left. If someone did wander into the kitchen, at least they wouldn't be able to see what was going on.

"Nice party," Jaddo continued, unfazed by his silence. "I didn't want to crash it, so I decided to call. Nifty things, these portable phones. Rather large, but I imagine that'll change in the next few years—"

"How dare you?" Brivari interrupted, finally finding his voice. "How dare you come anywhere near me after what you did?"

"What I did?" Jaddo repeated, puzzled. "What did I do? Or perhaps I should say 'what did I do now', as I always seem to be doing something you disapprove of."

"You took her," Brivari ground out. "You abducted my Ward's wife!"

" 'Abducted'?" Jaddo chuckled, an absolutely infuriating sound. "My, but that's ironic. Tell me, is it possible for an alien to abduct another alien? Or does that only work from alien to human? How about human to alien—"

The rest of that sentence was cut off as Brivari's hand fastened on Jaddo's throat. He made no move to fight back just like he hadn't when Brivari had discovered the missing hybrids back in '59, and it was every bit as annoying now as it had been then.

"You took Ava!" Brivari spat. "You took her without my consent, and I haven't heard a thing from you since!"

"Nice recap," Jaddo said, sounding a bit hoarse as Brivari throttled back his air supply. "And encouraging to know you can still move as quickly as ever. You made it over here a lot faster than you move in your office—"

"Don't waste what little breath you have left being flip," Brivari said tersely. "Begging for your life, maybe, but being flip won't get you anywhere."

"Neither will begging for my life," Jaddo whispered. "I know you won't kill me. And you know that too."

Brivari held his grip for several more long seconds, waiting for Jaddo to fight back or shapeshift and escape. But he did nothing, hanging there and looking bluer and bluer until finally Brivari threw him down on a lounge chair and turned away in disgust, Jaddo gasping for air behind him.

"Yes, I took Ava," he said finally when he'd regained his breath. "I took her to spare her—"

"Oh, spare me!" Brivari exclaimed angrily. "You didn't 'spare her' a damned thing! I agreed to keep her separate, and you walked off with her anyway!"

"Because I didn't believe you," Jaddo said. "And how's that working out, Brivari? Have the rest of our Wards thrived with humans? Have they remembered?"

"An interesting question considering that Ava hasn't remembered either," Brivari retorted.

"And what makes you say that?"

"Because it's been ten years, Jaddo, a whole decade, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of you. If she'd remembered, you'd have been here with bells on, crowing about how you were right. And you're not crowing, meaning she still hasn't remembered. So how is she? Have you turned her into a complete freak yet? Are you finished warping her, or is that still a work in progress?"

Jaddo's eyes flashed, and for a moment Brivari thought he'd lost his temper. It was something of a disappointment when he reined it in.

"I have been very, very careful not to connect with Ava," Jaddo said in a voice that nearly shook with emotion. "I have been very, very careful what I've told her, what I've let her see. She hasn't even seen me in my native form. I've done my best to let her memory come back naturally—"

"And it hasn't," Brivari interrupted. "Has it?"

Jaddo's eyes clouded, his hand still rubbing his throat. "She remembers....a few things."

"But nothing specific. She still doesn't know who she is. Meaning your plan didn't work."

"Correction: It hasn't worked yet," Jaddo said. "And neither has yours, so the jury's still out."

"Like hell it is!" Brivari exclaimed. "As far as I'm concerned, you were tried and convicted the moment you stole my Ward's mate!"

"But you won't pronounce sentence," Jaddo said softly. "Because if you dispose of me, you'll never find her."

"Or the control crystal for the Granolith," Brivari said bitterly. "You didn't just take Ava, you stranded all of them here."

"A precaution," Jaddo said. "And further evidence that this isn't about Zan pining after a wife I'm quite sure he doesn't even know exists. This is about what it's always about with you, Brivari—control. Did you really think I'd give you the means to leave the planet without telling me?"

"Why not?" Brivari retorted. "You gave away two sets of hybrids without telling me. You took Ava without telling me. You rendered their only way home useless without telling me. You never tire of doing things without telling me and defending your asinine behavior as 'necessary', so why are you suddenly objecting to the notion of me doing something without telling you?"

Jaddo's eyes hardened. "I didn't come here to engage in old arguments—"

"Then why did you come here? Don't tell me you had a sudden hankering to party."

Jaddo shot him a look that was part disdain, part pity. "I came to make you aware of something, something I learned only today. I don't know if you're familiar with the Special Unit's command structure, but the agent responsible for New Mexico—"

"Agent Stevens," Brivari said. "What about him?"

"You know Agent Stevens?"

"Of course I know Agent Stevens. While you blunder around like a bull in a china shop, I do my job quietly and inconspicuously. I know at least as much about the Special Unit as you do, maybe more."

"I see," Jaddo murmured. "Then do you know that Agent Stevens paid a visit to Roswell today at the behest of one Sheriff Valenti?" He paused, measuring the look on Brivari's face. "Ah. I see you don't. So much for 'maybe more'."

"The Special Unit has been courting Valenti ever since he took the badge," Brivari said impatiently. "What about it?"

Jaddo reached into a back pocket and withdrew a newspaper, unfolding it and holding it up. "What about it?" Brivari demanded as the headline SHOOTOUT AT THE CRASHDOWN hovered in front of him. "That happened on Sunday. It's nearly Wednesday. I have Roswell's paper delivered to my house every single morning," he added when Jaddo looked surprised. "There was nothing the least bit unusual about what happened at the Crashdown."

"Apparently Valenti thinks otherwise," Jaddo said, refolding the paper. "According to my source, he called Agent Stevens to report that a waitress had been shot during that incident, only to have a teenaged boy go up to her and hover over her....and now she's fine."

Brivari froze, a cold hand gripping his heart. "The paper said no one was hurt."

"Yes, well, you know you can't rely on the media. Needless to say, this piqued my interest. Our Wards are more advanced than we are. It's quite possible any of them could heal a gunshot wound without the aid of healing stones." He paused. "Have they ever done something like this? Have they ever healed someone?"

Not someone, Brivari thought. Something. That bird in the park was the only time either he or Dee had seen Zan or any of them heal, but there was no question it was possible. There was also no question that the hybrids knew they possessed enhanced abilities; Dee had seen enough when they thought no one was watching to make that very clear, but it was also clear they knew enough to hide what they were doing. Why would any of them do something so massive so publicly?

"No one has ever seen them do anything like that," Brivari answered, choosing his words carefully. "And this is Valenti. You know how Valenti's are, always jumping on every little thing."

"They do," Jaddo agreed. "And that did occur to me. Although it also occurred to me that 'every little thing' usually turned out to be annoyingly accurate, at least in the case of the elder Valenti. As for the younger version.....well.....my source passed along a few other details."

"Such as?"

"Such as Valenti's contention that there's a bullet hole in the waitress's uniform despite the fact that she didn't appear injured, and no bullet was ever found. Even more interesting is that he claims his son saw something odd on the waitress's torso right near the alleged bullet hole." Jaddo paused. "Does a silver handprint ring any bells for you?"

Jesus, Brivari thought despairingly. He'd been willing to write the whole thing off as yet another spastic Valenti, but now.....if Zan or Rath had healed someone without the aid of healing stones, it would have taken a massive amount of energy, more than enough to leave a mark.

"Valenti can prove this?" Brivari asked. "He has photographs?"

"No," Jaddo said. "He can't, and he doesn't. He didn't even see it himself; only his son did. Frankly I'd feel better if Valenti had seen it because then I could safely say he was just dredging up old memories of his father finding Atherton's body. But unless the son knows about that too, there's no good explanation as to why he would claim he saw something like that....unless, of course, he did."

Peals of laughter floated from an open window; the party continued inside, sounding out of place in the somber atmosphere beside the pool. "Valenti handed over the waitress's uniform to be tested," Jaddo went on. "She claims she broke a bottle of ketchup and spilled it on herself, so they'll test it to see if they find anything besides ketchup."

"And Agent Stevens?"

"Was unimpressed, if my contact is to be believed," Jaddo answered. "If all Valenti was doing was relating his own contentions and reporting hearsay, I wouldn't be concerned. But the presence of the uniform changes things. Because if they do find blood on that uniform....."

Then they're in trouble, Brivari thought heavily. Finding blood on the uniform wouldn't necessarily clinch the case, of course. But to have physical evidence coincide with the report of a silver handprint would be more than enough to set off all the Special Unit's alarms and draw them right where they couldn't afford them to be.

"So," Jaddo continued, "now the question becomes, what are we going to do about it?"

" 'We'?" Brivari echoed. "There hasn't been a 'we' for decades. I'll take care of it."

"Forgive me if I'm not willing to settle for that. You didn't know about any of this—"

"Nor was it necessary for me to know. The Special Unit has been around for decades and makes periodic forays into Roswell. I don't hang on their every twitch, and you shouldn't either."

"But this time—"

"Requires observation, but that's all. The Unit isn't in Roswell. It may be just ketchup on the dress. And for all we know, Valenti's son learned about Atherton's body at some point and is seeing things, if not making the whole thing up."

"Possible, but unlikely. If they decide to pursue this—"

"Then I will pursue them," Brivari said. "Until then, all we have is supposition."

"Supposition? You know our Wards are capable of this—"

" 'Capable' is not synonymous with 'culpable'. And they've never done anything like this before, certainly not in public."

"Let me guess," Jaddo sighed. "You're going to watch and wait. Which is all you ever do."

"And which has worked beautifully for decades," Brivari retorted, "causing far less trouble than all your jumping to conclusions and preemptive strikes. If they make a move, I will make a counter move. Moving before that only risks attracting their attention."

"Their attention has already been attracted," Jaddo argued.

"All the more reason not to attract it further. And further evidence that you're every bit as knee-jerk as you always were. We're done."

"So that's all you're going to do?" Jaddo demanded. "Nothing? Just sit here and—"

"I said I'd take care of it," Brivari broke in. "And I also said we're done. Get out."

Jaddo's eyes flared. "Do I need to take matters into my own hands? Because I—"

In one swift motion, Brivari slammed Jaddo against the sliding glass door that led to the kitchen. "You listen to me," he said harshly. "You left. You took her, and you left. That was your decision, not mine. You have Ava, I have the others, and how the others are handled is up to me. I've let you stay on your side of the line, but if you cross that line, if you go anywhere near them, I swear to God I will hunt you down and dispose of you as an enemy to the crown."

"Then why haven't you, Brivari?" Jaddo rasped. "Why have you let me stay 'on my side of the line'?"

"Because protecting them is more important than chasing you. The day you change that equation, the day you make protecting them about chasing you will be the day I'll no longer be content to let you walk this planet. Do I make myself clear?"

The blinds behind them moved; alarmed faces peeked out. "You're worrying your guests, Brivari—"

"Do I make myself clear?" Brivari demanded.

Jaddo's eyes burned. "Quite."

The sliding door flew open, and Brivari's chief of security appeared, gun in hand. "What's going on out here?" he barked leveling the gun at Jaddo. "Are you all right, Mr. Langley? Who is this man?"

"He was just leaving," Brivari said, pulling Jaddo off the window and giving him a none too gentle shove. "Go back inside."

"Are you sure?" the guard asked uncertainly.

"I'm sure. And put that thing away. You're scaring my guests."

The guard retreated slowly, followed by wide-eyed guests toting glasses of champagne. "For a moment there, I was wondering if you were going to let him shoot me," Jaddo said.

"Don't worry, Jaddo," Brivari said darkly. "If anyone kills you....it'll be me."

Jaddo gave a soft snort. "Is that supposed to be comforting?" He paused. "I may have been dismissed, but I have one more question. I know where Zan and Vilandra are, but I never found out what happened to Rath. How is he?"

"You have no business asking that," Brivari said bitterly. "You abandoned him, remember? I certainly do."

Jaddo's expression hardened; then he gave a clipped nod and walked away, disappearing into the bushes on the far side of the pool. Brivari waited several minutes after he was out of sight before going back inside to face his worried guests.

"What the hell was that all about?" the DP demanded. "We heard a bang, and the door rattling, and then—"

"It was a personal matter," Brivari said shortly. "I'm sorry if we alarmed you."

"Is everything all right?" a worried producer asked.

"Yes, but I'm afraid the party's over," Brivari said. "My apologies, but there's somewhere else I need to be."




*****************************************************



Six days later


September 27, 1999, 9 a.m.

West Roswell High School



"Uh....Michael's not really into Geometry."

Laughter rippled through the classroom, and the substitute teacher calling roll smiled faintly. "He's not into it," she echoed. "I guess I can understand that. Pretty uninspiring stuff. Let's open our books to page 228....."

Max flipped his book open, glancing at Michael's empty seat as he did so. Michael was never terribly regular regarding class attendance, but the last few days had been worse than usual. In many ways Max suspected that Michael objections to Liz's plan to throw off Sheriff Valenti at the Crash Festival last week had actually been a longing to have it fail. Michael had nothing holding him here; he hated school, he had no family, and his foster father was no prize. Leaving Roswell probably sounded much more interesting to him than staying. It wasn't hard to see how he'd be disappointed that the plan appeared to have worked.

No...it did work, Max amended silently. Several days had gone by, the first twenty-four hours of which had seen both he and Isabel tensing every single time the phone or doorbell rang, making the second time in a week they'd felt that way. But no one called, no one came for them. No one even talked about the shooting at the Crashdown any more, it being old news a mere week later. Liz may not have dodged the bullet, but it appeared the rest of them had.

"Your homework will be problems 1 through 5 on page 230," the substitute was saying. "Can anyone relay that information to Mr. Guerin?"

"I will," Max said quickly.

Like he'll care he added silently as the sub nodded and turned back to the blackboard. Here Michael had briefly thought he could leave school behind him only to find himself right back where he'd started. How different had his and Isabel's reactions been when they'd arrived home after the Crash Festival having not expected to be there, to walk into their house once again, see their parents, crawl into their own beds. For them it had been a relief, a gift; for Michael, a profound disappointment.

A sound drew his attention, and Max's eyes strayed from the blackboard to find Liz Parker's dropping quickly as she turned her attention from him to her book. They had been studiously avoiding each other since the festival, a task made easier by a Biology test that mercifully hadn't required much interaction between them. Not that he'd mind some interaction; there were a million things he'd like to say to Liz. Like how grateful he was that she'd come up with something which had allowed them to stay here. And how proud he was of her for standing up to two of the most intimidating people in the world. Maria had backed away from Michael, but not Liz; she had stepped forward, looked him directly in the eye, and had her say. Isabel could send chills through a room with a mere glance, so to see her voluntarily, though grudgingly, ask for Liz's help had been something of a revelation. Granted it had been his own announcement that he was turning himself in to Valenti which had pushed her over the edge, but still....the fact that she'd been willing to even speak to Liz, who had just spilled the beans to Maria, was telling. No, there were lots of things he wanted to say to Liz, but he couldn't. He couldn't take the risk. Not the risk to himself, a risk he'd already taken, but the risk to her. Knowing him wasn't safe. Knowing what he was, what they were, wasn't safe, not for them or for the knowledgeable. It was better for both of them if they stayed away from each other as much as possible.

The class droned on until the bell finally rang, Max walking briskly toward his next class until he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Hi."

"Hi," Max said, startled. "How's it going?"

"Good," Liz said. "Um, you know, things are just...things are just normal, you know? Completely normal."

"Good," Max said.

"Um...was that weird?"

"What?"

"That substitute just asked all of those questions about Michael. What was that about?"

"I'm sure she was just taking attendance," Max said gently.

"Right," Liz said, sounding unconvinced.

"Liz don't worry about it," Max said. "No one's suspicious of Michael. It's me."

"Okay," Liz said, still sounding skeptical.

"Hi, Liz!" called a cheerful voice behind them.

Make that a false cheerful voice; it was Isabel, throwing pointed looks at him. "Hi," Liz said uncertainly.

"Hey Iz," Max said warily.

"We should go," Isabel said firmly, hooking her arm through his and hauling him off, leaving Liz behind.

"Isabel, what are you doing?" Max demanded when they had rounded a corner.

"What am I doing? What are you doing?" Isabel retorted. "I thought we agreed you were going to stay away from her."

"I have been staying away from her," Max protested. "But I can't stay away from her entirely. We do have classes together, and we're lab partners."

"Don't remind me," Isabel said darkly. "And that still doesn't explain why you were chatting her up in the hallway. That wasn't a class, and I'm pretty sure I didn't see a Bunsen burner anywhere."

"We were talking about class," Max said. "Stop overreacting."

"Well, what am I supposed to do?" Isabel exclaimed in a fierce whisper. "First you go and spill our biggest secret to Miss Scientist, and then she goes and spills our biggest secret to Miss Freak Out—"

"Maria's not freaked out," Max broke in.

"Tell that to Michael, who said she nearly lost it when she saw him looking in the window of the Crashdown."

"I'm sure she's a bit on edge, but without her, we wouldn't have been able to throw Valenti off," Max argued. "She played her part in that beautifully."

"Fine, she's a budding Oscar winner," Isabel said. "But the fact remains that there are now two people out there who could get us killed just by running off at the mouth. Doesn't that bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me, but I don't see as there's anything we can do about it," Max said. "Besides, Maria's cool. She won't tell."

"That's what you said about Liz," Isabel reminded him. "How'd that work out, Max?"

"Iz, what do you want me to do?" Max said in frustration. "I can't avoid Liz entirely, we can't avoid Liz and Maria entirely. We live in the same town, we go to school together....our only other option is to leave Roswell. Is that what you want? Because if it is, if that's what it takes to make you feel safe, I'm listening."

Isabel's looked away. "Michael would like that."

"I know he would. I'm asking you if you want to leave."

His sister's eyes dropped, and she hesitated. "No," she said finally. "This is my home. I was never so miserable as when we thought we were driving out of town for good."

"You sure didn't show it."

"Of course I didn't," she said sharply. "You were all upset, Michael was going on about our mythic relative; someone had to keep a clear head. But....I was dying inside," she went on, her voice faltering. "To think we'd never see Mom and Dad again, or Grandma and Grandpa....it was awful."

"So you're actually grateful 'Miss Scientist' came up with a plan that worked?" Max said softly.

Isabel's eyes snapped back to his. "Don't rub it in, Max. She's the reason we needed a plan in the first place."

"No, I'm the reason we needed a plan in the first place," Max said firmly. "Liz didn't ask me to save her; no one did. That was my decision. Don't blame her."

"I know," Isabel said, anguished. "It's just that....I see the way you look at her."

"Iz, you go on dates all the time, so I really don't think you're in any position—"

"That's different," Isabel insisted. "That's just for fun. You look at her like.....like it's a lot more than that. And that scares me. Because if feeling that way makes you do what you did, and that leads to you telling her about us, and that leads to her telling someone else.....where does it stop, Max? Does it ever stop?"

"It's stopped," Max said. "Liz told Maria because she had this huge secret dropped in her lap and she needed to share it with someone. Maria has Liz to share it with, so she doesn't need to tell anyone else. And she hasn't."

"Or so you think," Isabel said.

"So I know," Max corrected. "Just give it a rest. Here you're accusing Maria of freaking out, and you're the one freaking out." He glanced at the clock. "I have to get going or I'll be late for class."

"Just try to stay away from her?" Isabel pleaded. "Promise me you'll try?"

They had reached a double door, and Max pulled it open at the same time an unfamiliar man wearing a suit appeared behind him. "Go ahead," the man said when Max held the door for him.

"No, you can go," Max replied.

"I'm sure you're on your way to class," the man said.

"Yeah, I am. So go," Max said.

The man hesitated, then walked through the door almost reluctantly. Max and Isabel followed, the door swinging shut behind them.

"All I'm saying is, be careful," Isabel whispered. "You never know who's watching."

No one's watching, Max thought wearily as he reached his classroom and slipped inside mere seconds before the bell rang. Honestly, his own sister was going to give them away just with all her fretting. Grateful to be rid of Isabel and further grateful that this was one class he and Liz didn't share, Max took his seat, glanced out the door....and froze.

A moment later, he shook his head. He was seeing things. For a split second, he'd almost gotten sucked in.

For a split second, he could have sworn he'd seen the man in the suit just outside the door, watching him.




*****************************************************




Proctor residence

Corona, New Mexico




Dee reached the bottom of the stairs and paused, feeling a twinge in her right hip. Wonderful, she thought sourly. Her mother had arthritis; did this mean she was developing it too? Those stairs had been the death knell for her mother staying in this house, that and the fact that the only bathroom was at the top of those stairs. She'd tried in vain to convince her parents to remodel, to turn the dining room into a bedroom and add a ground floor bath so they could stay in the only house they'd ever owned, but Emily had been adamant; her dining room was her dining room, and that was that. And now it's mine, Dee thought. If it was weird to visit the house in which one had grown up, it was even weirder to actually live there again.

The twinge was gone, allowing her to daydream of avoiding arthritis. Hoisting her purse, she walked out onto the front porch and stopped dead in her tracks.

"Where the hell have you been?" she demanded. "I haven't seen you in ages!"

"Nice to see you too," Brivari replied. "And your not having seen me doesn't mean I haven't been here."

"That's certainly the way I interpret it," Dee said crossly.

"Humans," Brivari said dryly. "So literal."

"Aliens," Dee retorted. "So absent."

"You know how to reach me. Is something wrong?"

Dee hesitated; that niggling feeling which had bothered her early last week when Isabel had been so upset had subsided, but not completely. Something still wasn't right.

"So the answer is 'yes'," Brivari murmured.

"I didn't say that," Dee said quickly. "I just...."

"You just....have a bad feeling?"

Dee smiled faintly. "Still sore that you didn't get to produce "Star Wars"?"

"Yes, but that's not the point."

"So what is?" Dee asked.

Brivari held up a newspaper, last Monday's newspaper to be exact, with a headline which screamed SHOOTOUT AT THE CRASHDOWN.

"What do you know about this?"






~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Next week is my birthday, and I'll be celebrating! I'll post Chapter 5 on Sunday, August 15.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!






CHAPTER FIVE



September 27, 1999, 10:00 a.m.

Proctor residence, Corona, New Mexico




Dee lowered herself slowly into a chair beside Brivari, blinking at the newspaper held aloft in front of her. Of all the things she may have guessed would have pulled him here now, this wasn't one of them.

"What do I know about it?" she echoed. "I....I know that it happened. A week ago. What about it?"

Brivari refolded the newspaper and set it in his lap. "This is the official version. What have you heard unofficially?"

"Basically nothing you don't find in the 'official version'," Dee replied, mystified. "A couple of men got into an argument, one pulled a gun, the gun went off, they ran away. Mercifully no one got hurt. End of story."

"So no one got hurt? No one at all?"

"That's what the paper said—"

"I know what the paper said."

"Then you know everything I know. Why? Is there something we weren't told?"

Brivari rose from his seat and leaned against the porch railing. How many times had he sat on this porch over the years? Dozens, hundreds, probably, too many to count, dating all the way back to 1947. He looked so different now in his leather coat and that cap he frequently wore. Apparently if one hung around the planet long enough, one developed a fashion sense by default.

"Was Zan at the diner when the shooting occurred?"

"I don't think so," Dee answered. "He never mentioned it."

"That means nothing. This is Zan we're talking about; you can never go by what he says."

"Unfortunately, that's all I have to go by," Dee said. "And I can't imagine that he wouldn't have mentioned being present for something like that. What are you getting at? Do you think Max was involved in the shooting?"

"Did you notice anything odd about either Zan or Vilandra right after the shooting?" Brivari went on, ignoring her question.

Dee's mouth opened and closed. "Max....no. But Isabel....."

"What?"

"Well.....last Sunday.....when the shooting happened.....something was bothering Isabel. She holed up in her room and refused to come out. Diane even brought her dinner to her room. She reappeared the next morning, and she seemed to be okay, but Max left for school without her, so I drove her."

"And?"

"And she was on edge," Dee said. "Something was really bugging her. She sharpened her pencil in the car, you know, the way they do....with their minds. She does that all the time when she thinks no one's looking, but this time she just looked so shocked after she did it, like she was afraid someone had seen her."

"Anything else?"

"No. She seemed fine after that. She got all dressed up for the Crash Festival the following night....you should have seen the get-up, all stiletto heels, and wild hair, and eye make-up—"

"Classic Vilandra," Brivari muttered.

"....but then, as I was leaving the house, I found Max and Isabel climbing into the jeep, and they both looked....upset. She said goodbye to me like she thought she wasn't going to see me again."

"Really?" Brivari murmured. "And Zan?"

"Was in a big hurry to get going."

"Where?"

"To the Festival. Or so he claimed. Diane mentioned them both coming home late that night, so I take it they went." Dee paused. "What's going on, Brivari? What does this have to do with the shooting at the Crashdown?"

"Maybe nothing. I'm just checking."

"But checking what?" Dee asked. "I was impatient when Diane didn't ask more questions, but whatever it was, it's gone now. I tend to think she was right that it was just some teenaged thing. And it only seemed to affect Isabel; Max didn't seem upset, although he's so intense even on a good day, it's hard to tell with him."

"And that's exactly why Vilandra is the weathervane," Brivari said. "Zan broods, internalizes everything. Vilandra wears her heart on her sleeve; she couldn't keep a secret if you paid her."

"She seemed to have kept one well enough when she wanted to marry Khivar."

"Except that one," Brivari said darkly. "The one time she managed to keep her mouth shut, it ruined an entire planet, so let's all pray she yaks endlessly until the end of time."

Dee's eyes closed briefly. "Look," she said, "I know you see them as the people you once knew. And I'm sure there's some of those people in them. But I'm equally sure that they're not just recreations. He's not Zan—he's Max. She's not Vilandra—she's Isabel. They have similarities, but they've lived different lives this time around."

"You think I don't know that every single waking moment of my life?" Brivari demanded.

"I think that sometimes you dump your baggage from their past lives onto their present selves," Dee said pointedly. "Take Michael, for example. You haven't even asked about him, nor have you found him a better place to live."

"Nobody wants teenagers—"

"Oh, don't give me that!" Dee exclaimed. "You could do it if you really wanted to; I know you could. It's because he's Jaddo's Ward, isn't it? You're mad at Jaddo, and you're taking it out on Michael."

"That's ridiculous," Brivari insisted.

"Is it? You seemed to tolerate him better before they all found each other again in school, but after that—"

"That's because I'm not always thrilled with the effect Rath had on my Ward," Brivari said. "Not in that life, not in this one."

"He's not that bad," Dee said. "A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but he's hardly dragged Max into a life of crime. Although you're not alone," she went on with a sigh. "Diane agrees with you. She was none too happy when Michael showed up again and the three of them bonded like they'd never been apart. She's never said anything, and she won't, because then she'd have to explain how she knows Michael and what happened when they were so young, and she'll never want to do that. But I know she doesn't like having him around."

"Then perhaps you should try giving your daughter-in-law more credit," Brivari said.

Dee arched an eyebrow. "And perhaps you should try looking at them as individuals instead of carbon copies of who they used to be. Maybe hang around more, get to know them, or—"

"How am I supposed to do that?" Brivari exclaimed in frustration. "I can't get near Zan! I tried this morning at the school, and he ordered me through a doorway."

"Of course he did," Dee said calmly. "He has no idea who you are or what effect he has on you. Maybe it's time to tell him that straight out, just tell him—"

"No," Brivari said firmly. "I never knew Rath as a child, but I knew Zan at his Earth-equivalent age. Now is definitely not the time."

"Then when is the time? Will there ever be a right time?"

"When he's been smacked around enough that he gains some perspective," Brivari retorted. "That's when he started to listen to me before, when he'd stepped in enough pot holes, made enough mistakes, been screwed over and lied to often enough that he started to look at me differently. But that took a while, and he's nowhere near that point yet. He's just a kid from suburban America who doesn't know anything about hardship or responsibility other than how to spell them."

"That's a bit harsh," Dee protested. "I hope you're not going to lose interest in him the way you did with Michael."

"If I've 'lost interest', then what the hell am I doing here?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out," Dee said dryly. "All I've got is some enigmatic questions about a seemingly unrelated incident at a local eatery, and I'm betting that's all I'm going to get. Am I right?" She waited, bemused, as Brivari looked away. "Fine," she sighed. "I'll keep my eyes open, maybe ask some questions and see what happens. Will you be at your house in town?"

"Yes. And you'll be at yours?"

"Actually....we live here now."

"Here?" Brivari echoed. "I thought you were going to sell this place when your parents moved out."

"We were," Dee said, following him down the porch steps. "And then we thought, why should we? It's paid for, so we were able to sell our house, pay off the mortgage, and move in here. And I thought it might be nice to bring my parents back here for dinner sometimes, although that didn't work out."

"Why not?"

"Because Mama refuses to come back here," Dee said softly. "It took me ages to get her to walk away, and now that she has, she won't look back, even for an afternoon. I think it hurts too much." She paused. "Daddy would love to see you, you know. He's still in pretty good shape. Why not stop by sometime? Westside has some lounges, even a private dining room; he could meet you there if you didn't want to go to their apartment."

Brivari had stopped partway down the front walk, his back to her. "I think," he said slowly, "that I feel the same way about that as your mother does about coming back here."





***************************************************





FBI Field Office, 7 p.m.

Santa Fe



"I understand your frustration, sheriff, but it's late." Pause. "Perhaps you could call back....perhaps tomorrow..... Look, I'm sorry.....I'm sorry, Sheriff, but there's nothing I can tell you. Please call back tomorrow."

Agent Stevens waited, anticipating the thunk of the phone in its cradle, his assistant's exasperated sigh, the click, click of her heels on the floor as she headed for his office for what must be the sixth time today. No, what was the sixth time today. He had vivid memories of the previous five encounters.

"Agent Stevens," Pamela announced from the doorway, "that was—"

"Sheriff Valenti. I know."

"No, that was Sheriff Valenti again," Pamela corrected. "I delivered several messages from him today, and you've been in all day. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on," Stevens answered. "I'm just not prepared to speak to him."

"Are you prepared to speak to me?" another voice said.

Not now, Stevens thought wearily, holding up a hand to silence Pamela, who was all ready to jump down the newcomer's throat. Not that he wouldn't enjoy that, of course; it was just that he knew it wouldn't work. Arguing with this one got you nowhere.

"Agent Pierce," Stevens said. "I didn't know you were in town."

"I wasn't," Pierce said. "But when Roswell's sheriff makes that many phone calls in one day, that piques my interest."

"And how would you know Roswell's sheriff had phoned here, never mind how many times?" Pamela demanded.

"None of your business," Pierce said pleasantly. "You're done here. Get out."

Pamela blinked, then looked at Stevens; he nodded slightly, and she reluctantly withdrew. Pamela was an excellent guard dog who'd tangled with all sorts, but he was willing to bet she'd never encountered rudeness like that. Few people had.

"So," Pierce said, unbuttoning his suit coat as he took a seat in front of Stevens' desk, "why is Jim Valenti beating on your door?"

"The real question is why are you beating on my door? You're not head of the Unit, Pierce, much as you may want to be."

"Yet," Pierce said smoothly. "But then we are both Unit, and I just asked you a perfectly legitimate question. Should I be expecting an answer any time soon, or should I have your exceptionally mouthy assistant send out for Starbucks?"

Which would hopefully be hot enough to burn your tongue and shut you up, Stevens thought darkly. The late Agent Summers had yet to be replaced, and unfortunately this pretty boy in a suit was on the short list. Daniel Pierce had been a member of the Unit for the past ten years, but few had seen him; he operated in the shadows, Summers' shadow, to be precise, emerging only after Summers' death to declare that the reins should be handed to him ahead of several older, much more established agents. The astonishment which had greeted this announcement had been near total with the exception of Pierce himself, who seemed to think he'd earned it, though God knows no one knew how. Almost a dozen seasoned veterans would have to be passed over....no, snubbed....to put this rude, patronizing jerk in a position no one but him felt he deserved. Even the thought was positively galling, and the only saving grace was that it hadn't happened.

Yet, Stevens amended silently. Much as it pained him to admit it, the possibility existed that Pierce might get what he wanted. Which made pissing him off completely a bad idea, not to mention that it would look weird if he refused to share. The last thing he wanted was for Pierce to go whining to the powers that be that he wasn't being collaborative, although the fact that he hadn't yet been handed the keys to the Unit suggested those powers were less than impressed. One could only hope.

"There's been an incident in Roswell," Stevens said. "Valenti is Roswell's sheriff, hence all the phone calls."

"Incident?" Pierce repeated. "What kind of incident?"

"Witnesses say they saw a waitress shot during an armed confrontation at a local diner," Stevens answered. "Supposedly a teenaged boy went up to her and did.....something to her, and now she's fine. The waitress says she just fell, and a bottle of ketchup she was holding broke and spilled all over her uniform."

"Do I detect a note of skepticism in your voice, agent?"

"Of course you do. It's a wild story, one the locals refute. They say no one was hurt."

"But Sheriff Valenti says otherwise."

"You know perfectly well that Valenti's have a long history of 'saying otherwise'."

Pierce smiled faintly. "That they do. At least the elder one did. Although, according to my stepfather, he was usually right."

"Yeah, well, according to everyone else, he was usually loony," Stevens said. "And the son appears to be no exception. His only witnesses are two Crash Festival attendees who spend their time chasing aliens."

"Which we all know are real," Pierce noted.

"But they don't," Stevens said. "And the story they're peddling is pure fantasy. Which didn't stop Valenti from buying it hook, line, and sinker, even to the point of swiping the uniform the waitress was wearing at the time and foisting it on me. He claimed there was a bullet hole in the dress, and that he never found a bullet."

"And?"

"And the lab report confirmed there is a hole, but it's not yet conclusive it's a bullet hole."

"Where is that lab report?"

Stevens hesitated. He was certainly under no obligation to show Pierce the report, but it might be better to do it now and find out what the inevitable objections would be in the privacy of his office. Rifling through a stack on his desk, he chucked a manila envelope toward Pierce, who opened it and scanned the contents.

"It says here they found blood," he said accusingly.

"It says they found mostly ketchup," Stevens corrected, "the very same ketchup the waitress claimed spilled all over her when the bottle broke. The sample was too small to be conclusive, so they're running more tests."

"And the hole? Did you even read this report, agent? The jagged edge of a broken bottle wouldn't make a hole like this. Hasn't anyone ever taught you about square pegs and round holes?"

All I need to do is look at you to figure that one out, Stevens thought. "Of course I read it," Stevens said tightly. "And I'm pursuing it, even though the dress isn't backing up his claims, and that story about the handprint—"

"What?" Pierce interrupted sharply. "He saw a handprint?"

Shit! Stevens closed his eyes momentarily, furious with himself for letting that slip. "No, he claims his son saw a handprint, a sophomore jock with a grade point average somewhere south of a C. And of course there's no handprint on the girl now."

"Because it fades!" Pierce exclaimed.

"I'm aware of that," Stevens retorted. "Just like I'm aware that handprints don't heal, they kill. There hasn't been a single recorded instance of a silver handprint doing anything but boiling you alive from the inside out. Which is just one more reason this whole story is bogus."

"I don't care if you think it's bogus," Pierce declared. "If you've got a handprint, you need eyes on the ground. You need—"

"Got it covered."

"You do? Who'd you send?"

"The best agent for the job."

"And who the hell is that?"

"None of your business."

Pierce's eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Stevens said flatly, his patience exhausted. "This is my field office, not yours."

"Agent Stevens," Pierce said firmly, "as a member of the Unit, you have an obligation to share—"

"I've shared," Stevens interrupted. "As much as I'm going to. You don't like it, go to Director Freeh. We both know how thrilled he was to find a special unit operating right under his nose without his knowledge."

Pierce's jaw twitched, settled back into position. "It was so much better when Sessions was in power. How we managed to miss another opportunity to put one of our own in the chair is beyond me. When I'm in charge, I'll see to it we don't make that mistake again."

"If you're in charge," Stevens corrected. "If. Last I knew, Summers hadn't been replaced."

Pierce rose to his feet. "Don't push your luck, agent."

"Don't push yours," Stevens retorted, rising also. "Let me tell you something, Pierce; I was here long before you showed up, and I'll be here long after you're gone, just like all the other agents who deserve to become Summers' successor way more than you do. So you didn't get what you wanted; you win some, you lose some. Now get the hell out of my office before I pick up that phone and call Freeh. Oh, and don't forget to insult my assistant on the way out. Consistency is a virtue."

Pierce's eyes were flashing dangerously now. "Big mistake," he ground out. "Because you're wrong. I haven't lost yet. And when I win, I'll be certain to remember this conversation."

"You're terrifying," Stevens deadpanned. "And you're done here. Get out."

Pierce hesitated only a split second before slamming the lab report down on the desk so hard that a pencil cup jumped a good inch before stalking out past a flabbergasted Pamela, who slowly rose from her desk and walked into the office just as Stevens was sinking into his chair.

"You heard?"

"Hard not to," Pamela admitted. "Who in blazes was that?"

"Daniel Pierce," Steven sighed. "Summers' right-hand man and next in line to the throne, according to him. Trouble is, he hasn't been crowned yet."

"Why not?"

"His resume is about half a page long. Guy's a poser."

"Not so much of a poser that he wasn't able to find out Valenti had called," Pamela pointed out.

"He's got moles," Stevens said. "Probably a whole flock of them."

"Moles don't have 'flocks'. That's birds."

"Whatever," Stevens said impatiently. "The point is, he's nowhere near as clever as he claims to be. And don't let the expensive suits fool you. A well-dressed manikin is still a manikin."

"Mmm," Pamela murmured. "But he's awfully handsome."

"Oh, God," Stevens groaned. "Don't even start."

"I'm just sayin'," Pamela said lightly. She paused. "I notice you didn't mention the agent you sent to the sheriff's station. Or his fate."

Stevens snorted softly. "I'm surprised Pierce didn't already know. Guess he needs better moles."

"Are you going to follow up on it?"

"I'll have to," Steven sighed. "The kosher way this time, the Freeh way. The way I didn't want to."

"Why?"

"Because this is probably all a wild goose chase, and I don't want either the Unit or the Bureau to wind up looking foolish. Because going in there with guns or warrants blazing only lends credence to Sergeant Martian."

"I'm guessing Agent Hart's presence already did that," Pamela noted, "which is probably why Valenti bounced him."

"How the hell was I supposed to know he'd do that?" Stevens demanded. "Normally a local backs up ten feet when the Bureau appears. All we needed was a few minutes with the office empty."

"The way I understand it, Roswell's local isn't just any local," Pamela said.

"Spare me the history lessons, Pam," Stevens said. "I've read everything there is about our encounters with Valenti Sr., and part of the problem was that we shared too much. That just made things worse, made an already unstable man even more unstable. If I go in there with a warrant, that man's son will take it for granted that we're buying what he's selling, and then the phone will never stop ringing."

"It may not anyway," Pamela said. "Wait until this 'Pierce' finds out you sent Kathleen to Roswell. " 'Best agent for the job', my foot."

"So? I won't waste my top agents on knee jerk sheriffs."

Pamela shook her head. "I hope you know what you're doing. She's awfully green."

"Who cares?" Stevens said. "I have a duty to investigate, so I'll investigate, but I still think this is a whole lot of nothing. She can't screw up, Pam. There's nothing to screw up."




*****************************************************



Evans residence




"Go on in," Dee said. "I've got these."

"Nonsense, Mom, let Philip carry them," Diane said.

"Take two, then. I'll get the rest."

"I do hope they're not starving," Diane fretted. "We're later than we thought we'd be."

"Max and Isabel know where the kitchen is," Philip said, opening the front door with one hand and balancing pizza boxes with the other as the door swung open.

"Anybody here?" Diane called.

Dee kicked the car door closed with her foot while balancing her own two boxes. Four pizzas for five people was a bit much, but then everyone liked something different. Actually she wasn't that fond of pizza, period, but wasn't about to pass up Diane's invitation to join them for dinner. Her encounter with Brivari earlier had left her nervous about what had brought him here. Anything that would make him show himself after a long absence was worthy of attention.

"You guys hungry?" she heard Philip ask as she reached the front door.

"Hey guys, we got pizza," Diane chimed in. "Hey honey, you look....pretty. Oh, Michael....hi."

Standing in the doorway with her pizza boxes, Dee winced as she heard the change in tone. It was odd, really, that Philip tolerated Michael better than Diane; one would have thought it would have been the other way around. But Philip had accepted the kids rediscovery of each other in third grade with a shrug, while Diane had responded more like a mother bear whose cubs were threatened. Never mind that none of the kids seemed to have any memory of the trauma they'd experienced soon after they'd emerged from the pods, or that Michael had been in a stable home and was well behaved. Since then that stable home had evaporated when his foster parents had divorced, dropping him back into the Social Services system. His current foster father was little more than a mouth breather.

"Hey. I was just leaving," Dee heard Michael say.

"We've got plenty of pizza," Philip said, as Dee imagined Diane's disapproving look.

"My dad's cooking," Michael replied. "Thanks."

"Well, I'm starved," Diane said brightly. "C'mon, guys; plates, napkins, let's eat!"

Subtle, Dee thought sourly, her daughter-in-law's delight at getting rid of the interloper almost palpable from the porch. Diane had been a good mother to Max and Isabel, but her parenting skills didn't seem to extend any further than her own roof.

"Hi, Michael."

"Oh....hey, Grandma Evans," Michael said, coming out the front door. "Want help with those?"

"No, I've got them," Dee said. "Won't you join us? We bought an even ton of pizza, including ham and pineapple—your favorite. So why not.....what?" she finished when he gave her an odd look.

"Guess I'm just not used to anyone knowing what my 'favorite' anything is," Michael said. He glanced longingly at the boxes in her hand, then back into the house. "You go ahead. My dad's—"

"Cooking?" Dee finished skeptically. "Seriously, Michael, how stupid do I look?"

Michael's eyes dropped. "Not stupid at all. But you knew that."

"And I also know you'd love some of this pizza," Dee said firmly. "Don't let Diane get you down. She's weird on a good day."

"Don't let Isabel hear you say that," Michael advised. "Besides, I don't go where I'm not wanted."

"I've said whatever I like since I was a child, and I see no reason to stop now," Dee said. "And Diane's the only one who doesn't want you here, so she's outvoted. It's simple arithmetic."

Michael smiled faintly. "That's real nice of you, but I don't think it works that way."

"At least take some pizza with you," Dee said when he started to walk away. "Here....I've got napkins in the outside pocket of my purse. Wrap a few slices in those. Go on," she coaxed when he hesitated. "You and I both know this is the only dinner you're going to get unless you open a can of soup."

Dee popped open the top box of pizza, and the smell was enough to override Michael's doubts. A minute later he was loaded up with half the ham and pineapple pie, which he balanced with the deftness of one long practiced in carrying food.

"Thanks," Michael said self-consciously.

"You're very welcome," Dee said softly. "Good night."

He walked off toting his tower of pizza, and Dee was just closing the box when Diana appeared on the porch. "Oh! There you are. We were afraid you'd fallen, or something."

"Fallen?" Dee echoed. "Gracious, I'm not that old yet. I was giving Michael some pizza."

"You were? But he said—"

"That his dad was cooking? I'd be surprised if his 'dad' knew how to nuke a frozen dinner. He just said that because he knows you don't want him here."

Diane flushed. "That's not true, Mom. I just....I think...."

"I know very well what you think," Dee said, brushing past her daughter-in-law. "I should get this inside before it gets cold."

"Mom," Diane called after her, following her inside. "Mom? Wait!"

Dee turned around. "What?"

Diane folded her arms, looking supremely uncomfortable. "It's not that I don't want him here," she whispered. "It's just that I can't get it out of my head that he attacked Isabel when they were little."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, they were children!" Dee exclaimed. "Traumatized children! That was ages ago, and they don't even remember it!"

"I remember it," Diane protested. "I remember it like it was yesterday."

"I noticed," Dee said darkly. "And you've apparently decided to punish him for it for the rest of his life. Excuse me."

"No, Mom, wait...."

But Dee ignored her, marching into the kitchen where everyone else was already seated. "There you are," Philip said, taking the boxes from her. "I was beginning to think we lost my sausage and onion, and.....what happened to the ham and pineapple?"

"I gave half to Michael," Dee said briskly, pulling up a chair. "He looked hungry."

An awkward silence followed. Max and Isabel exchanged glances, and Diane had the grace to look abashed. "Oh," Philip said noncommittally, long practiced in being caught in the middle between his mother and his wife.

"That was really nice of you, Grandma," Isabel said.

"Yeah. Thanks," Max added.

"You're welcome," Dee answered. "So....tell me what you two have been up to. Did you enjoy the Crash Festival last week?"

"It was okay," Isabel said.

"I saw Isabel's costume, but what about you, Max?" Dee asked. "What did you go as?"

"Men in Black," Max answered.

"Cool," Philip offered.

Ironic, Dee corrected privately. "Oh, I had a question for all of you," she went on, hoping she sounded casual. "I was in town today, and I overheard a mention of someone getting hurt during that shooting at the Crashdown last week. Did any of you hear anything about that?"

The glass of milk Isabel was holding slipped, and she tightened her grip to catch it. Max's eyes darted briefly toward his sister, then back to his pizza. Vilandra is the weathervane, Brivari had said. If so, that weathervane had just started spinning wildly.

"Who told you that?" Max asked.

"I just overheard it standing in line at the grocery store," Dee said lightly. "I have no idea who it was."

"I didn't hear about anyone being hurt, did you, hon?" Philip asked Diane.

"No," Diane answered, happy to be off the subject of Michael. "The paper said no one was hurt. Thank God," she added.

"What about you two?" Dee asked Max and Isabel, watching them closely. "Did you hear about anyone being hurt?"

"No," Max said, looking her directly in the eye. "I didn't. And like Mom said, thank God."

He's good, Dee thought. A lot better than his sister, who was visibly rattled and who remained visibly rattled throughout the rest of the conversation. Damn it, she thought dejectedly. She'd been hoping that whatever had pulled Brivari here had been a false alarm.

Apparently it wasn't.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I'll post Chapter 6 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER SIX



September 28, 1999, 10:15 a.m.

West Roswell High School



"Everyone, turn to page 54 in your textbooks. We're looking at problem number three."

A rustling sound echoed through the classroom as textbooks opened and pages flipped. Odd, Kathleen Topolsky thought as heads bowed obediently over page 54. Just two days ago she never would have imagined herself in front of a classroom doing geometry. Just two days ago she was basically a glorified file clerk, albeit in the employ of a top secret organization that even the President of the United States didn't know existed. Still, having lived so recently at the bottom of the food chain, it was more than a little exhilarating to suddenly find herself not only on assignment, but in a position of power which had twenty-five people hanging on her every word. Two of whom are my targets, she added, smiling at the class as her eyes brushed the dark-haired girl on one side of the room and the dark-haired boy on the other. If their intel was correct, the girl was human....and the boy was not. Good Lord; if aliens really looked like that, the Unit wouldn't need to hunt them down. People would start building landing strips in their backyards.

"Okay," she said briskly, tearing her eyes away from the breathtakingly handsome and very human looking boy in the back corner. "Problem three. Do it with me."

Chalk squeaked, pencils scritched, and Topolsky's mind wandered to the tornado of events which had landed her here, within arms reach of extraterrestrial life. The fact that she was in the Unit at all was something of a miracle. She'd been offered a place there quite literally after her graduation from Quantico; the ceremony had only just ended and the graduates had been filing out when she'd found herself sidelined by two men in suits who had steered her to a waiting limousine.

"What's this?" she'd asked, bewildered.

"Get in," one suit had ordered.

"Why?"

"Because I said so," suit announced.

"No," Topolsky had said, backing away. "Don't try it," she'd warned, raising her arms protectively when suit had made a move to force the issue. "I'll roll you. Just watch me."

A chuckle had come from inside the limo, and a face appeared, a man's face. "Bellow," the man had said, "back off. Feisty is good in our neck of the woods. Agent Topolsky....perhaps you could postpone 'rolling' my agent for another day? I promise you a crack at him if he misbehaves."

"In exchange for what?" she'd asked warily.

"Fifteen minutes of your time," he'd answered. "That's all I'm asking."

That fifteen minutes had turned out to be far more exciting than graduation. Who knew there was a secret alien hunting unit sheltered within the FBI that had been around since 1959 and that even the President didn't know about? The man in the limo had turned out to be Agent Daniel Summers, then head of the Special Unit, and he was on a mission—to recruit a female agent. Women, he claimed, could go places men could not, were more quickly trusted. The Unit had no female agents. Would she like to be the first?

Her initial euphoria at the offer, not to mention the verification that aliens actually existed, had lasted just long enough to see her to her first post in a field office doing paperwork. Here she'd imagined herself saving the planet from ray gun-toting monsters, and all she was doing was alphabetizing files. So much for "going places men could not"; at least one of those places appeared to be a room full of filing cabinets, and it wasn't an issue of men being unable to go there, but unwilling. She'd second-guessed her decision to join the Unit for a solid three weeks before it occurred to her she could be using the time spent moping in a more constructive way: Reading all that stuff she was filing. She'd always had a near photographic memory, so mentally storing data was easy for her. She'd had no idea when, or indeed if, it would come in handy because there had been no alien sightings or even good leads for quite a while. There had even been talk, quiet talk around the water cooler, that perhaps the aliens weren't here any more, perhaps they'd finally gone home. Being the only female agent meant she was typically excluded from these conversations, but the silver lining in that cloud was that she was also invisible; other agents said things in front of her they may not otherwise have said simply because they took no notice of her. Thus did she learn that the Unit was on life support, its purpose seemingly having evaporated. She hadn't been quite sure what to think about that. The Unit's records of alien activity on this planet were all very convincing, but there was no denying the fact that no one had recorded any alien activity for several years. It was tough to maintain morale in agents who never found anything, or to pull funding out of the few sources available without evidence of their need to exist.

And then, about a year after she'd joined the Unit, evidence had suddenly appeared in the form of the dead body of Agent Daniel Summers, emblazoned with a silver handprint like all his predecessors. Summers' death rocked the Unit and Washington, what little of it knew about the Unit, that is. The loss of their leader galvanized the Unit's agents, and funding reappeared as the question of the need for it suddenly became moot. Her life had changed as well; as Unit agents bonded over the death of Summers, they placed less importance on things like rank and gender and included her in ways they never had before. It was ironic that the man who had brought her into the Unit had to die before she finally began to see glimmers of acceptance. Unfortunately that hadn't led to any postings, so back to the filing cabinets she'd gone, this time reading more voraciously than ever. Her time was coming. She could feel it.

It came in the form of a phone call Sunday night from her immediate supervisor, Agent Stevens, with not only her very first assignment, but an undercover assignment. The briefing had barely been over before she'd been out the door, practically tripping over herself in her eagerness to reach Roswell before someone yanked her back. Negotiations between the Bureau and the school district were still in progress, so she'd been assigned to fill in as a substitute teacher, which had sent her knees knocking; what, if anything, did she remember of high school geometry? Enough, as it turned out, to fake it, at least long enough for the Bureau to finish pulling the strings that needed pulling to get her where she needed to be. Although it hadn't been all bad. By sheer luck, two of her targets were in this geometry class, allowing her to observe them more closely than she may have been able to otherwise. I have to do this right, she thought as her chalk moved across the board. She knew her supervisor didn't find this to be a credible lead because it involved a silver handprint which had healed when they all knew that silver handprints did exactly the opposite. But wasn't it possible, she'd argued? Couldn't the energy that was used to kill also be used in some other way? Stevens had looked at her like she was nuts, but no matter; he had no choice but to follow up on any lead that came his way regardless of his personal feelings on the matter. So here she was, on her first real assignment and determined to make something of it even if Stevens was right and all she wound up doing was proving that female agents could handle whatever was thrown at them.

"Finished," Topolsky said briskly. "And we know that the sum of A, B, and C equals 360 degrees."

The silence behind her took on a different quality as pencils stopped scritching and students murmured, including one who said something just barely audible.

"Ms. Parker?" Topolsky asked.

"180."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's a triangle. You know, the sum of the parts would be 180 degrees."

Laughter rippled through the classroom, and Topolsky felt her chest constricting; had she really just done that? "Right," she said with what she hoped wasn't a guilty smile. "Right, of course. Equals 180 degrees."

More giggling. Topolsky felt her face reddening, and she busied herself fixing the errant information and adding a few flourishes, waiting for the blush to subside before turning around again. Funny how the confidence of thirty seconds ago had vanished, how her hated pantyhose suddenly felt a size too small and the heels she wasn't accustomed to wearing suddenly hurt. She mustn't let her mind wander like that again. The last thing she needed was to screw this up by being exposed. Aliens or no aliens, her performance here would affect not only her career, but that of any other prospective female Unit agent.

The bell rang. "Don't forget your homework," Topolsky called over the scrape of chairs and the slam of books, delighted to have a distraction. Hopefully teenage memories and attention spans were short enough that her gaffe would be quickly forgotten. She had just pulled her jacket on when the principal, a portly man with thinning hair, poked his head in the door.

"Ms. Topolsky?"

"Mr. Broadbent," Topolsky said, wondering if someone had already complained that their geometry sub didn't know the first thing about geometry. "What can I do for you?"

"Central called," Mr. Broadbent announced. "The guidance counselor position is yours. And I'd like you to meet someone. Would you stop by the office?"

"Be right there," Topolsky smiled. This was wonderful news, meaning no more math problems and unrestricted access to student records, exactly what she needed. Ten minutes later she arrived in the school office, where a man wearing a badge stood with the principal.

"Miss Topolsky," the principal said, "I'd like you to meet our sheriff, Jim Valenti. Our guidance counselors usually wind up crossing paths with the sheriff, although hopefully not too often," he added with a chuckle. "Sheriff, this is our new counselor, Kathleen Topolsky."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Valenti said, extending his hand.

"Likewise," Topolsky smiled, accepting a handshake that was very firm indeed.

"Please let me know if you need anything from me," Valenti went on. "I'd be delighted to be of service."

"That's good to know, sheriff," Topolsky replied. And we'll be needing something from you very soon, she thought, glancing at the clock. According to this morning's e-mail, Agent Stevens should be arriving to clean out this man's office very soon.

And then they would see just how "delighted" he was to be of service.




****************************************************




Roswell Sheriff's Station




"This thing is over, Sheriff. Let's get on with it, guys."

Jim Valenti's life flashed before his eyes as FBI agents began filing into his office, empty boxes in hand. "Search the premises"? "Remove any information pertaining to UFO's, alien sightings, and other alleged paranormal occurrences in this county"? Now, why would the governor, never mind the FBI, be the least bit inclined to go to all this trouble? This was the first time he'd ever approached the FBI with anything the least bit "paranormal". It wasn't like he was banging on their door every other week with this or that little green man sighting. He'd long thought his father was crazy to believe in aliens, as crazy as everyone else did....but that hadn't always been the case. Back when he was younger, before his parents marriage had started falling apart, he'd idolized his dad, had even taken his side in the early days when his mother was becoming more and more frustrated with his father's behavior. He remembered the first time he'd seen the photo of the John Doe with the silver handprint right after his parents had had yet another argument about aliens. He'd asked his father if his mother had seen that photo, and when his father had said she hadn't, he'd asked why not. Here was hard evidence of something weird. Why not show it to her? His father had gotten angry, saying he shouldn't have to defend himself to his own wife; she'd seen it eventually, of course, and written the whole thing off to a prank. Over the years, as her opinion of his father deteriorated right along with the opinions of the townspeople, he'd gradually fallen in line behind them. His Dad was obsessed, dangerously so. Everyone said so. It was never aliens the FBI had wanted, his mother claimed. They'd just used that excuse to get to his father, a claim given credence when Hubble had done just exactly that. It all made sense.....or did it?

Now, with agents filing in to confiscate his files, it made a much different kind of sense. He'd been pissed off at Stevens for blowing him off last week and dredging up the old "Sergeant Martian" canard, and memories had flood back. Memories of a cruel man in a dark suit waking them up very early on a Sunday morning, of his father going off with that man and trusting Jimmy to call a neighboring sheriff for help, of the FBI swooping in and confiscating the body of that John Doe with the handprint, of his mother's fear and his father's anger. Now the Bureau had treated him like crap, he was angry too, and that had only intensified when he'd found Agent Hart parked on his folding chair yesterday and sent him on his way. But as the day had worn on, he'd grown curious. Why on earth would Agent Stevens dismiss his concerns the way he had and then put an agent in his station? What was the point? What did he think that agent was going to learn sitting on a folding chair in the lobby? If they really thought he was a crackpot like his father, wouldn't they try to distance themselves as much as possible? So he'd decided to call Stevens and drag it out of him, only to be put off time and again. And that's when all his alarms went off.

His next move had made him grateful that it was night time and the station was largely deserted. His hands had been shaking as he'd removed the key that belonged to the John Doe, the same key his father had gone nuts over ten years ago, hiding it in a thermos he could easily remove if things went south. The line now crossed, he'd decided he hadn't gone far enough. Thirty minutes later he'd left the station with the only pieces of evidence in his office pertaining to anything remotely alien, copies of the John Doe file and his personal notes about the shooting at the Crashdown. He'd left quickly and quietly, mumbling goodbyes to his deputies in his hurry to get out of there, having spent so many years thinking his father crazy and trying to distance himself from his beliefs that he felt unbelievably guilty to be removing evidence and spiriting it out under cover of darkness. This was exactly the type of behavior that had sent his father over the edge and gotten him fired, and now he was doing it. It was not a pleasant thought, but it couldn't be helped. Something wasn't right. Valenti's had always had good radar for when something wasn't right, and something large and unidentified was pinging his now.

Well.....no. Actually, it was pretty easy to identify.

"You found blood on the dress," Valenti said slowly. "Why else would you care enough to remove my files? Wouldn't that be a waste of 'taxpayer dollars'?"

"It's locked," announced Agent Hart, he of the folding chair.

Agent Stevens' hand extended. "This won't take long."

Valenti stared at the hand waiting expectantly for the key to the file cabinet currently frustrating Stevens' posse. This changed everything. His Crash festival groupies had been right—there was blood on the dress. The girl had been shot. And if they were right about that, what were the odds they were right about the rest of it?

"Thank you, Sheriff," Stevens said, taking the key from Valenti.

"Make yourself at home," Valenti said stiffly. "I'm going to lunch."

It was an awfully long walk downstairs, passing FBI agents on the way in with more empty boxes and the curious stares of his own men. He'd brought this on them. He'd made the call. Once again a Valenti had flagged an alien presence, and once again the station was paying for it. They wouldn't find anything, of course, or not anything to connect to him. The John Doe file was from '59 and belonged to his father. The official file concerning the Crashdown made no mention of aliens because he knew better than to put his suspicions in writing. The John Doe's key was safely in the thermos tucked under his arm. No, their finding anything wasn't the problem.

The problem was that he'd just emulated his father again, and in the worst possible way.




****************************************************



Agent Hart hefted the heavy box with the aid of one knee and started down the stairs, peering precariously over the top. Damn, but paper was heavy, and of course the sheriff's office had to be on the second floor. Having negotiated the stairs successfully, he found himself facing a second gauntlet in the form of a long line of curious stares. Roswell's deputies were no doubt wondering why the Federal Bureau of Investigation was cleaning out their boss's office....and it was all his fault. If he'd pulled off his assignment, none of this would be happening.

It had all started so well yesterday with that desk jockey, Hanson, appropriately bedazzled by his shiny Bureau badge and happy to leave him alone. All it would have taken was five minutes with his lock picks and an empty sheriff's office, and he could have bagged a copy of the Crashdown shooting file and been on his merry way. But if his training with the Special Unit had taught him anything, it had taught him that life was never easy with a Valenti around. Valenti Sr. had been the bane of the Unit's existence from its inception, and Valenti Jr. wasn't proving to be much better. He'd idly wondered what Junior would have done if he'd refused to pack up his folding chair and leave, but it was a moot point; he'd lost the element of stealth, which was why he was there in the first place. No stealth here, he thought grimly, keeping his eyes on the front door as he marched by one pair of eyes after another. No, this was about as unstealthy as you could get.

For some reason the long main hallway seemed a lot longer on the way out as it did on the way in, and the September sunshine and fresh air felt wonderful as he finally crossed the threshold. "Finally!" Hart exclaimed, heaving the box into the waiting arms of another agent by the back door of the nearest van. "It was so stuffy in there, I thought I was going to suffocate." He paused, looking the other agent up and down. "You new?"

"Yep," the agent answered. "Got tagged for this just this morning. What is all this stuff?"

Hart snorted softly. "According to Stevens, a whole lot of nothing. We wouldn't even be here if he had his way."

"Then why are we?"

"Probably because Stevens has to follow up every lead, even it's only the ravings of a man with questionable mental health."

" 'Ravings'?"

"Okay, maybe that was unfair," Hart allowed, leaning against the back of the van. "I didn't actually hear the pitch. But this guy's father was a certified nutcase when it came to aliens, and now the son seems to be following in his footsteps."

"So he saw something?"

"Thinks he did. Something about a gun that went off at a local dive, and a waitress who was shot, but wasn't."

"So you can get shot, but not get shot," the other agent chuckled.

"Like I said—ravings," Hart said. "Supposedly somebody saved her, and Valenti thinks that somebody might be an alien. That right there tells me he's every bit as nuts as his old man."

"Why?"

Hart smiled indulgently. "You're new, right? Then let me introduce you to one of the constants of life beyond the usual death and taxes. Aliens don't save people. Ever. They kill. That's all they've ever done, and that's all they'll ever do. So when someone comes up with a story about an alien who healed a fatal gunshot wound, you know right away they're off their rocker even if they are a town sheriff. Especially if they're this town's sheriff."

"Then why cart all this out?" the other agent asked, leafing through the box. "Can't we just look through and pull certain stuff? Here's a purse snatching, a noise complaint, a fence that was too close to the property line....this is a trash heap."

"Tell me about it," Hart sighed. "And we're going to have to bring it all back, of course, because there's nothing useful here. Guess it's all a power play. Isn't everything?" He gave the box a swat. "Time to go back for another armload of power. See you in a few."

"Can I ask you something?" the other agent called.

Hart turned around. "What?"

"You won't snitch?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die, I won't tell Stevens you're in love with him," Hart said with as straight a face as he could muster.

"I'm serious," the other agent complained.

"Sorry, dude," Hart chuckled. "You just looked so earnest. Okay, I'm serious now. Not a word. What's on your mind?"

The other agent came closer, lowered his voice. "Do you....do you really....believe in aliens?"

Hart's smile faltered. "You know, back at the beginning of the year, I'm not sure how I would have answered that."

"But....?"

"But then the leader of our Unit was killed last spring. By an alien."

"How do you know it was an alien?"

"We know," Hart said grimly. "There are certain ways they kill, and this was one of them. Every single Unit leader has died that way, but Summers lasted longer than any of them. He went to the head of the class eleven years ago, before my time and way before yours. Summers was the first time someone I knew died because of an alien."

"You knew the Unit's leader?"

"Well....not personally," Hart allowed. "Don't know the new one either, if we even have one; no one's quite sure who's leading the Unit now. But my point was, yes, I believe in aliens. You see a dead body, you not only believe, but you believe they have to be stopped. It's as simple as that."

"Right," the other agent murmured. "Okay....well....you won't welsh on me?"

"Course not," Hart said. "What, is this high school? That's Topolsky's gig."

"Who?"

"Kathleen Topolsky," Hart answered. "The Unit's only female agent. She's off playing guidance counselor to the kiddies, supposedly to track down our healing alien."

"Wait....the alien is a kid?"

"So I hear," Hart said, shaking his head. "And that's another thing that makes this whole thing ridiculous. Why in the name of all that's holy would an alien pretend to be a teenager?"

The other agent shrugged. "Maybe because no one would believe an alien would pretend to be a teenager?"

Hart stared at him a moment, then broke into a wide smile. "Good," he nodded approvingly. "That was good. You had me going for a second. But I still say that would be one stupid alien, even it is a lucky one."

"Why lucky?"

"Topolsky's green," Hart said dismissively, "greener than a bag of leaf lettuce. Stevens is just going through the motions, so he sent a newbie. Didn't want to waste a good agent. If there is an alien toting a backpack around Roswell High, they're probably almost as safe as if Topolsky wasn't there." He paused, watching another agent exit the station lugging a full box. "I should get back inside. Let's hope that office isn't a bottomless pit, or we'll be here all day. Wish me luck. Oh, and one more thing," Hart added. "Welcome to the Unit."




******************************************************




Thank you, Brivari thought dryly, waiting until Agent Hart had disappeared inside the sheriff's station before letting his features slide into a different configuration. If the current size of the Special Unit was a cloud, its silver lining was the fact that that size made it easier to infiltrate, at least on the periphery. Add in the fact that humans loved to talk, and you could learn a great deal in a short period of time, even if what you learned was simultaneously conflicting, frustrating, reassuring.....and alarming.

Hovering nearby under the pretense of waiting for a bus, Brivari watched the slow but steady trail of boxes emerge from the sheriff's station. The Special Unit was now in Roswell; that much was certain, and that much was bad news. Tempering that bad news was the fact that Agent Stevens was here not because he wanted to be, not because he believed Valenti's story, but out of a sense of obligation. Hart had not mentioned the waitress's uniform, presumably because he didn't know about it; he was probably too low on the totem pole to merit such information. Had they found blood amidst all that ketchup? Or was the Unit merely acting on any and all information, no matter how dodgy? It could very well be the latter given that the Unit had lost yet another leader only a few months ago, a fact Jaddo had predictably omitted from his report. He viewed the act of picking off the Unit's leaders as his holy mission, and had never understood that doing so merely galvanized them further. He probably hadn't mentioned it because he didn't find it worth mentioning.

A bus approached. Brivari began walking, rounding the corner and returning a minute later with a new face and clothing, ostensibly waiting for the next bus, using the time to try and piece together the disparate pieces of information he'd gathered. Everyone agreed that a gun had been fired at the Crashdown last week, and no one had been hurt, the one exception to "everyone" being none other than a Valenti. The Special Unit had responded to Valenti's report by emptying his office and installing an agent in the area, even though its local supervisor didn't place much stock in that report, and the agent in question was untried. Zan and Vilandra had clearly been having some kind of disagreement in the school hallway, although he hadn't heard enough of it to know why, and disagreements between those two were as common as dirt. It would appear that what they had here was yet another case of a Valenti reading aliens into a local event. The one remaining problem was Dee's unease about the way Zan and Vilandra had been behaving, which was not to be discounted.

No, not the only problem, Brivari allowed. Not even the major problem. The major problem was he knew perfectly well that his Ward was perfectly capable of doing what Jaddo suspected despite the enormous risks involved. Zan had always been a walking conflict between control and impulsiveness. Most of the time control won out, sometimes too much so. But when it didn't, when that control faltered, he tended to race ahead without thinking, without considering alternatives, without considering the consequences, only to rein himself back in harder than ever once what he'd done had sunk in. The hybrids were aware of their enhanced abilities; this much he knew from Dee's careful observations over the years. The fact that they'd kept those abilities to themselves told him that they were at least somewhat aware of the risks involved in revealing them. For Zan to suddenly and publicly reveal an enormous power like the one he'd purportedly demonstrated would be catastrophic....and all too familiar. It was just exactly the type of thing he would have done, especially in his adolescence. It would be terribly ironic if his being here now was the result of one of Zan's bursts of impetuousness.

Another agent appeared, loading yet another box into one of the Bureau's vans as Brivari "waited" for his bus. This was the first time in a long time that he'd been in town for any real length of time, a sharp contrast to the way he'd hovered so closely right after Jaddo's disappearance. He'd expected, indeed they had all expected, the hybrids' memories to return very soon.....but they hadn't. Weeks had gone by, then months, then years. Weary of watching his Ward become more and more human with each passing year, he'd eventually distanced himself. It appeared the hybrids weren't going to remember without prodding, the very same prodding which had pushed them over the edge, and according to the Healer, they would need to wait for adulthood before attempting that again. Given what he knew of Zan's and Vilandra's adolescence, he would agree with that. This was not the time to drop the tale of their origins and responsibilities into their laps. They weren't ready.

Another agent appeared with another box just as Brivari's eye caught a flash of light across the street, then another. What was that? He could have sworn it was a specular reflection from a lens, like a camera or a pair of binoculars. Was someone else watching the goings on at the sheriff's station besides him? Probably Valenti, he thought, walking casually right past Agent Hart, who ignored him, and crossing the street at the light, keeping the sporadic glint in sight until he was at the right angle to see who it was.

Rath.

Brivari blinked, unable to believe his eyes. Rath was watching the FBI cart boxes out of Valenti's office with the aid of a pair of binoculars which had caught the sunlight and given away his position. What was Rath doing here? Why would he be the least bit interested in Valenti? He hovered for several minutes watching the watcher whose eyes were glued to his binoculars, not missing a moment of what was going on across the street.

Then, suddenly, Rath took off, Brivari hurrying to follow. Rath led him right to the Crashdown Café just as Zan pulled up in that ridiculous jeep Philip and Diane had bought him with a dark-haired girl in the passenger seat, who jumped out and went into the café. Brivari walked right up to the café windows, ostensibly examining the menu posted there while listening to Zan's and Rath's conversation.

"....taking things out of the sheriff's office," Rath was saying. ".....guys in suits.....get in there......now or never, Max."

Brivari's heart began to pound, and he edged closer, pushing his already superior hearing to its limits. There could be only one reason Zan and Rath would be discussing the goings on at the sheriff's station, and it wasn't a good one.

"Michael, it's important to me, too," Zan was saying.

"All you want to do is protect what you've got here in Roswell," Rath said accusingly.

"That's right, I do," Zan answered.

"Have you ever thought what it's like here for me, Max?"

"Of course I have."

The dark-haired girl emerged from the café, walking right past Brivari to wait beside the jeep. "Look, the woman who pulled your records, she's on her way to your place," Zan told Rath.

"What?!"

"Just stay away from there tonight," Zan ordered. "Isabel is waiting for you at our house. Just go there and wait."

"Wait for her to come and find me?" Rath demanded.

"Don't do anything stupid," Zan retorted.

Rath gave Zan an all too familiar look before leaving, and Zan watched him with concern for a moment before climbing into the jeep and driving off with the dark-haired girl. Brivari remained on the sidewalk outside the café, unsure of which part of that astounding conversation to analyze first. The woman who had pulled Rath's records could very well be the Special Unit's Agent Topolsky, but, oddly enough, that wasn't the part which had Brivari flabbergasted. That exchange....the tone, the wording, the order given, the resentful look on Rath's face....if he'd closed his eyes, he could have imagined himself on Antar listening to the King and his Second having yet another disagreement over how to handle a problem. Even more astounding was the fact that they knew there was something to handle. It appeared that not only had Zan indeed done something he shouldn't have in a very public place, but that he and Rath were very much aware of the consequences and actively pursuing them....all of which raised an interesting question.

Had they finally remembered who they were?




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll be on vacation next weekend, so to avoid another 2 week break, I'll post Chapter 7 on Wednesday, September 1st. (Good Lord, is it September already?)

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SEVEN



September 28, 1999, 7:30 p.m.

Crashdown Café



"Larry, would you sit down!" Jen hissed.

"I'm just trying to find the bullet hole," Larry complained, sinking back down into his chair. "You and I both know the gun went off, so it has to be somewhere."

"Yes, but repeatedly slinking up to the corner where that waitress was and sniffing around the walls and cabinets makes you look demented," Jen declared. "If you keep doing it, they're going to throw us out of here."

"Look!" Larry exclaimed. "There she is!"

Jen followed Larry's gaze to see the girl who had been shot a week ago enter the café. She marched up to the blonde waitress, the one who had also been there during the shooting, and proceeded to get into what looked like an intense exchange.

"Larry, I—"

"Shhhh!" Larry shushed. "I'm trying to listen!"

Jen fell into a frustrated silence, straining to hear over the murmur of patrons and the clink of dishes. But all she could pick out was "Go get your uniform on, Madonna!" delivered in an equally frustrated tone by the blonde, followed by Gunshot Girl's exit, which was interrupted by a tall, lanky boy with a concerned expression.

"Okay, that's not him," Larry murmured.

"That's not who?" Jen asked.

"Healer Boy," Larry answered. "That's Gunshot Girl, but that's not Healer Boy."

"Well, it stands to reason that she talks to other people besides Healer Boy."

"But who is that?" Larry whispered. "I've never seen him before."

"Who cares?" Jen said in exasperation.

"Jen, keep your voice down," Larry admonished. "Someone will hear us."

"Oh, so now you're worried someone will hear us, but you're not the least bit worried that someone will notice every single time you wander over to that corner and start examining the woodwork?"

"I'm looking for—"

"I know what you're looking for!" Jen exploded. "I just don't want to get arrested because you won't stop looking for it!"

"Where is this coming from?" Larry whispered furiously. "You were here. You saw it. You—"

He stopped suddenly, ducking down as Gunshot Girl left the café. "Good job, Larry," Jen deadpanned, rolling her eyes. "No one will ever notice you hiding behind a bowl of Milky Way minestrone."

Gunshot Girl had gone, and Larry violently pushed his plate aside in a perfect example of the frustration Jen was feeling. "What has gotten into you?" he hissed, leaning over the table. "You were right beside me when we talked to the sheriff and identified everyone in the yearbook, and now it's like you're ready to give up!"

"Because I am ready to give up," Jen said. "Look, Larry, we've taken this as far as we can. We talked to the sheriff, we made our statements...that's it. That's all we can do. We can't prove it, and the more we try to, the more we look like nuts."

"There's no bullet hole," Larry said firmly. "That gun went off. Everyone heard it. So where's the bullet? Where's the bullet hole?"

"I don't know!" Jen exclaimed. "And at this point, I don't care. I just want to eat somewhere else for a change, somewhere that doesn't only sell food dripping in grease that's going to make me gain so much weight, my pants will rip."

"But this is where it happened!" Larry protested. "We have to be here as much as possible because this is ground zero. This is where—"

"This is where we've eaten breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past week," Jen interrupted. "My arteries are screaming."

"But we've seen her all the time," Larry said. "Gunshot Girl—"

"Lives here," Jen finished. "She lives here. Her family owns this restaurant, and she works here, so of course we're going to see her."

"But we haven't seen Healer Boy," Larry said. "Why not? I'll tell you why not. Because no criminal worth his salt returns to the scene of the crime, that's why not."

Jen closed her eyes briefly. "Larry, explain to me how it's a crime to save a girl's life."

"It's the way he did it," Larry argued. "He just puts his hand on her, and then she's fine? What's up with that?"

"Maybe we're misinterpreting things," Jen suggested. "I know what we saw, but maybe we just reached the wrong conclusions. Maybe she wasn't shot. Maybe she just fell because she was so startled, like she said, and he just....woke her up, or something."

"Then where's the bullet hole?" Larry demanded.

"God, Larry, you're getting on my last nerve!" Jen exclaimed, pushing her plate of food away more because the smell was making her nauseous than because she wasn't hungry. "We did what we could. Everybody else says the girl wasn't shot, so maybe we're—"

"Excuse me."

Jen broke off abruptly. A man was hovering at her elbow, a stranger in black jeans, boots, an expensive-looking leather jacket. "Forgive me for interrupting, but I was looking for someone who was here a week ago Sunday during the shooting," the man said. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but....were you here?"

"Who's asking?" Jen said suspiciously.

"I was just curious," the man said lightly. "There are a number of very intriguing rumors flying around, and I was trying to sort it all out."

"That why you were talking to that waitress over at the counter?" Larry asked. "I notice things," he added proudly. "Nothing much gets by me."

"I guess not," the man agreed. "I've heard their side of things, and now I'd like to hear yours." He paused, eyeing the chair in front of him. "May I?"

Jen's skin prickled, and she looked away. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something about this guy bothered her. "Sorry, but we were just about to—"

"Sure," Larry said abruptly. "Pull up a chair."

Jen looked daggers at Larry, who ignored her as the stranger settled himself between the two of them. "So why do you want to talk to us?" Larry asked. "Haven't you already heard the scoop?"

"The official 'scoop'," the man allowed. "But I have reason to believe there's more to it than meets the eye."

"Like what, exactly?" Jen asked warily.

The man leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "At the risk of making myself sound....well....unhinged, can I ask if either of you believes in....aliens?"

Larry's eyes widened. "Why? Do you?"

"I have for a very long time now," the man confirmed. "And furthermore, I believe this incident has all the hallmarks of an alien visitation."

"So do I!" Larry exclaimed as Jen rolled her eyes. "The way it just came out of the blue, and everyone knows aliens have advanced medicine—"

"And the cover up," the man said, nodding. "There's always an attempt to cover it up."

"Don't we know it," Larry agreed. "We told the sheriff what happened that very day. We said, where's the bullet? Everyone said the gun went off, but there's no bullet, no bullet hole. Jen and I went to him and told him everything we saw, every single thing."

"Larry, maybe we shouldn't—" Jen began.

"And then they gave us a yearbook," Larry plowed on, "and we picked out who it was. A high school sophomore," he added, shaking his head. "Who would have guessed that an alien would show up as a high school sophomore?"

"So who was it?" the man asked.

"A kid named Max Evans," Larry answered. "And the girl was Liz Parker."

"The owner's daughter?"

"That's the one," Larry nodded. "Although everyone seems to be buying her story that she just fell and broke a bottle of ketchup."

"You think she's lying?"

"We know she's lying," Larry said firmly. "We were here, and we saw it all, didn't we, Jen?"

Jen hesitated as two pairs of eyes fastened on her. "Listen, mister, it's not that I didn't see what I saw," she said finally. "It's just that the sheriff's deputies acted like we were crazy—"

"But the sheriff didn't," Larry interjected.

"He was just humoring us," Jen countered. "We only came here for the Crash Festival, and we were supposed to be back home now, but Larry won't leave, and I'm afraid people are going to think we're....you know."

"Mmm," the man murmured. "I know what you mean. I get that a lot."

"See?" Larry said. "He gets it too!"

"That's doesn't make it any easier when I get it," Jen retorted.

"But you won't get it from me," the man assured her, leaning in even closer. "What exactly did you see?"

Jen glanced around, noting the owner in the back and the blonde waitress at the register. "Well.....we were eating our lunch, and the owner's daughter gave us a picture she claimed her grandmother gave her—"

"A picture of an alien," Larry broke in, nodding vigorously.

"Right," Jen went on. "And then these two guys were fighting, and one of them pulled a gun, and....it went off."

"And the girl went down," Larry declared. "Splat! Just like that. Flat on her back."

"On her back," Jen agreed.

"Was she moving?" the man asked.

Jen shook her head. "Nope. Not at all. And then that Max kid—"

"Max Evans," Larry clarified.

"Right, Max Evans. He was sitting in that booth with another kid, a boy about his age." Jen pointed, and the man's head swiveled to look. "Max went up to the girl, knelt down next to her, and ripped her uniform open—"

"Just rrrriped it!" Larry added for emphasis. "The button-popping kind."

"Larry, don't make this sound like some bodice-ripping romance novel," Jen said tartly. "It wasn't like that."

"What was it like?" the man asked.

"It was like....he looked scared," Jen said. "What I could see of him, anyway. His back was to us, and—"

"What you could see of him? You mean you weren't close enough to see him well?"

"That other kid Max was sitting with held everyone back," Larry said, nodding knowingly. "Interesting, huh?"

"So then Max puts his hand on the girl's stomach," Jen went on, "and—"

"Was she moving now?" the man asked.

"Nope; still not moving. So he puts his hand on her, and just...held it there."

"For a really long time," Larry said. "Like, half a minute? Three quarters of a minute?"

"And then she started moving a little," Jen went on. "And Max tossed his keys to his friend, and they took off. And the girl got up, looking all dazed and everything, with this mess of ketchup...or whatever....all over her uniform."

"And then she lied," Larry said. "She told the sheriff she didn't know the two boys sitting there, but she sure acted like she knew them."

"Who was that other boy?" the man asked. "Did you find him in the yearbook?"

"Yep," Larry nodded. "Some kid named 'Michael Guerin'."

"Did he do anything unusual?"

"Other than holding everyone back while Max did whatever he was doing? No," Larry allowed. "Although he was in a big hurry to get out of here just as soon as he heard the siren."

"Siren?"

"Max told the waitress over at the register to call an ambulance," Jen said. "And she did."

The man was quiet for a moment. "That's odd," he said finally. "Why would an alien tell a human to call an ambulance if he intended to repair the wound himself?"

"Maybe he wasn't sure she was still alive," Larry suggested. "Or maybe he didn't know if he could pull it off."

"Perhaps," the man agreed. "Although it would seem to be nothing more than a good way of calling attention to oneself, something aliens usually don't want to do." He paused. "Perhaps I'm mistaken. The request for an ambulance doesn't fit with other alien interventions."

"Then where's the bullet hole?" Larry demanded, clearly tweaked that what had seemed to be a kindred spirit was losing faith.

"Oh, Jesus, enough already with the bullet hole," Jen muttered.

"No, not enough already," Larry declared. "The gun went off. That means there has to be both a bullet and bullet hole, and there's neither."

"And the sheriff knows this?" the man asked.

"We told him everything," Larry said firmly. "Everything."

"But you thought he was just humoring you?" the man asked Jen.

"I thought he might be," Jen admitted over Larry's objections. "The deputy obviously thought we were off our rockers. The sheriff asked us to pick the kids out of the yearbook, and we did....and that was that."

"So he dropped it?"

"Or he's covering it up," Larry suggested. "He sure seemed interested when the waitress got hit by a car and got that handprint on her—"

"What's this?" the man broke in.

"The Crash Festival," Jen sighed. "The reason we came here in the first place. The blonde waitress over at the register, the one who was also here the day of the shooting, was hit by a car in the festival parking lot. She was okay, but somebody ran up to her and left a weird shiny handprint on her chest."

"Who?" the man asked.

"We don't know," Larry allowed. "Whoever it was was in costume, and it turned out to be just paint. But they were all there together: Gunshot Girl, Healer Boy, the blonde—"

"They all know each other," Jen reminded him. "It's not weird that they'd be at the Crash Festival together."

"But why—" Larry began.

"Larry, it was just a prank!" Jen exclaimed. "Just a festival prank! What else could it be? Stop trying to connect that to the shooting."

"It was weird, and it was the same people, so of course it was connected to the shooting," Larry retorted. "Besides, the sheriff was there too—"

"Of course he was there!" Jen said in exasperation. "She was hit by a car, remember?"

"What's going on here?"

Heads turned. It was the blonde waitress, Gunshot Girl's friend and co-worker, one "Maria" according to her name tag. "Are you talking about me?" she demanded.

"They were just filling me in on some local events," the man said lightly.

" 'Local events'?" Maria repeated suspiciously. "Like me being hit by a car? And the shooting last week?"

Larry's eyes dropped. "Among others," Jen said awkwardly.

"Look, you already talked to me," Maria said accusingly to the man, who was watching her with raised eyebrows. "I told you what happened. I was there. I know."

"We were there too," Larry said. "And I think it's safe to say that our version differs from yours."

"Then your version's wrong," Maria declared. "Don't follow these two down the rabbit hole," she added to the man. "They're saucer chasers. They'd think I'm an alien because my hair's short."

"We would not!" Larry retorted. "But we just might think your friend's benefactor was an alien after he magically made her gunshot wound disappear."

Jen's eyes widened as Maria tucked her pen behind her ear with a stabbing motion that looked painful, freeing one hand to grab Larry by an ear in a motion that was definitely painful judging by the look on his face. "You listen to me," she said severely. "Stop spreading this mind rot about Liz. She's my friend, and we're all just darned lucky that something worse didn't happen to her—"

"Something did," Larry muttered.

"Quiet!" Maria hissed, tugging harder on Larry's ear, making him wince. "Don't you dare wish something fatal on a friend of mine, or I swear to God with my eyes wide open, I'll—"

"Is....everything okay here?"

It was the proprietor, gazing curiously at his employee as she held Larry half out of his seat by his ear. "No, Mr. Parker, everything is not okay," Maria said stoutly. "These...people....keep spreading lies about what happened to Liz. It's like they wanted her to get shot. What kind of people want a sixteen year-old girl to get shot?"

"I never said I wanted her to get shot," Larry protested, wrenching free of her grip. "I just think—"

"You just think you don't care what happens to her as long as you find your aliens," Maria interrupted furiously. "Mister, that is so not cool."

"I never said I didn't care what happened to her!" Larry exclaimed, rubbing his ear. "On the contrary, I care very much about what happened to her. About what really happened to her, I mean."

Jen sat perfectly still as Mr. Parker squatted down beside Larry. "Mr. Trilling," he said in the measured tone one uses when one is trying hard to control one's temper, "I understand that everyone's upset about what happened here—God knows I am, because it wasn't just my customers, it was my own daughter—but it's over now, thankfully no one was hurt, and I simply can't let you keep dredging this up."

"I'm not dredging—"

"Yes, you are," Mr. Parker said firmly. "You're stirring the pot, sniffing around my establishment and upsetting everyone all over again, and I won't have it. If I catch you doing it again, you'll have to find somewhere else to eat."

"You'd throw us out?" Larry said in astonishment.

"Told ya," Jen muttered.

"Oh, that's rich," Larry said angrily. "If that's not a cover-up, then I've got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you."

"Larry, give it a rest!" Jen exclaimed. "Just let it go! Mr. Parker, I'm really sorry," she added over Larry's attempts to protest further. "It won't happen again. I promise."

"I'm afraid I owe you an apology as well," the man added. "I asked these two for their version of what happened. I had no idea it was such a sore subject."

"No harm done," Mr. Parker said. "Let's all just drop it, okay?"

"Of course," Jen nodded.

"At once," the man agreed.

Everyone looked at Larry. "Fine," he said sullenly. "If no one else wants to know the truth—" He stopped, wincing at Jen's well aimed kick under the table. "Fine," he amended. "I'll drop it."

"Good!" Mr. Parker said cheerfully. "Glad that's settled. Just one more thing. Maria....?"

"What?" Maria said.

"I think you owe Mr. Trilling an apology," Mr. Parker prompted.

"Him?" Maria demanded. "After what he did? You said yourself—"

"With 'said' being the operative word," Mr. Parker broke in. "Notice I managed to get my point across without hanging him by his ear. You're supposed to serve the customers, not manhandle them."

Maria sighed the sigh of the martyred. "Fine," she said flatly, sounding remarkably like Larry. "I apologize."

"I was looking for something a bit....more?" Mr. Parker coaxed.

Maria fixed Larry with a stare that made him recoil in his seat. "I apologize for grabbing you by the ear even though you were spreading false and malicious lies about friends of mine and deserved one whole heck of a lot worse."

Mr. Parker blinked. "Maybe I should have been more specific."

"Not at all," the man said with a faint smile. "That definitely qualified as 'more'." He rose from his seat. "I'm sorry if my curiosity caused a problem. It won't happen again."

"I just didn't want you to fall for their tall tales," Maria said. "I'm not trying to be nasty, I'm just—"

"A loyal ally," the man finished. "A rare gift. Very rare, indeed. I should know." He nodded to Mr. Parker, then to the rest of them. "Good evening to all of you."

He walked out, the little bell tingling on the door as he left. "Jen," Larry said slowly as they all gazed after him. "Did we ever get his name?"

Jen shook her head. "No. We didn't."




****************************************************




His hands stuffed in his pockets, Michael Guerin paced back and forth in the small alley between two buildings, feeling like his head was going to explode. He should have been at the Evans' house by now, a fact which Isabel had no doubt noticed. He hadn't actually seen him do it, but Michael was certain that Max had called her and told her to keep an eye out for him. It was just the sort of thing Max would do because Max didn't trust him.

Don't do anything stupid.

So I'm stupid, am I? Michael thought angrily, kicking a stone out of the way, taking pleasure in the way it bounced off a nearby wall with a satisfying thwap. Was it stupid to want to know where you came from? Was it stupid to want to be safe? Was it stupid to just want your world to get better any way it could? Was it stupid to lie in bed each night, listening to Hank stumble around the trailer in a drunken stupor and wondering if this was really all there was, all there would ever be?

He hadn't always felt this way. Life with the Guerins had been good....until it hadn't been. And then he'd had to move to his new foster father's place, at that time a ramshackle house on the edge of town. He'd thought that was bad, but the trailer was even worse. No wonder he was willing to jump at any little chance to get out of here. But now it's more, he thought, his eyes on the now largely deserted sheriff's station across the street. It was one thing to hate his foster father, and another thing entirely to have information about their origins dangled tantalizingly in front of them. Even if he'd still been living with the Guerins, he was positive he wouldn't have been able to resist the temptation to go after that. Another alien back in 1959.....a handprint that had killed, not healed. He'd never seen a handprint before Max had left one on Liz Parker. Max had healed plenty of things before, but they'd all been small, and none of them had left a mark. To have one of them leave a mark for the first time, and then to find that someone else had left the same mark under very different circumstances forty years ago was mind-boggling....and exciting.

For him, at least. Max and Isabel didn't find it exciting, they found it frightening. They actually liked it here. They'd bought into the illusion that they belonged here, that their "parents" were their real parents, and they were real kids. Much as Michael had liked the Guerins, he'd always known it wasn't real. Max and Isabel had fallen for their own story, and even though Michael wouldn't have admitted it without a gun to his head, he could see why. It must be nice to have somewhere where you felt you belonged, where you felt accepted. Maybe it was an illusion, but it was a really nice illusion, and up until now, he could see why they would be opposed to anything that would shatter that illusion. Up until now, all they'd had were vague, unsubstantiated memories and nowhere else to go. Why give up such a lovely fantasy for that?

But then Max had violated his own rules by healing a gunshot wound in front of half the town and they'd discovered there had been someone else like them in this very place. That was huge. That changed everything, and it was clear from the way both Max and Isabel were resisting it that they knew that. And now that it was no longer just a wistful, "Gee, I wonder if there's anything else out there," he was no longer willing to just let it lie. If there were answers, he wanted to know, and he wasn't going to find them by hiding in Max's house or anywhere else.

A figure rounded a nearby corner, and Michael drew further back into the shadows as it walked by wearing a familiar worried face. Isabel. He hadn't shown, and of course she'd come looking for him like some kind of demented Mary Poppins. He waited until she rounded another corner and was well out of sight before scooting across the street and around to the back, gazing up at the second floor. The other night when he'd pretended to sell candies for charity, the signs had said the sheriff's office was on the second floor, and the deputy had said there wasn't much of anyone around at night. All he needed to do was get in there.

Sorry, Maxwell, Michael thought he mentally gauged the distance. You may not want to know.....but I do.




*****************************************************




It was dark out when Brivari let the Crashdown's door close behind him, this latest phase of his investigation having come on the heels of the incredible idea that the hybrids might actually be more aware than previously thought. Valenti wasn't the only one saying something had happened on the day of the shooting; he was supposedly going on the word of witnesses, and it was those witnesses who might hold the key. One of the best places to start piecing together what had happened was the place he'd been standing in front of, the place where it had happened. Which is how he'd come to be seated at the counter in the Crashdown and approached by a waitress with a ridiculous apron, boyishly short hair, and a name tag which read "Maria".

"So," she'd announced, sounding harried, "what'll it be?"

"A Galaxy Burger," Brivari had replied. "And your opinion."

Maria had proceeded to give him the standard story he'd heard so many times today from so many different people. But her version had been delivered with an earnestness which was telling, and her outburst at the couple to whom eavesdropping had led him confirmed his suspicions: She was lying. But in keeping with the mixed news he'd been uncovering all day, the reason she was lying was encouraging. It was now clear that Zan had indeed healed a gunshot wound in full view of the public; that was the bad news. The good news was that both the recipient of his largesse and another witness had seen fit to protect him by lying about what he'd done, and that Rath had been able to shield Zan from the most intense scrutiny as he'd committed what could only be described as an act of lunacy. No matter their differences, Rath had always protected his king, and Zan had always had a knack for making allies. Both factors had once again combined to shield him from the worst, even on a completely different world.

But while those efforts seem to have fooled 99% of the population, they had not fooled the one man they needed to fool most—James Valenti Jr., the son of their nemesis from the late forties. It would appear that the painted silver handprint left behind at the Crash Festival was a clumsy attempt to throw him off, but Brivari knew very well that it would take much more than that to distract a Valenti, not to mention the Special Unit. As he rounded a corner and the sheriff's station came into view, it was clear that the Unit had finished its housecleaning and left. They wouldn't have gotten everything, though; Valenti Sr. had kept copies of information about Atherton and Audrey from the FBI, and he had every reason to believe Valenti Jr. was similarly savvy. The question was where he'd put it. Jaddo had found information at Valenti Sr.'s house; the same might be true of Valenti Jr., but he was already here. Might as well start with the station.

The sheriff's cruiser was absent from its parking spot outside, and inside the station was nearly deserted. Brivari approached cautiously, waiting for opportune moments, moving soundlessly when they came, melting into the shadows when necessary. It was so easy to elude people; one need only change one's face, hair, or clothing, or simply adopt the colors of one's background to fade into obscurity, all of which only called for shifting his outer layer of cells. He hadn't shapeshifted in decades now, hadn't needed to, hadn't expected he'd ever need to again. He wasn't even sure he still could, although he was reasonably certain that if he did, it would hurt like hell. Shifting took effort and practice, and he'd had none of either for the past forty years.

The door to the sheriff's office was locked. A moment's thought opened it, and he made certain to relock it after entering. His hand provided light as he glanced through the nearest file cabinets, many of which had been seriously cleaned out in the Unit's attempt to look thorough, but didn't expect to find anything. If Valenti had hidden anything here, it wouldn't be in such an obvious location.

Brrrrinnnnggg!

Shit! Brivari fumbled for his cell phone, cursing under his breath. Infernal thing....he'd forgotten to turn it off. There was little point in stealth if one had a noisemaker in one's pocket. "Hello?" he whispered into the phone.

It was Andrew, his trusty and oh-so-spastic assistant, who immediately demanded to know why he was whispering. "Because I don't want to be overheard," Brivari answered crossly. "My phone will be off from now on. Yes, off. That's what voicemail is for. I...what? Jesus, I don't care! Hire him, fire him, be my guest. You decide. Go ahead and.....no, it doesn't matter where I am. I'm busy. With something a lot more important than some whiny actor. Don't call me; I'll call you."

Brivari fwapped the phone closed and popped the battery out before replacing it in his pocket. He'd always been able to time his visits to Roswell to coincide with his work schedule, and previous visits hadn't required him to sneak around. He'd have to make other arrangements because unfortunately, Jaddo was right—they had a genuine problem, one which required his presence here at least until things had calmed down and both Valenti and the Unit had written everything off to a couple of Crash Festival tourists. He listened for sounds of approach, but heard none; the sheriff's office was on the second floor, so it was doubtful anyone had overheard a thing. Best to finish up and get out of here.

Ten minutes later, after a thorough check of the closet and the floorboards, he started on the desk. False backs and bottoms were common, as was the practice of taping something to the bottom of a drawer. He'd methodically searched two drawers when he heard noises and stopped abruptly. Someone was coming, but not from the hallway. The sounds were odd, and he listened hard before realizing they came from....outside?

Rising from the desk chair, Brivari walked to the window. There was a locked grate outside, a dumpster below, a drainpipe to one side....and a shadowy figure clambering up the drain pipe, and none too quietly either. The Bureau barged in with badges, so this must be Larry, that font of righteous indignation from the Crashdown, eager to prove his story correct at a damnably inconvenient time. Withdrawing to the shadows, Brivari waited impatiently as his competition reached the grate outside the office window, expecting to hear the scrape of metal any moment as tools were applied to break the lock. Instead there was a pause, a flash of light....and then the grating swung backwards with a figure hanging from it.

What the.....?

The figure outside dangled awkwardly from the grate, writhing in an attempt to reach the window. A few seconds later, after a great deal of grunting, it slipped through the window into the office, plopping on the floor with all the stealth of a car crash....and Brivari's eyes widened when he saw who it was.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 8 on Sunday, September 12, and get us back on our usual Sunday schedule.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER EIGHT



September 28, 1999, 10:00 p.m.

Roswell Sheriff's Station





Brivari stared incredulously at the figure sprawled on the floor of Valenti's office, the one who had just crashed through the window blinds with all the stealth of an explosion. Rath? What in blazes was Rath doing here? Granted, he'd been impressed by Rath's earlier surveillance, but watching through binoculars from across the street was a far cry from clanging up a drainpipe and crashing into a locked office. Wonderful, Brivari thought sourly. First Zan had done something incredibly stupid, and now Rath, meaning he had not one, but two adolescent knee-jerks to deal with.

Brivari melted further into the corner as the adolescent knee-jerk currently center stage proceeded to wander through the office, opening this, rattling that, clearly proceeding without any idea of what he was looking for or where to find it. His search pattern was laughably haphazard as he bounced from one file cabinet to another, spending a ridiculous amount of time on what Brivari knew was highly unlikely to contain anything of value, although he did note with grudging admiration that Rath was wearing gloves. At least he'd given some thought to not leaving fingerprints behind. Too bad his noisy climb up the drainpipe and even noisier entrance quite probably canceled out any caution he was displaying in here.

But minutes went by, and no one approached. Apparently no one had heard him, and Brivari waited in the shadows as Rath plowed through the office like a bull in a china shop, impatient for him to finish and be gone. He wasn't going to find anything this way, and his amateur presence could easily result in him being caught, but Rath continued blundering through, unaware he was being watched. Finally he took a seat at the desk and began opening and closing drawers, not checking the bottoms or even bothering to spend much time looking inside. What, did he think evidence was going to just jump out and whack him on the nose? It would be hidden, for Christ's sake, not dangling in the breeze like he had from that grating. Like that paper bag he was currently shaking, producing a rattle which seemed to intrigue Rath, causing him to reach inside with reverential slowness and withdraw.....a thermos bottle. Hidden in the dark, Brivari rolled his eyes as Rath continued shaking the thermos. The glass had probably broken inside, that was all. Then Rath unscrewed the top of the thermos....and paused.

Atherton's key.

Brivari stood still as a stone, his eyes fastened on the prize Jaddo's Ward had uncovered almost in spite of himself. He hadn't laid eyes on that key in decades, had forgotten it existed until this moment. The key to Atherton's alien stash in the hidden subterranean room of his strange house had always been worn on a chain around his neck, a fact which Brivari had completely forgotten that night he'd executed him in the woods. Atherton must have been wearing it, and Valenti Sr. must have found it and kept it all these years. And now it was in the hands of Valenti Jr., who clearly had some idea of its value, having seen fit to hide it from the FBI.

No....not Valenti's hands, Brivari amended. It was not Valenti reaching for the key now, but an Antarian-Human hybrid. While it could be argued that the latter hands were preferable to the former, his own were most preferable of all. He was working out the logistics of extracting the key without revealing himself when there was low grunt from the window, and the blinds were swept aside by another hand.

Zan?

"Michael, let's go, now!" Zan said urgently. "Valenti's back!"

Wonderful, Brivari groaned, wondering which was worse news—the sheriff's presence or having two adolescent hybrids with poor judgment in the wrong place at the wrong time. As if to prove him right, Rath completely ignored Zan, still focused on the key.

"Let's go!" Zan insisted. "Michael!

In a classic display of behavior exhibited so many times on two different planets, Rath continued to ignore him....and picked up the key.

The effect was immediate. As Zan watched in alarm, Rath pitched sideways, knocking over both himself and the desk chair in a burst of noise which far exceeded any he'd made on the way in. His expression went blank, and his eyes glazed over, seeing not the office now, but something else entirely. A connection, Brivari realized. The hybrids were still capable of forming connections, and Rath had just formed one with Atherton's key. And a long one from the looks of things, given that he remained on the floor, eyelids flicking, oblivious to the consequences. The sheriff's deputies may have missed his entrance, but they wouldn't miss this, as evidenced by the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Let's go, let's go!" Zan exclaimed.

Damn it! Brivari swore silently when Rath didn't move. This was neither the time nor the place he would have chosen to reveal himself, but he couldn't let them be captured, not with what Valenti already knew, and certainly not with Atherton's key in their possession. He was just about to heave them both back out the window himself when Rath's eyes widened and he sat up with a start. He had no sooner heard the approaching footsteps then he was out the window after Zan, an admirably fast recovery, but one that left the curtains fluttering just as Valenti and one of his deputies burst into the room. There was a moment of silence as Valenti looked around the room, suspicion etched on every feature; the deputy merely looked curious, but Valenti spied the moving curtain immediately and made a beeline for the window just as Brivari's ears picked up a voice outside.

"One....two....."

They're going to jump, Brivari thought in disbelief, recalling the dumpster beneath the window. That sort of stunt worked in the movies, but would likely land them in the hospital in real life. He might be able to break their fall, but then there was the issue of the unlocked grating outside the window, a dead giveaway to an already suspicious enemy. He only had seconds, and he could only aim his energy in one direction.....

And that direction would have to be their Wards. Touching the outside wall, Brivari threw everything he had behind slowing their fall. He'd never tried this before, and he had no idea if it would work, but the hybrids' human bodies were every bit as fragile as any other human body. The sheriff could be removed if necessary, but the hybrids could not be replaced. Keeping his concentration on the other side of the wall, he tensed as Valenti whapped the blinds up and reached for the unlocked grate.

A moment later, Brivari blinked as Valenti rattled the grate. It was locked? But how could that be? Would either Zan or Rath have had the presence of mind to lock it on the way out, and the skill to do so quickly enough? More footsteps pounded toward the room, and a moment later Vilandra appeared in the doorway, panting. They planned this, Brivari realized. That was the only explanation for all three of them being in the same place at the same time, not a unique thought judging by the look on Valenti's face when he saw Vilandra, whose eyes swept the room in a textbook display of guilt and anxiety. Gracious, but that girl could never keep a secret except when it was enough to bring down a planet.

"Miss Evans?" Valenti prompted.

"I....I just...." Vilandra stammered, then appeared to pull herself together. "You both went running off," she continued. "I was just....worried."

"Were you, now," Valenti murmured.

"Nothing's out of place, sir," the deputy noted. "Must be something just fell somewhere." He paused. "What made you come in here? I couldn't tell where the noise came from other than the second floor."

"Guess I'm just jumpy, what with our 'visitors' today," Valenti said.

"Right," the deputy nodded. "Well....I'll take care of the young lady's flat tire."

"No," Valenti said quickly. "I'll do it."

"It's no trouble—"

"No trouble for me, either," Valenti said. "I'm on my way back out." He gave the office one last look before lowering the blinds. "Would you take me to your car, Miss Evans?"

Vilandra managed a beatific smile. "Absolutely. And thank you so much, sheriff. Like I said before, I am so not mechanical."

Brivari winced as the deputy smiled dutifully at the pretty girl yanking his chain, but Valenti wasn't falling for it. A minute later the office was empty, and Brivari was gazing down from the window into an empty dumpster. So at least they were still ambulatory. That was something.

Two figures appeared on the street below, one of them carrying a tire wrench, the other swinging her long hair behind her in a useless effort to look innocent. Vilandra is the weathervane. If he wanted to find his Ward and Atherton's key, the best way to do that was to follow that weathervane.




******************************************************




Hurry up, Isabel thought impatiently, resisting the urge to tap her foot as Sheriff Valenti took his sweet time changing the tire she'd deliberately blown before sashaying into the station as a damsel in distress. A routine which was going swimmingly, she might add, before someone, probably Michael, had made enough noise to be heard down in Carlsbad, drawing the sheriff upstairs mere seconds before she would have had him safely outside. Just wait until she got her hands on him. Here Michael had joined her in rightfully castigating her dear, darling brother, and now he'd gone and done something equally stupid. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn idiocy was contagious.

Squeak....squeak. The nuts, or bolts, or whatever they were, complained loudly as Valenti methodically turned the large, X-shaped wrench to tighten them, periodically glancing up at her as he did so. He'd been doing that a lot, and each time she had studiously avoided his gaze; now she returned his look with a brilliant smile which had him dropping his eyes in a hurry. He knows, she thought heavily. He didn't know what had happened, but he knew something had happened, and a large part of that was her own fault—she should have done what he'd said and waited in the lobby. But she'd lasted all of ten seconds after Valenti and his deputy had taken off for the second floor, clattering after them with a lump in her throat the size of New Mexico. What would happen to Max if he got caught? Valenti already suspected him, Michael had seen men in suits carting things out of Valenti's office.....what would they do to him? Would they lock him up and carve him into little pieces? Would they lock them all up and carve them into little pieces?

Stop it, she told herself severely. Anything Valenti thought he knew was just conjecture. He hadn't made a move toward Max since the Crash Festival when Liz's admittedly lame plan had nonetheless done its job of making him back off. All she had to do was wait for him to finish with her tire without losing her cool again, even though he seemed to be taking long enough to change every tire on the damned block. Then she could be on her way and find out what happened to Max and Michael....and knock their heads together just as soon as she was certain they were okay. She'd had no idea any of this was in the cards when Max had jingled her cell phone to tell her that Michael was on his way over to their house so he could avoid that nosy substitute teacher who seemed so eager to track him down. She'd been expecting them both to show up, and when neither had, she'd gotten worried and hitched a ride into town with a friend. She hadn't found Michael, but she had found Max, walking side by side with Liz, no less. What on earth was he doing with her after sending Michael home, especially since they both knew Michael rarely did what he was told? But she'd had to swallow her fury at least until they located Michael, and then she'd had to swallow it again when they'd discovered he was inside the sheriff's office. Now she had no idea where either of them were.

"Almost done here," Valenti announced.

Finally. Isabel practically vaulted into the driver's seat, drawing a raised eyebrow from Valenti. Too bad. She could say she had homework, or her parents would be missing her, or any other of hundreds of excuses. Finally, Valenti straightened up.

"There you go. You're all set, Miss Evans."

"Thanks," Isabel said, managing a smile. "Thanks a lot."

"Isabel, right?"

"Yeah," Isabel answered, starting the engine.

"You're out past the curfew."

Yet another reason to be in a hurry. "Well, I had a flat tire," she replied.

"Right," Valenti said, smiling faintly. "Where's Max tonight?"

Any hope that Isabel had been nursing that maybe Valenti hadn't connected the dots went right out the window, just like Max and Michael must have. "Oh, I have no idea," she said lightly, shifting into gear. "I'm just his sister, not his keeper. Thanks, again."

Isabel roared off, so eager to be out of there that she had to resist the urge to floor it. It certainly wouldn't help if she got arrested for speeding, and she kept one eye on the road and the other on Valenti in the rear view mirror, who watched her until she rounded a corner and was out of sight. Now what? Should she go home or just drive around and see if they popped up? She chose option two and was rewarded about six blocks away when two figures emerged from between buildings and waited for her to pull over.

"Get in," Isabel said grimly, wrinkling her nose as they did so. "God, what is that smell?"

"We jumped into a dumpster," Max said.

Fortunately, both her brother and Michael seemed to have acquired a few brain cells in that dumpster because both were mercifully silent on the way to Michael's trailer. She was so angry that she was ready to burst, which is exactly what she did when she finally shut off the engine and rounded on Michael.

"What were you thinking?" she demanded angrily. "Isn't it bad enough that Max goes and does something incredibly stupid, but now you have to join him? What, isn't one idiot in the family enough?"

"Hey!" Michael protested.

"Iz," Max said warningly.

"Don't you start!" Isabel exclaimed. "What were you doing with Liz when Michael was supposed to be at our house? Which he wasn't, by the way, because he was too busy trying to get himself killed breaking into the sheriff's station."

"Liz and I followed Topolsky to Michael's place," Max said defensively. "We'd just gotten back when I spotted you."

Isabel blinked. "Oh. I.....I thought....."

"You thought what?" Max asked.

"Who cares what she thought," Michael interjected. "What did Topolsky do when she got there?"

"Not much," Max answered. "She talked to Hank, or tried to. And then she left."

"That's it?"

"I think she left a card with her phone number," Max said.

Michael snorted softly. "Fat lot of good that'll do her. Hank wouldn't care if I never went to school as long as he got paid."

"So while Max was out playing detective, what were you doing?" Isabel demanded. "Oh, that's right. Trying to get yourself killed."

"Isn't repeating yourself a sure sign of old age?" Michael asked.

"She has a point, Michael," Max said. "What did you think you were doing? We barely made it out of there in one piece."

"What was I doing?" Michael echoed incredulously. "What was I doing? Not cozying up to some girl, that's for sure."

"We weren't 'cozying'," Max protested.

"Look me in the eye and tell me there wasn't cozying going on," Michael challenged.

Max pinned his eyes on Michael's. "There wasn't cozying going on," he said firmly. "Your turn. Look me in the eye and tell me what the hell you thought you were doing."

"I thought I was trying to find out more about us," Michael retorted. "You know, who we are, where we came from? Who left that handprint back in 1959? Those pesky little questions that you and Isabel don't give a damn about?"

"That is not true," Isabel objected.

"Oh, sure it isn't," Michael said. "That's why you both go green every time we learn something new about ourselves."

"Green?" Max said skeptically.

"Bad joke," Michael allowed.

"Okay, fine, you want to learn more about us; we all want to learn more about us," Isabel said impatiently. "But breaking into the sheriff's office?"

"What was I supposed to do?" Michael demanded. "Waltz in and ask if I could see that picture he showed Liz because it might be a long lost cousin? Breaking in was the only way, Isabel, and I did it at night after I'd already scoped the place out and knew there wouldn't be many people around. And no one had a clue I was there until I found this."

Michael held up his hand. Isabel glanced at Max, who shook his head ever so slightly. "A key," Isabel said in disbelief. "You found a key. Well, good for you, Michael. What's it unlock? Valenti's locker? Or maybe the shed in his back yard?"

"I have no idea," Michael said, ignoring her sarcasm. "What I do know is that the moment I touched it, I had a vision, a vision so strong that I literally blacked out."

"He did," Max confirmed. "I watched it happen."

"What happened?" Isabel asked nervously.

"He was looking at the key when I got there, and then he picked it up and just....collapsed."

"Collapsed?"

"Fell over," Max amended. "Right out of the chair."

"You were sitting in Valenti's chair?" Isabel asked incredulously. "God, could this get any worse?"

"Didn't you hear a word I said?" Michael said impatiently. "Forget about the stupid chair. I had a vision, and I never have visions. That's got to mean something. But you know that, don't you? That's why you're going on about chairs and haven't even asked me what I saw!"

Isabel fell silent, ignoring her brother's pointed look. She wouldn't admit it to God Himself, but she really didn't want to know what Michael had seen. "So tell us," Max said when she didn't say anything. "What did you see?"

"You didn't ask either," Michael said accusingly.

"I'm asking now. What did you see?"

Michael looked away. "I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?" Isabel echoed as Max shot her a warning look. "You're pointing fingers at me, and you're not even sure what you saw?"

"I didn't recognize it," Michael said, frustrated. "It was some kind of.....shape. A weird shape."

"Wonderful," Isabel muttered. "Now all we need to do is break into a preschool and swipe a shape sorter."

"Look, the point is, I saw something. Something huge, something so powerful, it was paralyzing."

"Big words for someone who's truant more often than not," Isabel said under her breath.

"He's right," Max said, shushing her with his eyes. "Whatever it was literally knocked him senseless for a moment. I think we should each hold the key and see if we get a vision."

"Fine," Isabel said tightly, shaking her head. "Let's all.....try," she finished, having been about to say let's all play the game. But she knew her brother, and she'd pushed him far enough. Better to go along until this all fizzled.

Max took the key, closing his eyes and holding it with an almost comical reverence, finally shaking his head. Eager to have this over with, Isabel reached for it.....and stiffened.

"What did you see?" Michael asked eagerly.

Isabel's mouth crooked in a mischievous smile. "Ricky Martin in the shower!"

Michael snatched the key out of her hand and jumped out of the jeep. Max shot her a deeply disapproving look before climbing out and going after him. Sorry, brother dear, she thought. Michael needed to be taken down a peg. He'd done something incredibly dangerous tonight and found nothing, nothing but a boring, ordinary looking key that couldn't possibly be anything interesting. But it didn't matter what it was. What mattered is what Michael believed it was, and he believed it was something. He was as guilty of reading what he wanted into that key as she was of wanting to avoid what it might have meant. Someone had to pull him back down to earth, and judging from the apologetic look on her brother's face, it looked like that someone would have to be her. She pricked her ears, trying to hear what they were saying.

"...don't really know what it's like for you," Max said.

"The thing I've realized is the fact that my life basically sucks is a good thing," Michael answered. "It's easier. We always have to be able to leave, pack a suitcase, go somewhere else. Maybe ten years from now....maybe a week from now....maybe tomorrow. So my advice? Don't get in too deep, Maximillian. It only makes us weaker."

Too late, Isabel thought. She and Max were already "in too deep". And if that made them weaker, so be it.




******************************************************



Proctor residence




"He said that?" Dee asked incredulously. "Michael said they always had to be ready to leave?"

"He said that," Brivari confirmed.

"He called him 'Maximillian'," Anthony said, shaking his head. "Thank God that was only my middle name because I hated it. Here Philip and Diane agreed to use 'Max' instead, and still it comes up anyway."

"Can we stick to what's important here?" Dee demanded with an irritated glance at her husband. "How did you even hear him? You couldn't have been too close."

"Close enough that my superior hearing worked just fine," Brivari answered. "And actually I was quite close. I can match myself to any background."

As if to prove his point, Brivari promptly disappeared. No....not disappeared. He'd changed his...skin? Clothing? Both, actually, to match the fabric of the chair on which he was sitting. Even his hands were now a subtle floral. The effect was surprisingly good at first glance, then became downright bizarre when one's brain began to take into account the 3D nature of what was supposed to be empty space. Dee blinked, trying to reconcile what she was seeing with what she knew of the laws of physics.

"Neat trick," Anthony said.

"It's handy," Brivari agreed, mercifully reappearing.

"Fine, so you....camouflaged," Dee said. "Can we get back to the important part?"

"Which one?" Anthony asked. "The part where Max healed someone in front of a crowd? Or the part where Michael broke into the sheriff's office and almost got caught? Or the part where Valenti now suspects them?"

"The part where they know more about themselves than we thought," Dee answered tartly. "That part."

"That should be the least of our worries," Anthony replied. "The other parts are downright dangerous. Them knowing more than we thought is good news, not bad news....isn't it?"

Dee swung her eyes to Brivari, and Anthony did the same, waiting for an answer. He'd shown up on their doorstep about half an hour ago after a day spent skulking around what sounded like just about everywhere, and with an incredible story to tell, complete with public healings, suspicious sheriffs, FBI agents, breaking and entering.....and all involving her grandchildren. She had a good mind to march right over to Philip's house and settle this right now, once and for all. Assuming Max and Isabel were there, of course. Judging from what Brivari said they'd been up to, they could be anywhere.

"It's both," Brivari answered finally. "If they're more aware than we thought, obviously that's good news in some ways. In others.....well....let's just say things get awkward."

"Awkward how?" Anthony asked.

"Awkward in that I still can't approach Zan directly," Brivari said, frustration evident in his voice. "He's still perfectly capable of compelling me, and still lacks the maturity to handle a power of that magnitude. And even if he could bring himself to refrain from abusing it, I guarantee you Rath would change his mind. Rath is hell bent on finding answers in ways that mirror his own Warder's behavior. Here I was impressed with his surveillance of the FBI earlier, and then he went and climbed up a drainpipe. That's classic Jaddo. And Vilandra doesn't want to know the truth. That much was very clear from their conversation tonight."

"And Max?" Dee asked.

Brivari's hands worked in front of him. "Appears to be in the middle," he answered. "He wants to know, but he's attached to his life here."

"Of course he is," Anthony murmured.

"And it doesn't really matter one way or another," Brivari went on. "They're all still basically human teenagers. I couldn't bring them back to Antar in the state they're in now even if they wanted to go....and they don't. At least not the people who need to go, the ones who matter the most."

"Max and Isabel," Anthony nodded.

"The King and his sister," Brivari corrected. "They are the only true royalty among the hybrids. Ava married into the family, and Rath was supposed to do the same—"

"And we all know how that turned out," Dee muttered.

"—but they're not royalty," Brivari finished. "And while any of them would be better than none of them, the fact remains that Zan and Vilandra are the most important of the hybrids. Without them, I'm not sure if the people would rally behind either of the other two."

"They might if things were bad enough with Khivar," Anthony commented.

"Perhaps," Brivari allowed. "But I have no idea what's happening on Antar. I haven't spoken to the resistance in years, and it's not safe to use a communicator. And even if I could, what would I say? That the hybrids are still largely useless? Unless they're ready to go back, it doesn't matter what's happening there now. What matters is what's happening when—or if—they're ready to go home."

" 'When'," Dee corrected firmly. "This is what we wanted, Brivari, what you wanted, for them to start remembering. And it could take a while, so we'll need to be patient. What's our next move?"

Brivari paused. "Nothing."

" 'Nothing'? What, you mean nothing at all?"

"Nothing overt," Brivari amended. "Nothing obvious. We watch and see what happens."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we already do that?" Dee asked. "Granted, we 'waited' because we didn't know what was going on, but in the meantime Valenti went after Max, and the Special Unit showed up."

"But the first was stonewalled, and the second is skeptical, so skeptical that they installed a rookie agent by way of going through the motions. Relax," Brivari added when Dee looked ready to erupt. "I intend to keep a close eye on things. But it's quite possible, even probable, that this will all die down on its own."

"You really think the Special Unit will 'die down on its own'?" Dee said doubtfully.

"This from the woman who just counseled patience," Anthony said dryly.

"I was referring to the process of learning about themselves," Dee said crossly, "not letting the FBI tromp all over our grandchildren."

"The FBI hasn't tromped on anyone but Valenti," Brivari reminded her. "And God, you sound like Jaddo."

"Which might explain why I'm beginning to sympathize with him," Dee retorted. "Doing nothing seems like exactly the wrong thing."

"And what would you have me do?" Brivari asked. "Knock off the Unit's local agent and give them even more ammunition?"

"You might do better knocking off Valenti," Anthony offered. "He'll be missing his key eventually."

" Gee, thanks, dear," Dee said acidly. "You're so helpful."

"So what exactly did Michael see when he held the key?" Anthony asked, ignoring her. "Some kind of 'shape', he said?"

"I believe he saw Atherton's house," Brivari answered, "the one he was building when....he died. It was a very unusual structure. He called it a 'geodesic dome'. The key opens a hidden room underground where he'd stored all the alien records he'd collected over the years. Jaddo wanted to destroy them, but they were useless, at least in terms of locating or identifying us, mostly a motley collection of alleged eyewitness accounts and documents recovered from the base where Jaddo was held captive. Interesting, but hardly damning."

"So you just left it there?" Anthony said.

Brivari looked at his hands. "It was his life's work," he said quietly. "I'd just had to destroy James. I didn't want to destroy his little treasure pile also. And then we left shortly afterward anyway."

"So what happened to the house?" Dee asked. "Did the bank reclaim the land after Atherton defaulted on the mortgage?"

"There was no mortgage. James owned the house and the land outright."

"But it would need maintenance," Anthony pointed out. "Taxes would have to be paid, at least. Did his family take it over?"

"Atherton had no family," Brivari said, "and he was never declared dead because his body was never identified. Officially, he's listed as missing. The house has been maintained by UFO enthusiasts, most of whom became his followers after his disappearance and all the tales that grew out of that. They take care of the upkeep and pay the tax bill, even took out insurance on it. It's become something of a shrine, as I understand it. Ironically, all their attention is focused on the main house, the one James was living in, a very ordinary structure. It was common practice among these people to have a hidden space where they kept all the alien records they'd been able to collect. According to James, those spaces were also supposed to function as a kind of 'underground railroad' for aliens should they need to be hidden from the authorities."

"So Atherton was a Harriet Tubman," Anthony chuckled.

"James had just such a room in his main residence," Brivari continued. "He built another in the dome and moved his records there, but no one else knew about it. After he disappeared and his followers searched his house, they found the original room all cleaned out and assumed that meant something nefarious."

"But this....this 'dome', is still there," Dee said. "Meaning the kids could find it."

"I don't see how," Brivari said. "Valenti Sr. must have taken that key off James' body back in '59, and that's how Valenti Jr. has it. Judging from what Rath said, he also has a picture of James' body, which was never identified. No one has ever connected the body or the key to James or his house. That's a cold trail to follow."

"But Michael will try to follow it," Anthony said. "Once he gets something in his head, there's no getting it out."

"Yes, Rath could be a problem," Brivari sighed. "But if they just keep quiet until the FBI gives up and leaves, they should be all right. Hopefully this incident scared all of them enough that they'll keep a lower profile."

"Oh, right," Dee said skeptically. "Like Michael's 'lower profile' tonight? Are you absolutely certain you're doing the right thing?"

"Of course not," Brivari said. "One can never be certain of that. But I do know that revealing myself to the hybrids now would be a huge mistake, as would striking out visibly at either Valenti or the Unit. If you have another idea, I'm all ears."

Dee was silent for a moment, then looked at Anthony, who shrugged. "I don't," she admitted grudgingly. "But I don't like it. I don't like it one bit."

"They are my Wards," Brivari pointed out.

"And two of them are my grandchildren," Dee reminded him. "I'd keep that in mind, if I were you."

"They're not really our grandchildren, Dee," Anthony said gently. "They never were."

"Like hell they aren't!" Dee exclaimed. "He put them with us for a reason, and that's part of the package, like it or not."

"Of course they're your grandchildren," Brivari said. "At least in part. I'm grateful for everything you've done, and I'd be further grateful if you'd both keep your eyes and ears open for anything that might be helpful. You can get closer to them than I can." He paused. "I just wish I could figure out how this happened. It all started with Zan healing that girl, and if what I'm hearing is correct, he knew what the stakes were when he did that. Zan was impulsive when he was younger, but still....it's baffling."

"Baffling?" Dee said in astonishment. "That's the only thing about this mess that isn't baffling."

Brivari blinked. "You think you know why he did it?"

"No, I know I know why he did it," Dee said. "Have you seen Liz Parker?"

"Yes. What about her?"

Anthony smiled faintly. "You said it yourself...he's a human teenager."

"A human teenaged boy, to be exact," Dee added. "With all the attendant hormones."

Brivari glanced from one to the other, bewildered. "What are you saying?"




***************************************************




Kal Langley's residence

Roswell



It was late when Brivari arrived back at the house he'd kept in Roswell ever since the hybrids' emergence, his former rooming house from 1959. He hadn't lived here for any length of time in years, and now he pulled a sheet off a chair and sank into it. Of all the disturbing things he'd learned today, of which there was quite a list, Dee's final comment was the most disturbing of all. Zan had a crush on a human? It made perfect sense, of course; he was living as a human. Unfortunately that threw yet another wrinkle in an already difficult situation. If he hadn't had evidence that the hybrids were at least beginning to remember, it wouldn't have mattered. But if they were beginning to remember, they would eventually have to leave Earth behind, including any humans they had associated with. Including pretty girls who'd been shot by wayward café customers.

"I'd ask why you're sitting in the dark, but I think I already know," a voice said.

Brivari stiffened in his chair as a figure rounded the corner from the hallway, a figure bearing a bright, infrared signature. The sheet covering the couch nearby went airborne of its own accord and settled in a heap on the floor as Jaddo settled on the couch.

"So, Brivari," he said casually, "you've made quite the rounds today. Learn anything interesting?"




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I'll post Chapter 9 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER NINE



September 28, 1999, 11:30 p.m.

Kal Langley's residence, Roswell




"What are you doing here?" Brivari demanded.

"Do I need a reason to visit the only other member of my species on this planet?" Jaddo asked.

"Yes," Brivari answered bluntly.

"I see," Jaddo sighed. "Very well, then. I followed the Special Unit here. They were busy harassing Valenti the younger earlier today....but you already knew that."

"I meant what are you doing here," Brivari clarified. "Shadowing the Unit is one thing. Shadowing me is something else entirely."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Brivari, I'm not 'shadowing' you," Jaddo said impatiently. "I thought I was supposed to be the paranoid one."

"If we were meeting anywhere else but here, you might get that one past me," Brivari said severely. "Emphasis on the 'might'."

Jaddo eyed him for a moment with raised eyebrows. "Fine. I followed you here. But only because I was checking on the Proctors and discovered Dee and Anthony are now living in her childhood home. I saw you there, and followed you here, and....here we are."

"Yes, here we are," Brivari muttered.

"A strange choice of residence," Jaddo continued, ignoring him. "What could ever have induced you to return to your old boarding house?"

"It was cheap," Brivari said. "And familiar. And the owners were having trouble selling it. Seems it has a somewhat checkered past."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours. You're the one who killed Audrey."

"That I did," Jaddo agreed. "But I believe the Argilians contributed to that 'checkered past' every bit as much or more than I did." He paused. "I noticed your old apartment is still closed off. Does her death still bother you?"

"Does your memory no longer work?" Brivari retorted. "I warned you to stay away from here. Either give me a good—no, an excellent—reason why you're here, or get out."

"Correction—you warned me to stay away from the hybrids," Jaddo said. "And I haven't gone near them."

"Yet," Brivari said under his breath.

"I make it my business, however, to follow the Special Unit wherever they go," Jaddo went on, "and regardless of your pronouncements, I will follow them here if they come here. They came, and so did I. I offer no apologies for that. And I see I'm not the only one who made the journey. I'm pleased to see you saw fit to act upon the information I gave you."

"I told you I was going to act on it," Brivari said irritably.

"Too often, your 'acting' involves merely 'watching'," Jaddo said. "And no, I don't want to start that very old argument again. I'm merely expressing approval of your decision to investigate the situation for yourself. So....I'll show you mine if you show me yours. What have you learned?"

Far more than I'd ever want to tell you, Brivari thought. The last thing he wanted Jaddo to know was that the hybrids might be regaining their memories. Best to stick to Unit news. "Agent Stevens is merely going through the motions," Brivari answered. "He doesn't believe a handprint can heal, so he doesn't believe this is a real lead."

"I saw you talking with Agent Hart," Jaddo said thoughtfully. "Stevens is very skeptical, which is very good news, of course. And it certainly helps that he and the entire Unit already have such a low opinion of Valenti."

"Which is curious, given that it's been a Valenti who's been right every step of the way," Brivari said.

"Yes, well, I expect that's the root cause of the hostility," Jaddo replied. "Frankly, I don't care why they regard Valenti as a saucer chaser; the longer they hold his opinion suspect, the better off we'll be."

"Suspect or no, that didn't stop Stevens from planting an agent here."

Jaddo's eyes widened. "He did? Who?"

Brivari smiled faintly. "Don't tell me I know something about the Unit that you don't. Must be a cold day somewhere."

"Leave off the adolescent needling, and answer my question," Jaddo said sharply.

"Why? You were needling me earlier. Don't I get a turn? Simmer down, for Christ's sake," Brivari added as Jaddo's expression darkened dangerously. "You'll blow an artery."

"I don't have 'arteries', nor do I invoke deities," Jaddo retorted. "Especially Earth deities. Are you going to answer me, or do I have to—"

"What?" Brivari broke in. "Throw a tantrum? Burn the house down? Phone home? You really need to learn some manners, Jaddo. Most people ask when they want something. You should try it some time."

Brivari waited while Jaddo scowled at him. It was pointless not to answer him; not answering would merely keep him here longer while he figured it out for himself, and increased the risk he would discover a good deal more than the agent's identity. Still, a point needed to be made, and he may as well enjoy himself while making it.

"A rather unfortunate time to be playing games, don't you think?" Jaddo muttered. "Very well, then....will you 'please' tell me which agent Stevens planted here? Or is it that you don't know, and don't want to admit it?"

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" Brivari said blandly. "One 'Topolsky'. And no, you're not killing her."

"Well, not yet, anyway."

Brivari closed his eyes briefly. "Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Jaddo. The Special Unit is giving Roswell a perfunctory glance. Any hint of alien activity, especially any dead agents left lying around, will make their attention much more than perfunctory. And it's not just Roswell that has their attention, it's Zan. They have a name, Jaddo, the name of my Ward and quite possibly yours as well, Wards who can't shapeshift and have no idea of the danger hovering only inches away. Wards who would have to be made aware of some very inconvenient facts in a very abrupt and inconvenient way. It is absolutely imperative that nothing even remotely unusual happens until the Unit gets bored and leaves. Are you capable of understanding this, or do I need to find another way to drive this point home?"

Jaddo regarded him in silence for a moment before shaking his head. "You disappoint me, Brivari. Do you really think my understanding of the situation is that poor?"

"You bet your ass I do," Brivari retorted. "You're the one who's spent the last forty years turning yourself into a virtual rotary beacon by bumping off every agent you could find."

"For the purpose of leading them astray," Jaddo argued. "As usual, you miss the point, which was to keep them busy as far away from here as I could. And which worked beautifully, I might add, until your Ward became a rotary beacon in his own right. How ironic that Zan would do exactly what you've accused me of doing all these years."

"Apples and oranges," Brivari said. "Zan did it innocently. Unless you'd like to argue that you didn't know what you were doing? If so, I'm listening."

"My, but you're into the needling tonight," Jaddo said dryly. "But needling aside, do I take this to mean that you've decided he actually did heal the waitress?"

Damn it! Brivari thought furiously, having not intended to let any of his discoveries slip. "Ah," Jaddo said. "I see you did. So did I, current spin notwithstanding."

"It's not 'spin'," Brivari said. "With the exception of Valenti, everyone else genuinely believes no one was hurt. Perhaps even the waitress."

"Perhaps," Jaddo agreed. "That would account for her silence. But as for your exception, we both know how large of an 'exception' a Valenti is. If not for him, the Unit wouldn't know about this." He paused. "You know they're going to find blood on the uniform, if they haven't already."

"Which makes it all the more imperative that absolute silence be maintained," Brivari said. "Stevens has no proof there was a handprint, and he doesn't think a handprint will heal. Hopefully that, plus a generous dose of boredom, will move him along."

"Yes," Jaddo murmured. "Hopefully." He stared into space for a moment. "Stevens isn't the only one who didn't know a handprint could heal. That was quite a feat."

"Valeris said they'd be more advanced than we are," Brivari reminded him.

"Do you think they know?"

"Know what?"

"Who they are? What they are? They must know something, or how could he have healed her?"

"Instinctively," Brivari answered, anxious to steer Jaddo away from this dangerous path of reasoning. "Reflexively. He needn't know a thing to do what he did. He's never done anything like that before, so it's a safe assumption he had no idea he could do that. It must have been quite a shock."

"Yes," Jaddo agreed. "And it must be hard to be forced to sit back and watch your own Ward go through that level of confusion."

Brivari said nothing, unsure if Jaddo was fishing because he knew more than he was letting on or merely making one of his infrequent—and frequently awkward—attempts to empathize. "Well," Jaddo said briskly when the silence stretched out, "I see you have the situation in hand. I suggest we each return to our respective arenas to keep an eye on things. Where will I find you, here or LA?"

"Here," Brivari said warily. "And there's no 'suggesting'. I meant what I said, Jaddo. Stay away from them. You gave up your claim to them when you left with Ava."

"I know. I drew the line in the sand. I admit that. And I'd do it again if I had to."

"I sense a 'but' coming," Brivari sighed.

"But you drew your own line in the sand the other night when I first came to you with news of what had happened," Jaddo continued. "You said that as long as I stayed on my side of the line, you were content to let me walk this planet." He leaned forward, fastening hard eyes on Brivari. "I have my own line to draw. As long as you're doing your job, I'm content to stay on my side of the line. But the minute you neglect your responsibilities, I will have no choice but to step in and do what you will not."

"And who decides if I'm being 'neglectful'?" Brivari demanded. "We all know where this leads, Jaddo; you insist on intervening when I feel intervention is unwise. You always do. And so I repeat: If protecting our Wards involves protecting them from you, I will remove you from the equation. I won't let you compromise them all over again."

Jaddo eyed him in silence for a moment before rising to his feet. "Yes, well.....just so long as we understand each other." He walked to the door, pausing beside it. "It's good to see you again, Brivari, and good to be working with you again. Despite everything that's happened....I missed that."

"You mean you've missed the conflict. Which is the only real relationship you've ever had with anyone."

Jaddo smiled faintly. "Perhaps. Except with him." He opened the door. "I imagine the Unit will bring us back together at some point. I'll see you then."

After he left, Brivari leaned heavily against the sofa, his eyes closed. Except with him. True enough. Rath was the only one whom Jaddo had completely respected, so there had been little conflict between them. He would no doubt be delighted by his Ward's activities tonight....and that was why he must not find out about them. Somehow, some way, he had to make certain he kept their Wards' awakening from Jaddo lest he become the larger threat.




*****************************************************




September 29, 1999, 6 a.m.

Valenti residence




"Dad?"

Valenti jerked awake, blinking. Kyle was standing there in his boxers and a t-shirt, watching him with concern. "You're.....on the couch," Kyle said. "Did you spend the night here?"

Guess so, Valenti thought, his muscles screaming from the contorted position he'd been in. "I must have fallen asleep here last night," he answered. "Sorry."

"No, that's okay," Kyle said. "Sleep where you want. I just.....you look like hell."

"You're not exactly fresh as a daisy yourself," Valenti muttered, running a hand over his morning stubble.

"Yeah, well....I'm not the one who fell asleep on the couch."

"I just had a really bad day yesterday," Valenti said, "and a lot on my mind."

Kyle hesitated a moment before perching on the far end of the couch. "I heard something," he confessed in a low voice. "People at the Crashdown said men were carrying stuff out of your office."

"Did they?"

"Yeah. Not men in uniform. Men in suits."

"Suits, huh? Glad they weren't naked."

"I'm sure everyone's grateful for that," Kyle deadpanned, "but what were they doing there?"

"It's just part of an investigation, that's all," Valenti said evasively.

"Uh huh." Kyle watched him for a minute, clearly not buying it. "The people in the Crashdown said they were carrying lots of stuff out of your office."

"They took a few files."

"Lots and lots of stuff."

"Okay, so maybe more than a few."

"They said they were loading boxes of stuff into two vans," Kyle persisted. "Two vans? What on earth were they taking that would fill up two vans?"

Valenti eased himself into a sitting position. "Kyle, don't give me the third degree. I don't give you the third degree about your life, do I?"

"Sometimes. Not often," Kyle amended when Valenti gave him a pointed look. "But sometimes."

"I'm your father. 'Sometimes' is my God-given right."

"Okay," Kyle said slowly. "Then....I'm your son. 'Sometimes' is my God-given right."

"No, it isn't," Valenti said in exasperation. "It only works one way."

"Yeah, why is that?" Kyle asked with mock innocence. "I've never understood that."

"And the odds of your understanding it before breakfast are nil. You do your job, I'll do mine."

"Right. Football! I mean school," Kyle corrected hastily when Valenti gave him a look. "School, absolutely. My job is school. And yours is.....watching men in suits empty your office?"

"Not now," Valenti groaned.

"Just tell me one thing," Kyle said. "Does this have anything to do with that weird handprint thing I told you I saw on Liz's stomach?"

"No," Valenti said quickly. "Why?"

"Because I....." Kyle paused, looking supremely embarrassed. "Because I think I might have dreamed the whole thing."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Because I saw her in gym class yesterday, and her....her shirt came up....not that I was looking, I wasn't looking, but, you know, I just happened to notice when her shirt....well, her arms went up, and then—"

"Kyle, you're babbling," Valenti broke in. "She's a girl, you're a boy. Boys look at girls. I know this because I used to be a boy. No smart ass comments," he added when the corners of Kyle's mouth twitched. "Just get to the point."

"Well, her shirt went up, and....no handprint, no silver, no mark of any kind. No nothing."

"Double negative."

"Geez, Dad, you're a sheriff, not an English teacher," Kyle grumbled.

"And you sound like a dunderhead when you talk like that."

"I love you too," Kyle said dryly. "I just didn't see anything, and it was so bizarre that I think maybe I never really saw anything at all. Anyway, she's okay. Maybe I was just freaking out because she almost got shot."

"Yeah, maybe," Valenti agreed.

"You didn't.....you didn't say anything to her, did you, Dad? About what I thought I saw? Because I don't want her to think I'm mental, or anything."

Interesting, Valenti thought. Liz Parker was supposedly dating his son, but hadn't seen fit to disclose her meeting with his father....which is exactly what he'd expect her to do if she wanted to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible. Which is exactly what he'd expect her to do if she were protecting someone....or something.

"Why would she think you were mental?" Valenti asked, hoping Kyle wouldn't notice he was sidestepping his question. "You were just concerned, that's all. Anyway, the suits didn't have anything to do with that."

"Good," Kyle said. "I was just worried. Investigations usually mean men in uniform, not men in suits. Men in suits are just so....'Men in Black'." He jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen. "I'm gonna go get breakfast. Want anything?"

"No, thanks. I need to wake up first."

If only you knew, Valenti thought wearily as Kyle padded away, followed by the sounds of cupboards opening and cereal boxes hitting the counter. She almost got shot. No, not almost: Liz Parker had been shot. That simple fact had been pushed to the back of his mind yesterday, what with the FBI raiding the station and that weird incident last night with Isabel Evans. He hadn't had the leisure to ponder the ramifications of his hunch being verified until last night, when he'd apparently fallen asleep on this very couch from sheer exhaustion before he'd been able to do much in the way of pondering. And there was much to ponder; the FBI barging in, the only viable reason they would be doing so, what that meant about Max Evans. What if Kyle had never told him about that handprint? What if he'd written it off as something too weird for words and said nothing? At that point he probably would have written off the testimony of those Crash Festival tourists as too weird for words and gone on his merry way. His son's doubts were meaningless now, of course; the handprint always disappeared, had disappeared by the time he'd looked. It's disappearance only made it more authentic.

"Dad?" Kyle called from the kitchen doorway, cereal bowl in hand. "I forgot to tell you the nursing home called last night. Something about Grandpa having a rough day. They wanted you to call back."

"Of course they did," Valenti muttered.

"What?"

"Thanks," he said quickly. "I'll take care of it."

Kyle retreated, crunching, as Valenti sank back on the couch and closed his eyes. This thing with Max Evans meant that there was possibly—dare he even think it—an alien in town, an alien who left handprints behind, handprints that could kill as well as heal. But it also meant something else: It meant he'd have to re-evaluate the way he'd thought of his father for most of his life. If aliens were real, that changed everything. If handprints were real, that changed everything. It meant his father had been right all that time when everyone, his own family included, had considered him obsessed and unstable and untrustworthy and...crazy. Obsessed, yes; unstable, maybe. One could be right and still be obsessed and unstable. But untrustworthy? No. Crazy? Well....if his father was crazy, it looked like his son was crazy too. Because that son now had his own handprint to deal with, albeit a happier one than his father's given that it was on a living, breathing girl instead of a dead man. Maybe he should go visit dear old dad. Heck, maybe he should ask some pointed questions now that he had a reason to.

Later, Valenti thought, making a beeline for the bathroom when he heard the dishwasher open. Once Kyle got in there, there'd be no getting him out. He had no idea what in blazes his son did in here, but it always involved emptying the hot water tank while he drummed his fingers outside, hoping he wouldn't be late for work. He'd taken to rising earlier just as soon as Kyle had turned into a bathroom diva, but this morning they had a traffic jam, and there was an audible groan from the direction of the kitchen just as soon as he turned the water on. Too bad, buddy, he thought, stepping into the warm rain. He'd perfected the art of the two minute shower years ago, so Kyle would have plenty of time to take his before school. If the situation were reversed, however, he'd be here till lunchtime waiting for the hot water tank to refill.

The shower felt wonderful. He stood with one hand against the wall, letting the water cascade over him, pondering last night's incident with Max Evans' sister. Or perhaps 'incident' was too strong of a word; on the surface, at least, it was just a flat tire. But such a conveniently timed flat tire, coming just as a crash from the second floor had sent he and Deputy Blackwood scurrying upstairs. He really had no idea why he'd headed for his office first; it had been impossible to tell exactly where the crash had come from or what had caused it. His office had been untouched when he got there, nothing out of place, the outside grate locked, and besides, who would be trying to get into his office? There wasn't much there to take, not after the FBI had cleaned him out. He wouldn't have given it a second thought if not for the lovely Miss Evans appearing in the doorway, panic etched on every feature, her eyes darting around the room as if she were looking for something. It wasn't until that moment that he'd properly registered the fact that she was Max Evans' sister. And what did that mean, exactly? Did she know that her "brother" was an alien. Was she an alien? How would two human parents wind up with alien children? Or maybe the parents weren't human either? Maybe they were all aliens, a la the Coneheads?

The thought of the pointy-headed aliens from Saturday Night Live gave Valenti a welcome chuckle as he reached for the soap. At least his aliens were better looking. And perhaps their parents merited some investigation, but he already knew how they could have wound up with an alien child; both Max and Isabel were adopted, found wandering in the desert if the school registrar was to be believed. They may have no idea who those kids were or where they'd come from, and there was no way for even a sheriff to find out; adoption records were sealed. And as far as last night went, he really shouldn't be obsessing about it. The stylish Miss Evans could hardly be expected to break a nail changing a tire, Max hadn't even been there, nothing had been disturbed or taken, and he'd checked thoroughly.....

Valenti turned off the water, having just finished rinsing. There had been precious little of value in his office after the Bureau's vacuum cleaner had run through it, but there was something the Bureau didn't know about. Something he'd forgotten to check.

Someone pounded on the door. "Could you hurry up?" Kyle's voice said in exasperation. "I'll be late for school!"

"Like you've almost made me late for work several times?" Valenti called. "Keep your pants on. I'm almost through."

He scrambled out and raced through shaving. That had been more than a two minute shower, but then he'd needed it to wake up. When he opened the bathroom door Kyle was practically invisible, he blew by him so fast, and he only got a grunt a few minutes later when he said goodbye through the door. But niceties weren't big on his agenda this morning, including those involving his own staff when his foot finally crossed the station's threshold.

"Good morning, sir," Hanson called as Valenti breezed past every bit as quickly as Kyle had. "You're early this morning."

"Lots to do," Valenti called back, taking the stairs two at a time, unlocking his office and examining the scene one more time. Nope; nothing out of place. No drawers open, nothing askew, the chair right where he'd left it. He sat down in the chair and slowly opened his left desk drawer. The paper bag was still there, as it had been last night, but he'd neglected to touch it, to make certain the thermos was still inside....

It was. Valenti slipped the thermos out of the bag, chagrined. For a moment there, he'd been having the wildest thoughts. Granted, he still had the Max Evans problem of shot waitresses and silver handprints, but at least last night appeared to be no more than it had been at face value. It had been a busy week that had made him paranoid, especially yesterday, what with the Bureau and all....

It wasn't rattling.

Valenti paused. He'd slid the thermos back into its paper bag and had been just about to replace it in the drawer when he realized it hadn't made any noise. It had yesterday when he'd carried it out right past the confiscatory Agent Stevens, so loudly, in fact, that he'd been afraid it had been audible even through the crackling of the bag. Now it was dead silent. Holding his breath, Valenti slid the thermos out of the bag and unscrewed the lid.

The key was gone.

Valenti stared stupidly at the empty place where the key had been for several long seconds before unscrewing the inner lid and checking inside, checking the bag, the inside of the drawer, the floor. No nothing, as his son would have said. The key which had belonged to his father's John Doe was gone.




*****************************************************



Hank Whitmore's trailer




"Micky!"

Lost somewhere in a land of weird shapes, Michael Guerin stirred only slightly, the voice seeming to come from far away.

"Micky"

The voice was closer this time, but Michael ignored it. He wanted to know more about wherever he was, what he was looking at. People were always yelling at him; he'd learned how to tune it out at an early age.

But that tuning didn't include the rough shove which nearly knocked him off his bed. "Hey!" Michael protested, shielding his eyes with one hand as he squinted at his tormentor. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Waking you up," Hank said. "You'll be late for school."

Michael blinked, not from the light, but from the fact that his foster father had actually used the word "school" in a sentence. "And since when do you care if I go to school?"

"Since truant officers started callin' at my front door." Hank answered, a regal sweep of his arm indicating the trailer's door as though it were the gates of Buckingham Palace. "But I gotta say, that was one hell of a truant officer," he added with a chuckle. "If they keep sending blondes with legs that go all the way up to there, maybe I'll keep you home."

Michael fell back on the bed, closing his eyes. He'd forgotten all about Topolsky's visit last night. By the time he'd gotten home, Hank had already passed out on the couch, and Michael had fallen asleep looking at his prize, the key which had given him a vision.

"C'mon—up!" Hank ordered, tugging the blanket off. "Legs or no legs, I don't want no trouble."

"Yeah, sure you don't," Michael muttered, heaving himself into a sitting position. "So what'd she threaten to do if I didn't show up? Something nasty like make you bathe?"

"Very funny," Hank said, never a pretty sight even on a good day, and an even worse one first thing in the morning. "She said you may be expelled. And if you're expelled, that calls my fitness as a foster parent into question. Don't want them puttin' you someplace else."

"What a tragedy," Michael deadpanned.

"You could do a lot worse than here," Hank retorted.

"Really? Like where? The caldera of a volcano?"

Hank stalked over, stuck his nose in Michael's face. "Let me make myself a bit clearer: 'Here' could be a lot worse than you think it is now."

Michael rose from the bed. "Is that a threat?"

"Just an observation," Hank answered.

"My, but you're full of ten dollar words today," Michael said. "Have you been going to school in my place? Nah, that can't be it. They'd smell the alcohol on you at twenty feet."

Hank's face reddened. "Why, you little—"

"Save your unbelievably bad breath," Michael said. "All I have to do is squeak to Social Services about what goes on here, and you can kiss your monthly check goodbye. So you wanna add to the list of things I have to tell them? Go right ahead."

Michael held Hank's furious gaze as they stood toe to toe. This was their classic little dance, and the choreography was always the same: Hank made non-specific threats, and Michael followed with a specific one, namely ratting him out to Social Services. Despite the fact that neither of them had yet made good on those threats, Michael had no doubt that day would eventually come.

But not today. Hank glared at him a moment longer before retreating, muttering expletives under his breath, and Michael escaped into the bathroom, roughly as large as an airplane lavatory if you didn't count the shower. Outside the door he heard cupboards opening and closing as Hank searched for a bottle that had something left in it. Good. Hank was a mean bastard when he was sober, so he was actually a bit easier to deal with when he was drunk. And despite the crappy trailer and constant "dancing", he had to admit there were some advantages to living with Hank. Another foster home might make him go to school, do his homework, join a sports team, keep a curfew. Hank couldn't care less unless his income was threatened, and that limited level of interest carried the perk of independence. Michael was on his own the vast majority of the time, and that suited him just fine. Of course Hank's income had just been threatened, and so had that independence. But in a way, he should thank Miss Topolsky, whoever she was. Her little visit last night had occupied Max and Isabel long enough for him to sneak into Valenti's office. He hadn't said anything to Max, but it grated on him that Liz Parker had been the first to learn more about them. Somehow it just didn't sit right that a human had seen something about them that they hadn't. He'd been hoping to find the photograph Valenti had shown Liz, but this.....this was even better.

Michael held up the key, its imprint on the hand which had held it tightly while he slept. This key would go everywhere with him from now on; he wouldn't let it out of his sight. It had been hard to let Max and Isabel touch it last night, and as much as he'd wanted them to have visions if only to prove that he wasn't nuts, he'd been secretly glad when they hadn't. The key had revealed itself only to him, the images it had shown him invading even his dreams. For someone who usually wound up on the shitty end of things, that was pretty cool. Granted he had no idea what it was trying to say, but he'd figure it out. Hank or no Hank, school or no school, Max or no Max, his mission in life from now on was to find out where that key had come from and what it was trying to say.

The hand which held the key faltered as it occurred to him that he'd actually have more thank you notes to write if he were into that Emily Post kind of thing. None of this would have happened if Max hadn't healed Liz. As crazy as it sounded, his best friend's indescribably stupid and very public act had led them to their first real information about themselves, information they never would have had if Liz had chosen not to share it. Was it possible that isolating themselves was counterproductive? Would they actually learn more by letting humans in rather than shutting them out?

Nah, Michael thought, tucking the key into the pocket of his jeans. One random act of usefulness did not an ally make. Isabel was right to insist Max stay away from Liz, and he planned to reinforce that at his earliest opportunity.




*****************************************************




FBI Field Office,

Santa Fe




Agent Stevens tucked his newspaper under one arm and grabbed his briefcase before climbing out of his car, punching the button on his key fob, barely noticing the familiar beep beep as his door locks snapped shut. He'd taken no more than a half dozen steps before something blocked his way.

"Agent Pierce," Stevens sighed. "To what do I owe the honor of such an early morning call?"

Pierce held up a manila envelope. "I just couldn't wait for this to reach you through the usual channels, so I decided to hand deliver it."

"Really? You shouldn't have," Stevens said.

"No problem," Pierce said.

"No, I mean it. You shouldn't have."

Pierce's features darkened. "Read it," he ordered.

"Of course. As soon as I get to my office."

"Where you'll toss it in your "In" basket and ignore it for the rest of the morning, if not the entire day," Pierce said. "Read it now. As in right now."

"So now you're lurking in parking lots and you're paranoid," Stevens said blandly. "Bad combination. Do I really need to remind you about the hazards of conducting classified business in public?

"Do I really need to remind you about the hazards of ignoring evidence and placing rookie agents on important details?" Pierce retorted. "You said you were waiting for the full report on that uniform. Here it is. Don't you want to know what it says?"

"In a parking lot? No."

Pierce slapped the envelope against Stevens' chest. "Then allow me to summarize. There's not only ketchup on that dress, there's blood on that dress. If one were given to hypothesis, one might actually speculate that the waitress wearing it was, I don't know....shot?"





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 10 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER TEN



September 29, 1999, 7:00 a.m.

FBI Field Office, Santa Fe



Agent Stevens kept one eye on Pierce as he snatched the manila envelope from his hands and pulled out the papers inside. "Read it and weep," Pierce said with satisfaction. "You should have moved sooner, Stevens. You might have just cost yourself your chair."

Did I, now? Stevens thought, scanning Pierce's 'evidence' with a practiced eye. Interesting? Yes. Costly? Not quite.

"Fascinating," he said calmly, returning the papers to the envelope and closing the clasp. "Thank you for the special delivery, although it was certainly unnecessary and certainly stupid. You should have thought that through. You might have just cost yourself the chair."

Pierce blinked, once, twice. He always seemed surprised when anyone opposed him, this one, as though he believed himself bulletproof. Stevens had no idea what possible justification there could be for that, but then that was the problem with belief; it frequently defied logic.

"You didn't read it," Pierce said accusingly. "I told you to read it."

"And when are you going to get it through your thick skull that you don't 'tell' me to do a damned thing," Stevens said curtly. "You are not the head of the Unit, you merely want to be. Which means that not only do you not have authority over me, but that I, as regional director, have authority over you while you're on my turf. If you'd like, I can produce my job description so you can read it and weep."

"This isn't the way it was supposed to be!" Pierce fumed. "Agent Summers wanted me to succeed him, and Director Sessions agreed."

"And Director Freeh didn't," Stevens reminded him. "So Summers cut a deal with a director who had left when the time came to call in that deal. Happens all the time, kid."

"I'm not a kid," Pierce retorted.

"Then stop acting like one," Stevens said bluntly. "You're constantly behaving like some snot-nosed teacher's pet who thinks he should be the new teacher's pet because of seniority. The Grand Pooh Bah you made your 'deal' with is gone. Get over it and suck up to the new Grand Pooh Bah if you want any kind of future with this Unit."

"Fine," Pierce said impatiently. "We can debate politics later, but would you please read that lab report? Pretty please?"

"Already did."

"What do you mean you 'already did'? You barely looked at it."

"This is where it's helpful to have way more experience than you," Stevens said. "I've learned to skim. And what I skimmed tells me this book is far from closed."

"They found blood!" Pierce sputtered. "This wasn't just some little one inch sample; they tested the entire dress—"

"And found blood, yes, but not enough to indicate a gunshot wound."

"Because the alien got to her!" Pierce exclaimed. "She would have bled more if he hadn't gotten to her."

"She would have 'bled more'?" Stevens echoed. "Listen to yourself, agent. You're saying the lack of evidence constitutes evidence, and it doesn't work that way. Honestly, do you know how anything works? Anything at all? Look," he continued when Pierce reddened, "the Unit gets bogus alien reports all the time. All the time. This one came from a town sheriff whose family has a history of mental instability and is based on the 'testimony', and I use the term loosely, of a couple of Crash Festival tourists and his own teenager. No one else saw what they claim to have seen. No one."

"But the blood—"

"Isn't confirmatory," Stevens broke in firmly. "There still isn't enough blood on the dress to indicate a massive injury like a gunshot wound. The waitress said she broke the ketchup bottle, and that could easily have led to cuts that caused her to bleed on the uniform."

"She didn't have any 'cuts'," Pierce argued. "She didn't—"

"She didn't have a medical exam," Stevens pointed out, "so we don't know what she did or didn't have. We don't even know that this blood belongs to the waitress because we don't have a sample of her blood, nor would any judge possessed of sound mind grant us a court order to obtain one when he or she hears why we want it."

"That would never have stopped my stepfather," Pierce muttered.

"Yes, well, this isn't J. Edgar Hoover's world, is it?" Stevens retorted. "Freeh actually prefers that we cover our asses whenever possible by following the law. Imagine that."

"Why should we?" Pierce demanded. "Do you think aliens follow the law?"

"We don't have a shred of proof there's any alien involvement here," Stevens said. "The blood on the uniform is human blood, there's not enough of it to prove a gunshot wound, the witnesses who offered testimony aren't credible, and, oh, by the way, just one more small thing—there's no body."

"Yes, there is," Pierce insisted. "A body with a silver handprint."

"Wrong," Stevens said. "We have a live body with an alleged handprint that no one but a junior Valenti saw. Even the sheriff didn't see it himself. And let's not forget the 'live' part. Aliens don't save people, they kill people. Always. All the time. No exceptions."

"But—"

"There are no, I repeat, no documented cases of aliens saving a human life," Stevens interrupted, "and I'm willing to bet the rent there are no undocumented cases either because aliens don't do that. This case simply doesn't fit the aliens' MO."

"Then why did you send in surveillance?" Pierce asked. "You must think there's some merit to it, or you wouldn't have done that."

"See, here's the reason I have a chair and you don't," Stevens said. "It's my job to follow up on all leads even if I think they're bogus, which means I'd have an agent in Roswell even without any blood on the dress. I follow up everything, agent, but that doesn't mean I find everything credible or have to believe it. That's the responsibility that comes with the position, a position you don't yet have."

"Then let me help you follow up," Pierce said. "Topolsky's there, fine; let me go too. Give me the names of the suspects, and I can—"

"No."

"Why not?" Pierce demanded.

"Because you've already made up your mind. I need someone objective on the ground, someone with an open mind. Yours is closed. You've already decided, and you've shown you'll interpret anything you see in light of what you want it to mean. Like that lab report."

"But—"

"I'm done here, agent. Thank you for the ill-advised hand delivery, and don't ever pull a stunt like that again."

"You can't just walk away from me!" Pierce exclaimed.

"If you'll observe me closely, you'll notice that's exactly what I'm doing," Stevens called as he walked away. "If you've got a problem with that, take it up with my immediate superior: Director Freeh."

Stevens maintained a casual pace until he was inside the building, when he made a beeline for his office. His assistant was already there, gazing out the window toward the parking lot.

"You heard?" Stevens asked, tossing his briefcase and Pierce's precious lab report on his desk.

"I saw," Pamela corrected. "Can't hear much from 300 yards, but I'm going to bet you two weren't discussing last night's game."

"And you'd win," Stevens said. "Get me Agent Topolsky on the phone."

Pamela gave him an appraising look. "He got to you, didn't he? Which means he's got something," she murmured, gazing curiously at the manila envelope. "Why else would you be all nervous and jerky? I doubt it's because of his rugged good looks."

"Not one word about him being 'handsome'," Stevens said severely. "I'd like to keep my breakfast down, if you don't mind. And of course he's got something; he's got an over-developed sense of superiority and an entitlement complex, and that's all he needs to have. Make enough noise in the right quarters, and you can turn nothing into something, and he knows that. So I have to up my game and make certain all my bases are covered and then some. Get me Topolsky before school starts."

Fortunately Pamela wisely hushed up and picked up the phone. A minute later, Kathleen Topolsky was on the other end of the line.

"What have you got for me, agent?" Stevens asked.

There was a pause. " 'Got', sir?" Topolsky echoed. "This is only my third day, so I haven't 'got' much."

"Then step it up," Stevens ordered. "I want everything you can find on the alleged healer, the alleged 'healee', and any alleged accomplices, and I want it today."

"Today? I—"

"It isn't necessary to repeat everything I say, agent. I know what I said, and once should be enough for you too. Yes, 'today'. Three days is more than enough time to have learned something useful. For an experienced agent, that is."

Stevens waited while that last comment sank in. "Well....I have sensed a kind of.....romantic relationship between our suspect and our gunshot victim," Topolsky stammered.

"And how does that help us?"

"I....well....sir, I don't know what you want me to do," Topolsky said in frustration. "I was assigned to observe, and I'm observing."

"Then find more to observe, or more ways to observe," Stevens said.

"How?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know 'how'?" Stevens demanded. "You're under cover as a guidance counselor, so do what guidance counselors do. Do some guiding. Do some counseling. Guide some counseling, or counsel some guiding. Make sure you start with our suspects, and make sure you guide and counsel them more. Exactly how is up to you. I want a report this evening."

"This evening? But—"

"You're repeating again, agent," Stevens warned. "Are you up to this detail, or aren't you? Because if you're not, I can have another agent there in one hour."

"I'm up to it, sir," Topolsky said without so much as a moment's hesitation. "In fact, I just had a thought. Maybe I should encourage that romantic connection between our suspect and victim. Love makes people do and say things they normally wouldn't, especially when those people are teenagers."

"That's the spirit, agent! I need more thinking like that."

"I'll get you what you want, sir. Just leave it to me."

"That's my girl," Stevens said approvingly. "Don't let me down, agent."

"I won't, sir."

"I'll be in touch later this evening."

"I'll be ready, sir."

Pamela reappeared just as Stevens tossed the phone down and sighed. "Think she'll pull it off?" she asked.

"She'd damned well better," Stevens muttered. "It needs to at least look good."

"If you're so worried, then why not replace her?"

"Because I'd hate to waste experienced agents on this report when I have a half dozen others that are far more likely to produce something of value," Stevens said. "All I need her to do is a credible job so if Pierce goes whining to Freeh, it's clear I've done mine."

Pamela eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. "You're worried about him, aren't you? Pierce, I mean. People don't usually get under your skin like this."

"Of course I'm worried about him," Stevens said. "He's a little shit. No, he's worse than that—he's a big shit." He paused, drumming his fingers on his desk. "Get me Director Freeh on the phone. I'm doing an end run around Pierce before he does one around me."




******************************************************




West Roswell High School





"Where have you been?" Max demanded when he saw his sister coming toward him. "First period just ended.

"Don't start with me," Isabel said severely, grabbing her combination lock so hard that the locker door rattled. "I've had the worst morning ever."

"Hey, Isabel," Michael said, coming up behind Max. "You're late."

"And you're here," Isabel retorted. "Imagine that."

"Hank insisted," Michael shrugged.

"Hank insisted?" Isabel repeated incredulously. "Honestly, Michael, if you're going to rag me about being late, the least you could do is come up with a plausible tale about why you're in school at all."

"Never mind him," Max interjected. "Why did you have the 'worst morning ever'?"

"Worse than the morning after Max blew our cover?" Michael asked. "That is bad."

"Okay, the worst since that," Isabel muttered as Max gave Michael a look. "First the jeep broke down. It was all hissing and sputtering, and then it just wouldn't go."

" 'Wouldn't go'?" Michael chuckled. "What a girly description."

"So I'm not mechanical; so sue me," Isabel said, savagely pulling books out of her locker. "I don't know what's wrong with it. I was just about to call a tow truck, and then who should drive up but Miss Freak Out."

"Who?" Max asked.

"Maria DeLuca," Isabel answered. "She offered me a ride."

"That was nice of her," Max said.

"And it looks like you took her up on it," Michael added.

"And I wish I hadn't," Isabel sighed. "Because she got all freaked out and rear-ended a car in front of us. And not just any car—the sheriff's car."

Max blinked. "Maria ran into the sheriff's car?"

"Right into it," Isabel said. "And he comes over and gives me this look like he was expecting horns to sprout from my head."

"More likely antennae," Michael offered.

"Thanks a heap," Isabel said acidly. "You're so helpful."

"Isabel, the sheriff doesn't suspect you," Max said gently. "And it was Maria who hit his car, not you, so he can't blame you for that."

"It's not just that," Isabel said. "It's Maria. She's just....spastic. She won't be able to keep her mouth shut about us, I just know it!"

"Calm down," Max advised, pulling her further into the shadow of her locker door as students swarmed by in the crowded hallway. "Maria knows how important it is to keep our secret. Liz explained it to her."

"Oh, Liz explained it, did she?" Michael said. "Well, that settles everything for me. Doesn't it for you, Isabel?"

"Very funny," Max said darkly.

"Michael's right," Isabel said. "You shouldn't have told her, Max. She turned right around and told someone else. If she did that once, she'll do it again, and we have no control over who she tells. Do you have any idea how nerve-wracking it is to come here every day wondering who knows about us now?"

"You're overreacting," Max said. "Liz hasn't told anyone else—"

"Yet," Michael murmured.

"—and she won't," Max finished firmly.

"She already did," Michael reminded him.

"And she won't do it again," Max insisted. "She saw what happened with Maria, and she won't do it again."

"The point is, she shouldn't have done it in the first place!" Isabel hissed. "God, why are you defending her?"

Max stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Because I know what it's like to want to tell someone. To need to tell someone. And so do you, Isabel. You've always wanted to tell Mom."

"But I haven't," Isabel said. "There's the difference; I know how to keep my mouth shut, and you and Liz don't. And if neither of you can keep quiet, how can we expect Miss Freak Out to do any better?"

"You're going about this all wrong," Max argued. "Calling her names and assuming she's going to crumble will only make things worse. We need to make friends with the people who know about us so they're less likely to slip and say something they shouldn't."

"Make friends?" Isabel said with a bitter laugh. "With Maria? You're crazy."

"I know I'd never be friends with her," Michael commented.

"Maybe you're not the best example," Max said dryly. "But we should all look for something we have in common with both Liz and Maria to make it clear we're not a threat."

"So you're admitting they think we're a threat?" Michael asked innocently.

"No, I...." Max paused in frustration. "I'm just saying that the best way to keep them quiet is to befriend them."

"Oh, sure," Isabel said. "And then you get to snuggle with Liz. How convenient."

Max pinked. "I didn't say that!"

"It all depends on what you meant by 'befriend'," Michael said blandly.

"Don't twist this," Max warned.

"I'd love to stay and duke it out, but I'm late," Isabel said. "If I miss study hall, I won't get a chance to study for my math test."

"No study hall," Michael said. "Our new guidance counselor wants to talk to all of us."

"About what?" Isabel groaned.

"Career counseling," Max answered. "She's using our free periods and our lunch hour to talk to each of us individually."

"Great," Isabel muttered, slamming her locker door closed. "Now I get no time to study. What kind of a 'career' am I going to have if I fail math?"

"I'm not going," Michael announced. "I already know my career—finding out what this means."

Max's eyes widened when Michael held up something small and golden. "What's that doing here?"

"It's staying with me," Michael said. "You didn't expect me to leave it with Hank, did you? It goes wherever I go, the bathroom, the shower, wherever."

Isabel closed her eyes. "That's a visual I didn't need."

"You shouldn't be waving that around," Max protested. "What if Valenti sees it? If he went to all that trouble to keep it from whoever was emptying his office yesterday, he's bound to miss it."

"You know, it's odd that you'd be worried about anyone seeing this key because you weren't worried about who saw you healing Liz," Michael said. "But I think a bit further ahead, and I already checked. Valenti's not here."

"Except that one," Isabel said, eyeing a group of students coming toward them with Kyle Valenti in the middle.

Michael snorted softly. "As if some dumb jock has any idea what's what with anything besides football scores."

"He's not dumb," Max said.

"No, he's just Liz's boyfriend," Michael said.

"Would you two stop it?" Isabel begged. "Enough already with the key. Max is right; just put it away."

"A minute ago, you said I was right," Michael reminded her.

"Yeah, well, you each have your moments, but don't get all excited about it," Isabel retorted just as the bell rang. "Great," she added darkly. "I still have to sign in, and they'll give me the third degree about why I was late."

"Don't fret," Michael said. "The sheriff will back you up."

"Remind them about the guidance counselor's pow wow," Max advised as Isabel threw Michael a murderous look. "Then they won't keep you as long." He paused, waiting until she was out of earshot before rounding on Michael. "Is it really necessary to needle her like that? She had a rough morning anyway."

"Yes, Maxwell, it's absolutely necessary for me to needle both of you," Michael answered. "You know why? Because you both take all of this much too seriously. This isn't real. This isn't us. This isn't who we are or what we were meant for."

"And what exactly were we 'meant for'?" Max asked.

"I'm not sure," Michael admitted. "But not this, I can tell you that much. You and Isabel are just too invested in this happy little life of yours, which is gonna make it all the harder when you have to let it go."

Max was quiet for a moment. "Maybe," he allowed. "Or maybe if we never learn what it means to 'invest', we'll never be able to do what we were 'meant for'. Ever think of that?"

Michael eyed him beadily as he started down the hallway. "You coming?" Max asked.

"No, thanks," Michael said. "Go get counseled without me."




***************************************************




9 p.m.

Evans residence




"It was awfully nice of you to offer to stay here tonight," Diane said as Dee shrugged off her coat, "but it's not really necessary. We'll be back tomorrow."

"I know," Dee said lightly. "But I also know how much you fret when the kids are here alone."

"Mmm," Diane murmured. "And I know you've always thought I was overreacting."

"True," Dee admitted. "But I overheard someone talking about her kids going off to college, and it suddenly dawned on me that none of us have much longer together. Before you know it, Max and Isabel will be off....somewhere else. So I guess I'm trying to enjoy them while I can."

Diane's skeptical expression evaporated, and she enveloped Dee in a massive hug. "Oh, I know, Mom!" she whispered, suddenly close to tears. "I try not to think about it, hate to think about it....but it's coming. I know it's coming. I don't know how I'll manage, but....I guess I'll just have to." She let go, swiping a hand across her face. "Philip's waiting, so I should go. I've already said goodbye to the kids. Just as well, really, because they'd be mortified if they find me crying over college. Thanks again for staying. I really appreciate it."

College, Dee mused as she watched her son's car back out of the driveway. If only Diane knew how very much further her children were likely going some day, that what was "coming" was something she'd never dreamed of. She'd always dreaded the day her emotional daughter-in-law would have to say goodbye to what she thought were her children because she'd expected them to remember long before now. Maybe it was better that they be older when it happened. It would make more sense to Diane because she would have been saying goodbye to them anyway, albeit not across a galaxy. And not just Diane, she admitted ruefully. Embarrassing as it was to admit, she would have an equally difficult time saying goodbye. She of all people should have known not to get too attached, but so much time had gone by with barely a hint of memory....

Which is why you're here now, she reminded herself firmly. She was here on a mission, not because she'd suddenly decided Diane's fretting was justified. Although, given what the three musketeers had been up to recently, maybe that fretting was more justified than ever.

"Grandma?"

It was Isabel, gorgeous as usual, even in her pajamas. "What are you doing here?" Isabel asked after a hug and a kiss.

"Staying with you, of course."

"We're not little kids anymore," Isabel smiled. "We can handle a night by ourselves."

"Tell me about it," Dee said lightly. "Or rather, tell your mother. I'm just trying to set her mind at ease. I'll stay out of your hair, I promise."

"You never get in our hair," Isabel said. "And we're always glad to see you. Aren't we, Max?"

Max, who had just appeared on his way to the kitchen, stopped. "Hey, Grandma. Mom and Dad just left."

"She knows. She's babysitting," Isabel said.

Max smiled faintly. "Oh. Okay. I'll try to behave myself."

"You'd darn well better, young man," Dee said with mock seriousness, pulling her bag toward her and emptying the contents. "Or you won't get to see these."

"What's that?" Isabel asked.

"Photo albums," Dee answered. "We found some old photos of when your father was very little. I thought he'd like to see them. We all like to know where we come from."

She'd been careful to keep that last sentence casual, but it had the desired effect; Max and Isabel exchanged glances before Max abandoned his trek toward the kitchen and Isabel flipped open the top album curiously.

"Wow," Max said. "Dad wasn't just little, he was really, really little."

"This looks like Roswell," Isabel commented.

"It is," Dee said. "Your grandfather and I were visiting your great-grandparents, and we got an apartment here in town. After your great-grandmother and I had a fight, that is."

Isabel's eyes widened. "Over what?"

"Your great-grandmother didn't approve of the way I continued going to school after I had your father," Dee explained. "It got a little tense."

"Geez, lots of mothers work today," Isabel said, flipping pages. "I haven't seen great-grandma in ages; I'll have to rib her about that when I....oh, God," she said suddenly, coming upon a quintessential 'naked-in-the-bathtub' picture. "I so did not need to see that."

"That's a classic," Dee chuckled. "But don't worry. We don't have any pictures of you two that young. You were both much older than that when you came into our lives."

Max looked at his sister, then back at the album. "You were there that night, weren't you, Grandma? The night they found us?"

"Yes. Why?"

There was a pause, just a moment's hesitation….and then the floodgates burst. "What were we like?" Max asked eagerly. "What did we look like? What were we doing when you found us?"

Two pairs of eyes fastened on Dee, eyes full of fear, and longing, and....more fear. They wanted to know, but it scared the hell out of them.

"Well," she said carefully, "what do you remember?"

"Practically nothing," Isabel said quietly.

"Okay," Dee said. "You were both walking hand in hand—"

"Naked," Isabel whispered.

"Yes, naked," Dee agreed. "Neither of you would say anything, so we packed you in the car, drove you back to your great-grandparents' house and gave you a bath. Guess we missed our chance for a photo like your dad's."

"That's okay," Max assured her. "And then we went to the orphanage?"

"Yes," Dee answered, leaving out all the shenanigans at the sheriff's station and the hospital. "Your mother and father kept track of you, and offered to foster you until they found your real parents. And then they adopted you when they never found them."

No one said anything for a minute. Dee waited while Isabel stared into space and Max looked at the table, finally breaking the spell by grabbing the second album and opening it.

"Wait," he said suddenly. "This picture's labeled '1959'. You were here in 1959?"

"This was the summer of '59," Dee said. "Why?"

"Did anything....happen that summer?" Max asked.

Dee could have sworn she saw Isabel give her brother a kick beneath the table. "Lots of things happened," she answered, privately noting that what happened in the summer of '59 could easily fill a book. "Anything in particular you were looking for?"

"No," Isabel said quickly. "Nothing in particular. We should get to bed," she told Max. "Tomorrow's a school day. Goodnight, Grandma."

"Goodnight," Dee said. "If you need me, I'll be out here walking down memory lane."

Interesting, Dee thought as she watched Isabel hustle her brother away from the photos and temptation. It had been a short conversation, but it had served its purpose; they were unquestionably interested in 1959 and unquestionably looking for answers, even if Isabel was actively trying to shut that investigation down. Maybe she should go say goodnight to them. Maybe Max would ask more questions if his sister wasn't there to shush him.

Too late, she thought as she rounded the corner just in time to see Isabel slipping into Max's bedroom. The door was open, and Dee hovered outside. She'd been an expert eavesdropper in her youth, but she never thought she'd still be doing it all these years later.

"Looking for something?" Isabel's voice said.

Dee peeked around the corner. Max was gazing out the window at the sky, Isabel peering over his shoulder. "What if there is someone out there somewhere, waiting for us to come home, you know?" Max said. "Another mom and dad?" He paused, glancing up at Isabel, who hadn't answered. "I know we never really talk about this stuff. Do you? Wonder about it at all?"

Dee pulled back quickly as Isabel took a seat on the bed. "Every day."

"Well...what if we could find out?" Max asked. "What if someone had the answers for us? Would you want to know?"

"I think I'd be really scared," Isabel admitted. "What is this about, Max? Is this about the key Michael found? Because you know we can't do anything about it."

"We're always being so....cautious, you know?" Max said wistfully. "Always watching behind our backs. Never getting too involved. But we're never moving forward either. We're just kinda stuck, Isabel. I'm not sure I want to be stuck anymore."

Dee leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes, the urge to run in there, to tell him everything she knew so powerful, it was almost overwhelming. I have the answers for you! she wanted to shout. And I'm not the only one.

"....took a really big risk just telling them, and I don't like where it's headed," Isabel was saying.

"I trust them, Isabel."

"You want to trust them," Isabel corrected.

So they did tell someone, Dee thought, her head swirling at the contrast between "we remember practically nothing" and the conversation going on right now. Someone else knew, more than just one person if the plural "them" was taken literally. Others were now keeping the secret also, a terrifying thought if ever there was one.

"....can't just go around walking into people's dreams," Max was saying. "Remember when you did it with Mom? She wouldn't go back to sleep for a week."

"Just to check things out, you know?" Isabel said. "Preventive measures."

"Isabel...."

"Max? Just a short visit. Goodnight."

Dee scrambled down the hallway as Isabel exited Max's room and entered her own. Retreating to the living room, she pulled out her cell phone, then thought better of it and retreated further to the garage before dialing Brivari's number. Don't you dare let it go to voice mail, she thought fiercely as it rang six times before he answered.

"It's Dee," she said breathlessly, feeling almost like she'd just chased someone. Goodness, but she was out of practice at this cloak and dagger stuff. "Are you absolutely sure these phones are safe?"

"I have altered every single phone any of us has had for the past ten years," Brivari said with exaggerated patience. "No one can intercept our conversations, including Nicholas. What happened?"

"They know," Dee said.

"Know what?"

"That they're not from around here," Dee said. "Max actually said, 'What if there's another mom and dad out there waiting for us?' "

"He said that to you?"

"No, I was eavesdropping," Dee said impatiently. "I showed them the photos of Philip just like you suggested, and Max picked up on the date right away, only to have Isabel shush him. She's scared to know."

"She should be," Brivari said, his voice heavy with irony. "She won't be happy when she finds out why they're here."

"None of them will," Dee pointed out. "And Isabel can go into people's dreams like Urza did."

"Interesting," Brivari murmured. "Has she gone into yours?"

"I don't think so," Dee allowed, "although I'd imagine any teenaged girl who could do that would have far more exciting dreams to visit than her grandmother's. Oh, and someone else knows about them. Isabel referenced 'telling them', and she's none too happy about it."

"The girl Zan healed," Brivari said, "and her friend, a waitress at the Crashdown."

Dee blinked. "You knew about that?"

"I suspected."

"And you're not worried?"

"I'm always worried. But the waitress appears to be loyal, and it appears the shooting victim is also, especially since the sheriff pulled her in for questioning and didn't get anywhere. The photo of Atherton that Rath referenced was shown to the victim, probably because of the handprint, and she presumably told Zan and the others about it."

"And when were you going to tell me this?" Dee demanded.

"When it became necessary to do so. Which it just did."

Dee opened her mouth, then closed it, pushing back a torrent of protest about being left out of the loop. "Okay, what do we do now? God, it's so hard to listen to this, hearing them....or him, anyway....want to know, and not saying anything! I just wanted to run right in and tell them...."

"You can't."

"Why ever not?" Dee asked in astonishment. "They already know, Brivari! They want answers, or at least Max does."

"I'm aware of that, just as I'm also aware of what those answers could do to them."

"We won't have the problem we had when they were little," Dee argued. "Their brains aren't tiny any more, they're nearly finished growing. They're not children—"

"No, they're not," Brivari interrupted. "They're adolescents, with all the impulsiveness and poor judgment which comes with that age, if recent behavior is any indication."

"But Max isn't like that," Dee protested. "He—"

"Just healed a human in full public view. Hardly a model of self control and good judgment."

"He saved someone's life," Dee said severely. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"Not if it means he loses his own."

"Then what?" Dee demanded in exasperation. "What do we do?"

"Exactly what we've been doing: We watch, we wait, and we hope the interest from Valenti and the FBI fades into obscurity and the hybrids go back to being careful. They've been cautious all this time, so it's clear they're smart enough to know they have to be. With any luck they'll keep their heads down from here on out and give themselves a while longer to mature. Zan is absolutely not ready to responsibly handle the power which will be his if I approach him, and none of them are ready to go home. It's too soon."

"But how can you know that?" Dee argued. "If you told him the truth, he might be very different."

"I already lived through his adolescence once," Brivari said. "I have a very good idea of what form it will take on the second go round, and I can assure you he's not ready. I can't afford to be wrong about this; I have an entire planet to think of, not to mention my own people, who will be at his mercy when he returns. I can't surrender them to a boy with a soft heart and poor judgment."

"So you're just going to leave them with all these questions?" Dee protested. "They want to know! You can't really expect me to—"

"Listen to me," Brivari broke in firmly. "This is the most dangerous time for them, when they know just enough to be aware, but lack the maturity to fully process anything they learn or carry the expectations of a planet. It is absolutely imperative that we not heap too much upon them too soon lest we break them in the process. My job is to keep them alive until they're prepared to shoulder their birthright."

"And how will we know when that happens?" Dee asked in bewilderment.

There was a pause. "I'm Zan's Warder," Brivari said. "I know him better than he knows himself. I'll know."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 11 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!



CHAPTER ELEVEN



Three weeks later



October 19, 1999, 10 p.m.

Crashdown Café, Roswell



"Sorry, son, we're closing," Mr. Parker said. "Can I get you a box, or anything to go?"

"No, thanks," Max said quickly. "I already ate too much."

"Just bring your check up to the register," Mr. Parker said. "Lizzie will cash you out."

Which is what I was hoping, Max thought as he pulled on his coat. He'd been sitting here for a couple of hours while nibbling slowly on his food, the ordering of which marked the one time he'd actually spoken to Liz tonight. Aside from that brief, shining moment, he'd had to settle for watching her carry plate after plate of food to ravenous orthodontists, most of whom looked like they could stand to lose a few pounds, if not more than a few. Watching them scarf down piles of greasy food during those interminable stretches of time when she'd been out of sight had led his mind down idle paths, such as wondering if having teeth as your business made you use your teeth more. Were orthodontists more likely to be overweight than average people? What about dentists? What about those who made those models that were used to fit braces, the ones with that goopy glop that everyone said made them choke? What about those who made the shiny metal brackets everyone said hurt like hell and were a pain to brush? He'd spent most of his life regretting that he was different, that he had to be so careful, but watching his classmates go through orthodontia had made him grateful for his alien teeth. Even if they hadn't been naturally straight, he could have straightened them himself.

"Hi," Max said awkwardly when he reached the register.

"Hi," Liz smiled. "You were here a long time."

"Yeah...well...I was....waiting for you to be on the register so I could talk to you one last time before I left.....busy," he finished lamely. "School. You know."

"No books?" Liz asked innocently.

Damn. "Geometry proofs," Max said. "Have to memorize them. I'll find out when I get home if I did."

"Yeah, I hate those," Liz said, closing the cash drawer. "Here's your change."

"Thanks."

"Is....something wrong?" Liz asked when he didn't move. "Did I get your change wrong?"

"No," Max said quickly. "I just....goodnight, Liz."

"Goodnight, Max."

They both left slowly, she back to clearing tables, he out the door and into the night, the Crashdown's sign going dark above him. He shouldn't even be here; Isabel would kill him if she found out he'd spent hours mooning over Liz. But mooning was all he had, watching her his only outlet save for ordering the occasional Alien Blast. He couldn't be with her; he knew that. So all he had left with watching, listening, and dreaming of a day when he didn't have to be afraid to talk to someone just because of who he was, what he was. Maybe someday, but not today. And in the meantime, he ought to be able to watch because watching was as far as it could go. He walked past the employee putting chairs up on tables, feeling jealous when he finished and went back inside. Lucky guy. He'd get to see Liz for at least a few more minutes.

Max crossed the street, hung a right. Up ahead, two jocks in football jackets lounged against a dumpster. Until he got closer, that is, when they abruptly stopped lounging and blocked his path.

"What's going on, guys?" Max asked.

"Evans, right?" one of them asked.

"Yeah," Max said warily.

"Stay away from her," the jock ordered.

"Who?" Max demanded.

He heard them before he saw them, the soft tread of rubber-soled sneakers behind him as two more jocks materialized out of the darkness and grabbed his arms just before the first punch landed. Pain exploded through his jaw, radiated through his head. A moment later a blow to his gut left him doubled over, hanging on the arms of the two so helpfully holding him at just the right angle for yet another punch to the face. As the blows fell, shock dissipated, and rage took its place. They couldn't hold him, not if he didn't want them to. Hell, get him mad enough, and none of them would make it out of here alive.....

And then, abruptly, the blows stopped hurting. Max saw the fists keep coming, then the feet when the jocks holding him let him fall to the ground, but even the fall didn't hurt, nor did the kicks aimed at his midsection. Everything was connecting if his eyes were to be believed, but he didn't feel a thing, no impact, no pain, nothing. It was as if he'd been enveloped in an invisible cushion which absorbed everything you threw at it. His attackers noticed it too, their brows furrowing in consternation as they picked up the pace, kicking harder, faster, confused that it didn't seem to be working. They weren't the only ones.

"What the hell?" one of them muttered.

"Wait," another one said. "What's that?"

The blows stopped, the attackers' heads lifted to the wind like they'd caught a scent. All were looking in the same direction, and all started backing away at the same time.

"What is that?" one of them whispered.

"I'm not sticking around to find out," declared another.

As one, the hit squad vanished, their sneakers making dull thumps on the pavement. Max lay on the ground, not moving, his eyes closed, wondering what had just happened. He had no idea what had rattled the jocks, just like he had no idea what had rendered their attack ineffective. Had he done that? He'd had no idea he could heal something like a gunshot wound until Liz had been shot. Was this another power he'd suddenly discovered in a time of need?

Not that it mattered. What mattered now was getting up and getting home. No, he thought quickly, not home. The pain which exploded through his gut when he tried to move made it clear he'd have some explaining to do if he went home like this. Maybe Michael's place? His trailer park probably saw more than its fair share of people in rough shape, so he might go unnoticed. He tried again to move, changing tactics immediately. Even if he had suddenly developed a new power, it hadn't kicked in soon enough to stop those first few blows, which had hit true and hard. Maybe he should start with just opening his eyes. That alone hurt like hell, and he winced against the stinging as his eyelids peeled away from his eyes.

Someone was standing right in front of him.

Max scrambled backwards, as well as he could given the nausea that gripped his mid-section. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded in a ragged voice.

"A friend," a voice answered, a man's voice, not a teenager's, so it wasn't a jock. "You're safe now. They won't be back. Don't try to move."

Like I have much choice, Max thought. His gut hurt so much that he was certain he was going to throw up any second, his jaw ached so much that it was hard to talk, and his vision was so blurry that he couldn't see whoever it was squatting beside him, holding something small and glowing......

"What's that?" Max mumbled.

"Hold still," the voice instructed.

"Who are you?" Max asked, his mouth suddenly feeling better.

"Irrelevant. Lie still."

Something about the voice began to bother Max. Why wouldn't this stranger identify himself? And what was that weird glowing thing? "What are you doing?" Max demanded, trying to move away.

"Helping you," the voice answered with just the slightest tinge of annoyance. "They'd already started on you before I was able to stop them. Lie still."

The commanding tone in which those last two words were delivered....or rather, re-delivered....sent Max over the edge. "Get away from me," he said tersely.

"You've been significantly injured," the voice argued. "Let me—"

"No," Max said, backing away, finding his limbs suddenly working, the nausea in his gut suddenly gone. "Get away."

"I'm not finished," the voice pressed. "You still have—"

"No!" Max exclaimed, holding up a hand. "Go away! Go away!"

There was a pause, followed by an almost palpable sense of intense frustration. Finally the glow stopped, and the shoes only just barely visible at Max's eye level walked away, making not the slightest sound on the pavement. My ears aren't working either, Max thought, watching the dark shape whose posture screamed reluctance even as it retreated. Alone on the street, he cautiously tried moving again and found himself stiff, but mobile. One eye still wasn't working too well, but no matter. He didn't need both eyes to run.




******************************************************




11:00 p.m.

Evans residence



"Enough already," Anthony said firmly, rising from the couch. "It's time to go home. Honestly, your mother is still an owl," he added to Philip, who chuckled. "If she had her way, she wouldn't go to bed until 3 a.m., and she'd sleep till noon."

"You know, you could have just said you wanted to go home," Dee said tartly. "Let me get my purse. I left it in the kitchen."

"I'll grab our coats," Anthony said helpfully.

Pushy, Dee grumbled privately as she made her way out to the kitchen. No doubt this was her husband's not-so-subtle way of telling her they'd overstayed their welcome. She'd been spending more and more time at her son's house, alarmed as she was at what they'd learned about how much their grandchildren knew, and hoping to learn more. But all had been quiet these past few weeks, with nary a peep from Max, Isabel, Michael, the FBI, Valenti....anyone. Maybe Brivari had been right. Maybe the thing to do was to lay low and let everything settle, even if that did go against every instinct she had.

Her purse was on the floor by the table. She'd just picked it up when the door to the garage opened quietly, stealthily, pausing for several long seconds before opening the rest of the way. A figure slipped inside.

"Max?" Dee whispered.

The figure froze. "Grandma?" came Max's voice, tense, surprised. "What are you doing out here in the dark?"

"I was getting my purse, and I didn't need light for that," Dee said, coming closer, Max shrinking back against the door. "Why are you sneaking in in the dark? Did you...." She stopped, having come close enough to get a look at him. "Oh, God, you're bleeding!"

"Shhh!" Max raised a finger to his lips. "Mom will hear you. Or even worse, Dad will."

"Maybe they should," Dee said, raising a hand to his battered eye. "What on earth happened to you? And don't you dare say 'nothing'," she added severely. "Out with it, or I yell."

"I....was in a fight," Max said, stuffing his hands in his pockets like he always did when he was uncomfortable.

"What kind of fight?"

"The kind that gets you kicked around."

"What's taking so long?" came Anthony's voice from the doorway. He snapped on the light, his eyes widening at about the same time Max's snapped closed, causing a gasp of pain.

"Whoops," Anthony said, snapping the light back off. "Sorry. Didn't know I was interrupting."

"Max was in a fight," Dee announced.

"I can see that," Anthony said, coming closer. "Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," Max insisted. "Can I go now? I don't want Mom and Dad to find out about this. Mom will get all upset, and Dad will give me the third degree."

Anthony and Dee exchanged glances. "He has a point," Anthony said.

"But that eye needs attention," Dee argued.

"Just let me get to the bathroom, and I'll take care of it," Max said.

"How about this—I'll go with you to the bathroom and help you take care of it," Dee offered.

"And I'll keep your parents busy," Anthony added. "I'll say your grandmother had to use the bathroom. That way you can take weeks, and they'll never know."

"You're hilarious," Dee muttered.

"Promise you won't say anything?" Max said.

"My lips are sealed," Anthony assured him. "No one knows better than we do how our son can get. Go on, now. Go with your grandmother."

Anthony disappeared back into the living room as Dee and Max slipped quietly into the hallway. "Is Isabel home?" Max asked in a worried whisper.

"Not yet. I believe she's on a date. Another date, that is. Here, sit on the toilet seat; I need to turn the light on," Dee warned as she closed the bathroom door, enveloping them in darkness.

There was a pause. "Okay. Go ahead."

Dee clicked the light on. Max had his eyes closed, and that, plus the unforgiving glare of the overhead fluorescents made his eye look very bad indeed. "Good Lord," she muttered, taking hold of his chin and turning his head so she could get a better look. "They got you good. Can you see all right?"

"Yeah. It looks worse than it is."

"What about the rest of you? Let's have a look," Dee said briskly. "Take your shirt off."

"I'm fine," Max said quickly. "It's just my face."

"Glad to hear it. Off with your shirt. Or would you rather your mother did this?" Dee added when he didn't move.

Reluctantly, Max shrugged off his coat and pulled his shirt over his head carefully, lest it brush his battered eye. His chest had some bruising, but it didn't look too bad. "All right," she said finally after she'd looked him up and down. "You can put your shirt back on. The eye is the worst of it. Where does your mother keep the Mercurochrome?"

"The what?"

"Antiseptic," Dee explained, rummaging through the medicine cabinet as Max hastily pulled his shirt on, wincing as it touched his eye on the way down. "For cuts and suchlike."

Max shook his head. "Never heard of it."

" 'Benzoyl peroxide'," Dee muttered, reading the label of a bottle she found beneath the sink amidst other first aid paraphernalia. " 'Topical antiseptic'. This must be the modern version. At least it's not orange. Now for some cotton balls....."

A minute later she was gently swabbing Max's eyelid. "That hurt?"

"No," he murmured.

"Good. I was afraid it might sting like Mercurochrome used to. So....are you going to tell me what this was about?"

Max's eyes dropped. "Do I have to?"

"Yes," Dee said firmly. "Let's start with who did this."

"Some guys from school," Max mumbled.

"What kind of guys from school?"

"The sports kind."

"Jocks. Yes, we had them in my day," Dee added when Max looked surprised. "It comes from the 'jockstrap' worn by athletes, and it started as a derogatory term directed at those with a superior attitude. So what did jocks want with you?"

"Guess we just had a disagreement."

"Over what?"

"The usual."

"Hmm....that would be money or girls."

Max looked away. "Girls," he said quietly.

Dee's hand paused mid-swipe. "So you're hitting on a jock's girlfriend?"

"No; they think I'm hitting on a jock's girlfriend," Max answered. "Their team captain's girlfriend, to be precise."

"I see," Dee murmured. "Are you?"

"No."

"Do you want to?" Dee asked softly.

Max's eyes flew upward, dropped again when they met hers. "Doesn't matter," he said dully. "I'm not."

"So why do they think you are?"

"I don't know. They probably got the wrong idea."

"Or the right one," Dee said, capping the bottle of peroxide.

"I am not hitting on Kyle's girlfriend," Max said firmly.

"Okay," Dee said, "then let me ask you this: Is she hitting on you?"

Max gazed at her steadily for a moment before rising to his feet. "Thanks for cleaning me up, Grandma. And for not telling Mom and Dad. I really appreciate it."

"Max," Dee said gently, taking him by the arm, "remember something for me, would you? 'Kyle's girlfriend' is just that—a girlfriend. She's not his wife, or his slave, or his property. If she wants to be with you, she can be. It's not his call."

Max looked at the floor. "I don't think he sees it that way."

"I don't care how he sees it," Dee said. "That's just the way it is. If this.....wait. 'Kyle'....is this Kyle Valenti? As in Sheriff Valenti's son?"

"Yeah," Max said warily. "Goodnight, Grandma."

Wonderful, Dee thought heavily as Max disappeared down the hallway toward his room. That's all Max needed, one more reason to attract the attention of a Valenti, any Valenti. She removed all traces of nursing from the bathroom, cleaning out the sink and wrapping the dirty cotton balls in tissues before stuffing them in her purse and going out to the living room.

"There she is," Philip said. "Are you sick, Mom?"

"No, no," Dee said lightly. "Just making a pit stop. You get to my age, it can take a while. Ready?" she added to Anthony.

Fortunately Diane and Philip walked them no further than the front door. "So what happened?" Anthony asked as they climbed into the car. "Is he—"

"Is he all right?" another voice finished urgently behind them.

It was Brivari, in the back seat directly behind Anthony, and it took Dee a moment to start breathing again. "Don't scare me like that!" she said severely. "My old heart can't take it any more. And where were you when this happened?"

"Contrary to popular opinion, I can't be everywhere at once," Brivari said crossly. "I'm a Warder, not a genie."

"Then how do you know about it?" Dee demanded. "You must have seen something—"

"I have three hybrids to keep an eye on," Brivari reminded her, "although tonight I could have done without Rath's argument with his foster father or Vilandra's intense discussion regarding the relative merits of various brands of nail polish. By the time I returned to Zan, they'd already started on him. I'll ask you again—is he all right?"

"I'm sorry," Dee sighed. "I just got rattled seeing blood all over my grandson."

"I was no happier finding it all over my Ward," Brivari said pointedly. "Are you going to tell me if he's all right, or aren't you?"

"Oh....sorry. He's all right," Dee said. "He's got a shiner, along with assorted bruises. Nothing serious, though."

"Thank goodness," Brivari said, leaning back against the seat. "It was certainly serious when I found him, but they had a head start."

"You mentioned that before," Anthony said. "Who's 'they'?"

"Four males about his age."

"Four against one," Anthony murmured. "Brave of them."

"I scared them off and used a healing stone on him," Brivari said. "Fortunately I started with his most severe injuries because he ordered me away."

"Of course he did," Dee said. "If I'd just been in a fight and some strange man came at me with a glowing rock, I'd order him away too. And don't try to turn this into a litmus test for 'maturity'," she added. "He had no idea you were obliged to obey him, and until he does, you can't read anything into any 'orders' he gives you."

"Interpret it as you wish, but given his condition, he would have wound up hospitalized," Brivari said. "I can't let that happen."

"I know," Dee sighed. "I know. I just....I just can't get over why this is happening. Here we're worried about the FBI breathing down his neck, and he almost gets discovered because of a girl."

"What girl?" Anthony asked.

"He didn't say," Dee replied.

"The waitress," Brivari said. "The one he healed."

"Liz Parker?"

"She was working tonight," Brivari said. "Zan was in the Crashdown when I left to check on Rath and Vilandra, and he was attacked nearby right after it closed. He must have stayed there the entire time I was gone."

"The entire time?" Anthony echoed. "He's got a crush, all right. You called that one, dear."

"Whoopee," Dee muttered. "But it gets worse. It would appear that Liz is Kyle Valenti's girlfriend. And Kyle is captain of the football team—"

"The members of which are defending their captain's honor," Brivari muttered. "Human love triangles are annoyingly primitive, but this one is downright dangerous. Landing in the hospital would be bad enough, but landing there under the nose of a Valenti—"

"I get it," Dee interrupted. "I understand the problem. I just don't know what to do about it. He's a teenager, Brivari, a human teenaged boy, and he's in love with a girl. It's the most natural thing in the world. Our world, at least. You can't control his feelings—"

"Do you really think I don't know that?" Brivari retorted. "This is exactly what I meant when I said this is the most dangerous time for them. It wouldn't have to be something massive, like the shooting. Something entirely typical like a tussle over a girl could wind up getting him discovered, and he would wind up just as dead." He opened the car door. "Please let me know if you learn anything else. I'm off to see if the others have also decided to do something stupid. Or perhaps I should say 'something else'."

"I don't suppose this would be a good time to point out that Isabel is the only one who hasn't done something stupid?" Dee ventured.

The car door slammed. "Guess not," Anthony said, peering at the now vacant back seat. "Of course, you could argue that she, or rather her predecessor, already outdid all of them in the 'something stupid' department—"

"Not now," Dee groaned, leaning her head against the head rest. "It's worse than I let on. I actually encouraged Max to go after Liz."

Anthony blinked. "You did? Why?"

"I didn't know!" Dee said in exasperation. "I had no idea a Valenti was involved until it was too late."

"What were the odds?" Anthony said, shaking his head. "He's got an entire town to pick from…..and he falls for Kyle Valenti's girlfriend."




****************************************************



The next evening,

October 20, 1999, 9:30 p.m.

Evans residence




Max Evans pulled his jeep into his driveway, shut off the engine, and leaned his head on the steering wheel, wondering if he could mess things up any more than he already had. Day after day he kept falling into proverbial potholes, and the harder he tried not to, the more it seemed to happen. He'd broken a lifetime's worth of silence by healing Liz, something he still did not regret and would do again in a heartbeat, but ironically that massive act was not the cause of his most recent problems. Weeks had gone by with no repercussions, with Maria holding her ground, with Valenti backing off....and then, just in the last twenty-four hours, all hell had broken loose. Those friends of Kyle's had jumped him last night, prompting retaliation from Michael and pointed questions from Isabel, and now he'd gone and whacked the bee's nest again by going to the hospital, prompting yet another go-round with Kyle. Why did he keep doing this? Why did he keep walking into ambush after ambush? He knew he had to stay away from Liz, had told Isabel that earlier today....and then he'd up and trotted off to the hospital after she'd called about her grandmother as though he'd never made that resolution at all. And of course he'd walked right into Kyle, who had seen right through his lame story and called him on it. And of course he hadn't had the sense to stick to the story—after all, Kyle couldn't prove whether he had a cousin there or not—and had passively listened to the resulting lecture like some dog being hit with a rolled up newspaper.

Pathetic, Max thought as he climbed out, savagely closing the door. He couldn't stay away from Liz, couldn't defend himself even when that should be easy, couldn't seem to do anything right. Maybe if he just holed up in his room and never came out except for school, he could stop this downward spiral before it landed him in trouble again. He slipped quietly in the kitchen door, the noise from the TV covering his footsteps as he crept toward his room. The last thing he wanted right now was to run into anyone else, even someone sympathetic like Grandma. Whoever said misery loved company got that wrong. He'd just snapped on the light in his bedroom when he realized he was in trouble. Again.

"Where have you been?" Isabel demanded from her seat on his bed, arms crossed, legs crossed, virtually bristling with disapproval.

"Out," Max said shortly.

"Out where?"

"Just out. What are you doing in my room sitting in the dark?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"And you haven't answered mine," Max noted. "I thought you told Valenti you were my sister, not my keeper. When did that change?"

"When I listened to your answering machine," Isabel said in a clipped tone.

Max's eyes narrowed. He'd been beaten up last night, harangued tonight, and now he'd had it. "And what were you doing listening to my messages?" he demanded. "If I camped out in your room and went through your stuff, you'd have a fit."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one who just ran off to Liz's side after her boyfriend's buddies beat me up last night," Isabel said severely. "Honestly, Max, what were you thinking? That just happened....just happened....and off you go again! Don't you learn?"

"If you listened, then you know why I went," Max retorted. "Her grandmother—"

"Had an accident, or something. Yeah I got that."

"She didn't have an accident. She had a stroke."

Isabel's eyes widened. "Oh. Oh, I'm.....I'm sorry."

"Really? You could have fooled me."

Isabel's eyes closed briefly. "Max, I'm not trying to wish anything bad on anyone, certainly not Liz's grandmother, or Liz, for that matter. I just....I just can't believe you went to her after what happened last night. I mean, you just told me this afternoon that you were going to stay away from her, and then you—"

"I know," Max broke in wearily. "I know. She just sounded so scared, so....alone."

"Alone? She told you not to come, said everyone else was there—"

"Yeah, well, she got that right." Max muttered.

Isabel blinked. "Got what right? Who....oh, no. No," she repeated, shaking her head vigorously. "Tell me that Kyle wasn't there."

Max's eyes dropped. Isabel swore under her breath. "And?"

"And he warned me to stay away from Liz. No surprise there."

"What, you told him why you were really there? Couldn't you say you were visiting someone else, or—"

"I did," Max interrupted. "Turns out Kyle is just a football player, not stupid."

Isabel rose from the bed, her arms still crossed. "Okay....okay. So he knew why you were there. Did he say anything about last night?"

"No."

"No? No reference at all to the fact that his friends beat the crap out of you?"

"Why would he bring that up? He wasn't there, so he obviously doesn't want his name on it. Bringing it up makes him look guilty. Remember the 'not stupid' part?"

"So now what?" Isabel sighed, flopping back down on the bed. "They beat you up again because you went to the hospital?"

"No one's beating me up again, Isabel," Max said.

Isabel eyed him worriedly for a moment. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm not going to be anyone's punching bag. I'm ready for them now. If I'd been ready for them before, things would have gone a lot differently."

"Max, don't—"

"Don't worry," Max said. "I'm not going to hurt anybody. All I need to do is scare them, like whoever it was that scared them off last night."

"You never told me about this," Isabel said reproachfully. "Who scared them off?"

Max took a seat on the bed beside his sister. "I don't know. It was a man's voice, but I couldn't see his face. I thought it was another jock come back to finish me off, and I told him to go away."

"Did he?"

"Yeah. But afterwards I put it all together, and I think whoever it was scared them off. He said he was trying to help me, but I didn't believe him."

"Well, whoever it was, thank God he was there," Isabel said, "even if it was just some random passerby."

"Yeah," Max agreed. "Probably was."





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Next week is my son's birthday, so I'll post Chapter 12 on Sunday, October 17.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!






CHAPTER TWELVE



Two days later,

October 22, 1999, 3:45 p.m.

Roswell




"Let me out here," Isabel said.

"Here?" Claire called from the driver's seat. "Don't tell me you're going back to that awful UFO Museum."

"Major gruesomeness," Carly agreed.

"I only went there because my brother works there, and I'd heard he'd had an accident," Isabel reminded them. "Wouldn't you if your brother had been hurt?"

"No way," Carly declared. "No sense in having us both hurt."

"I wouldn't be caught dead there," Claire agreed.

"Well, I'm not going there today, so you can both start breathing again," Isabel said sweetly. "Thanks for the ride."

Isabel closed the car door and watched her friends drive away with an uncomfortable sense of relief. For some reason, ever since the shooting, so much of her life that she'd used to enjoy now seemed....shallow. Petty. Useless. The usual endless chatter about mascara brands, skirt lengths, and who was hooking up with whom just didn't have the same appeal when your very existence was hanging in the balance. She'd felt herself changing since the shooting, changing in ways she would never have expected, and in ways that she didn't necessarily like. Which is why she was here now...well, that, and what her grandmother had said to her this morning, something which had gnawed at her all day so much that she was actually poised to do the very thing she'd said she wouldn't just last night, the very thing she would never, ever have seen herself doing.

Waiting for a break in traffic, Isabel crossed the street. She'd had Claire let her off at a nearby corner because she hadn't wanted her friends to get even an inkling of what she had in mind. Not that they wouldn't find out, of course—they would. But hopefully it would all be over and done with by then, and besides, it might not even happen at all. That's why she was here, to find out if it was even necessary.

The little bell on the Crashdown's door jingled as she entered. It was busy in here, busier than usual for this time in the afternoon. This wasn't looking good.

"Mr. Parker?"

It was Liz's father behind the counter, looking harried as he spoke with an employee. "I...I'm Isabel Evans," Isabel stammered. "I'm a friend of Liz's. Sort of. Not really," she went on in a rush. "We....go to school together."

"Oh. Glad to meet you," Mr. Parker said distractedly.

"I was just stopping by to see if....I mean, Maria DeLuca asked me last night if I could fill in for Liz, waiting tables, you know, and I was just stopping by to see if you needed—"

"Could you?" Mr. Parker broke in eagerly, no longer the least bit distracted. "That would be great. That would be huge."

Isabel blinked. "Really?"

"Oh, God, yes," Mr. Parker said. "We're up to our molars here in orthodontists, and it only gets worse at night when they have nothing else to do but eat."

"The UFO Center is offering half off a second admission just for them," Isabel said helpfully.

"Yeah, but then they wind up crossing the street," Mr. Parker said. "Not that I mind the business—I don't. It's just this isn't a good time. My mother's ill, and she's getting worse."

"Worse? I....I thought things were looking better."

"They were," Mr. Parker sighed. "Until they weren't. She coded last night. Stopped breathing. They got her breathing again, but she's still unconscious, and it doesn't look good."

"Oh," Isabel said faintly. "I'm so sorry."

Mr. Parker gazed at her in surprise for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I'm sorry," he said gently. "Here you're offering to help, and I'm dumping all this in your lap. I really appreciate the offer; this means more than any casserole or card ever could. What say you come by around 6 p.m.? That's when Maria's shift starts, and if last night was any indication, she'll be working virtually alone. She had a pretty rough time last night."

"Yeah," Isabel said awkwardly. "I heard."

"Well, I'm sure she'll be delighted to have an extra pair of hands," Mr. Parker smiled. "And I'll pay you the going hourly rate, of course. Let me get you a uniform. Back in a sec."

"Don't you need my size?"

"I'm good with sizes," Mr. Parker winked. "I'll get it right the first time, I promise."

Isabel leaned uncomfortably against the counter as Mr. Parker disappeared into the back, watching nearby orthodontists shovel handfuls of greasy food into mouths full of what looked like surprisingly crooked teeth. And here she'd been hoping they wouldn't need her. She'd been hoping she could come by and ask, and they would say thanks, but no thanks, and then she could look Grandma Dee in the eye and say with absolute conviction that she'd tried. But now she was actually going to have to do it; she was actually going to have to wear that awful uniform, and in public, no less. And here she'd called Max's job undignified. The deely boppers alone put that to shame. If only she'd just kept her mouth shut this morning. If only.

It had started out innocently enough with yet another ride to school from her grandmother. Isabel loved riding to school with Grandma Dee. Her grandmother didn't freak out over the slightest little thing the way her mother did, or get all judgmental and nosy like her father. It was that feeling of peace, of closeness, as the car had thrummed alone with the two of them sitting in companionable silence that had ultimately left Isabel feeling uneasy. Did Liz feel this way about her grandmother? What would she do if she died? Granted, Liz's grandmother didn't live nearby like Grandma Dee, but still.....

"Dollar for your thoughts?" Grandma had said.

"Isn't it supposed to be 'penny for your thoughts?" Isabel had asked.

"A penny's not worth much these days," Grandma had laughed. "It must be up to at least a dollar by now, if not more than that. Everything's gone up, even the Tooth Fairy. Your father thought it was a big deal if he got a quarter instead of a dime."

"Now it's at least a buck," Isabel agreed as they drove past the Crashdown, crowded at that hour with orthodontists foraging for breakfast. "One of my friends had to have teeth pulled for her braces, and she got ten bucks a tooth."

"Good grief," Grandma said. "Nobody had braces when I was growing up. Your teeth landed where they landed." She paused. "So are you going to tell me why you and your brother aren't speaking to each other, or do I have to dig?"

"We're speaking," Isabel said. "We just...."

"Had a fight?"

"A discussion," Isabel corrected. "And he's not happy. I know why he's not happy, and I feel bad for him, but it is what it is. So I'm just giving him some space."

"This have anything to do with him being beaten up?"

Isabel's eyes widened. "How did you know about that?"

"I was there when he came in," Grandma said. "I cleaned him up in the bathroom while your grandfather kept your parents busy in the living room."

Isabel felt a lump in her throat. This was why she loved her grandparents so much, because they would do things like that. "Yeah, it's....kind of related to that," she admitted. "He just has to deal with the reason it happened."

"From what I heard, the reason it happened is that the girl who likes Max is dating a football player whose friends don't like the fact that she likes Max."

"He told you that?" Isabel demanded.

"Pretty much."

"Great," Isabel muttered. "He was all ready to give me a line, but you he just tells the truth."

"I'm more intimidating," Grandma said dryly. "Mind you, you're good, but I'm better. So....what's the argument?"

"The argument is over him staying away from her," Isabel said. "Or rather, his inability to stay away from her. He gets beaten up one night, and runs to her side the next."

"He did? Why?"

"Because her grandmother had a stroke, and she called him," Isabel said. "Which I totally understand, but she said not to come, and he went anyway. And then he ran into the boyfriend, who was there too, and they had words. And then her friend asked me to take her shift last night at the Crashdown—"

"Did you?"

"No, of course not!" Isabel exclaimed. "I don't do....service. Besides, we just keep getting sucked into this, and the more our family is around hers, the more trouble there's going to be."

The car came to a halt at a red light, and so did the conversation. No one said anything until the light turned green and traffic moved again.

"Are you sure that's the reason you said 'no'?" Grandma asked.

"Why? What other reason would there be?"

"Are you sure you're not....punishing her?"

Isabel blinked. " 'Punishing'....punishing her for what?"

"Maybe for liking your brother?" Grandma suggested. "Maybe for him liking her? Maybe.... for something else?"

Maybe for being the reason I constantly feel like I'm standing in front of a firing squad, Isabel thought silently, fighting the notion even though she knew it was the truth. If Liz Parker had just politely died last month, none of this would be happening. Valenti wouldn't be after them. No one else would know their secret. There would be no fight with the sheriff's son because there would be no girlfriend to fight over. How awful a person was she to wish someone dead for her own benefit?

"Is that what you think of me?" Isabel whispered, voicing her fear. "That I'm such an awful person that I'd do that to someone?"

"Of course not," Grandma said gently. "Of course you're not an awful person. Sometimes we just don't realize why we do what we do, like refusing to help someone, or trying to keep two people apart."

"So you're saying he should just go be with her even though it's causing trouble? And I should just let him, even though he just got beaten up?"

Grandma shook her head. "All I'm saying is, what if you were in that girl's shoes? What if what's happening to her was happening to you? What would you need? How would you like to be treated? That's the 'golden rule', right? And it's not called 'golden' for nothing." She pulled up beside the school and shifted into park. "Maybe I'll wait tables at the Crashdown tonight."

"You? But—"

"But what? I used to work there, back when it was Parker's. In the summer of '59."

" '59," Isabel murmured.

"And I waited tables before that when your grandfather and I were in college," Grandma went on. "I can handle one shift. Maybe only one shift," she added ruefully, "but even one would help."

"I think those deely boppers would look kind of silly on you," Isabel said doubtfully.

"Those deely boppers look silly on everyone," Grandma declared. "We just had buttons in my day. But since everyone's wearing them, it spreads out the misery. And what's a little silliness compared to a relative in the hospital?"

"You're serious," Isabel said incredulously.

"Of course I'm serious. Am I ever not serious?"

"You don't have to do that, Grandma," Isabel said quickly. "I'll do it. I'll take her shift tonight."

Grandma shrugged. "That's up to you. You do what you think best...and I'll do what I think best." She paused. "You'd better run along. Have a good day."

Like I could after that, Isabel had thought, moping into school and through the entire day. Punishing Liz was exactly what she was doing, although her grandmother couldn't possibly know just what she was punishing her for. And even though it pained her to admit it, it wasn't fair. Liz hadn't asked to be either shot or healed, and with the exception of Maria, she had kept their secret. Both had helped throw Valenti off their trail, apparently successfully. As bad as things were, they could be a lot worse.

"Here you go!" Mr. Parker said cheerfully, handing over a neat bundle topped with a pair of deely boppers as though it were a special gift with a bizarre bow. "You'll look stunning, I'm sure. Oh, and you'll need your hair tied back. Health regulations."

"Right," Isabel said heavily. "Thanks."

She waited until she was outside before stuffing the bundle into her backpack, avoiding the black, almond-shaped eyes on the apron and trying not to wince as glitter from the deely boppers coated her textbooks. What had she just been thinking about how things could be worse?




*****************************************************




October 23, 1999, 4 p.m.

Valenti residence



Jim Valenti set the rifle down gently, running a hand over the freshly polished wood. His gun collection was a particular source of pride, and maintaining it one of the few aspects of cleaning that didn't leave him feeling reluctant and resentful. Not so for the rest of the house, however, as evidenced by the mounds of laundry near the washer, the overflowing dishwasher, and the deep lines of dust around the edges of the carpet. One of these years he'd invest in a sweeper that had that "edge cleaning" thingie, or whatever they called it. Until then, his father's old Hoover would have to do. The only reason it was still running was probably because it didn't get used that much.

Slam!

For one heart-stopping moment, Valenti thought his gun had gone off. It took a reality check that nothing was loaded plus the sound of pounding footsteps to get him breathing again.

"Kyle?" he called. "Is that you?"

More slamming, this time from the kitchen. Valenti set his polishing rag down and wiped his hands on his jeans as he made his way through the living room. Kyle was just slamming the refrigerator door when he arrived, followed by the microwave door a moment later.

"Hi," Valenti said.

"Hi," Kyle said shortly.

"Something wrong?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're beating the crap out of my house?"

Kyle winced, watching the microwave's light blink on and off. " 'Beat the crap' out of your house. Ironic."

"What is?"

"Nothing."

" 'Nothing' is ironic? The same 'nothing' that's making you beat the crap out of my house?"

"Dad—"

"Is this something else I 'wouldn't understand'? Like the girl troubles?"

"Yeah, well, you were certainly a mother lode of information on that subject," Kyle muttered.

Touché, Valenti thought. He had kind of gone off on a tangent just as soon as he'd discovered Max Evans had something to do with it. "I got a little distracted," he admitted. "Won't happen again. Shoot."

"Very funny."

"I'm serious," Valenti said, boosting himself up onto the counter. "What could possibly have you this upset on a Saturday afternoon after football practice? That's usually your favorite time of the week."

"Yeah, well that was before my friends told me they...."

"Told you they.....what?"

The microwave beeped. Kyle ignored it, staring at the floor. "Before I answer that....promise me you won't arrest anyone."

"I will if they've broken the law."

"See, this is why I can't talk to you!" Kyle exclaimed.

"I had no idea you spent that much time in the company of people who break the law," Valenti said dryly.

"Speak for yourself," Kyle shot back.

"That's different," Valenti said. "That's my job."

"Yeah, well, my job is not to have my friends think that everything they say and do is going to be reported to my father," Kyle retorted.

Valenti was quiet for a moment. Sometimes he forgot that being a sheriff's kid could put a real damper on your social life. He should know. "Scout's honor, I won't arrest anyone," he promised. "Now....what's going on?"

The microwave beeped again. Kyle opened the door and retrieved his bowl of Beefaroni, which was probably destined to be cold by the time he finished, from the looks of things. "Okay. Remember I told you that Max Evans was all over Liz?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's really been bugging me. Everyone sees it. The way they look at each other. The way she lights up whenever he's around." He paused. "I've been talking to my friends about it."

"Sure you have."

"Turns out maybe that wasn't such a good idea."

"Why not?"

Kyle sighed the sigh of the put upon. "Because they beat him up, Dad. Tommy and Paulie and a few others, they said they 'beat the crap out of him'."

"When?"

"A few days ago. His face was all messed up, and he was saying that he fell—"

"So he lied?"

"Apparently. Look, I'm not happy about him being around Liz, and I've made that very clear to him," Kyle continued. "But I never meant for that to happen."

"And you didn't do it," Valenti said gently. "They did. Mad at Max or not, that doesn't make you responsible."

"Yeah, but....now I'm wondering if that explains some of the weird stuff that's been happening this week."

"What kind of 'weird stuff'?"

Kyle sank into a chair, his lunch forgotten. "First Tommy gets this really weird rash that's basically invisible, but makes him itch like crazy. The school nurse couldn't figure it out. His doctor couldn't figure it out. Nothing they gave him helped. It finally died down a day later, but he couldn't even sleep that night, it was so bad."

"Okay, well, medical mysteries do happen," Valenti allowed.

"And then yesterday, Paulie got a test back...and he failed. He said every single answer on the test paper was different from the ones he'd put down the day before."

"So somebody switched tests?"

Kyle shook his head. "They were all in his handwriting, and his name was at the top in his handwriting. It was his paper, all right."

"As I recall, Paulie wasn't exactly a Rhodes scholar," Valenti chuckled.

"He's also not an idiot," Kyle said. "He wouldn't have missed all of them."

"Right," Valenti said quickly. "Of course not."

"And then two days ago, I couldn't get my locker open," Kyle continued. "Nobody could get it open, not even the janitor. I had to go to class without my books, and borrow stuff off people until he got some big ass tools and pried it open. He said....he said it had melted shut."

" 'Melted'?"

"Yeah. From the inside. How the hell does a locker melt shut, even from the outside?"

Valenti considered that a moment. "I don't know. What do you think?"

"I think," Kyle said slowly, "that's it's no coincidence that right after Max Evans gets worked over, the very people who did it start having weird things happen to them."

"But you didn't do it."

"But he knows why they did it," Kyle said. "He must know. He's a nobody, but he's not stupid."

"I see," Valenti said. "So you think Max Evans made Tommy itch, changed Paulie's answers in his own handwriting, and melted your locker from the inside?"

Kyle sighed and plunked his spoon down in his bowl, sending a spray of tomato sauce droplets over his hand. "When you say it like that, it sounds crazy. Hell, it is crazy. It's like he got Liz's attention, and now I think he's Superman."

"Mmm," Valenti murmured. "Pretty talented for a 'nobody'."

"I....never mind," Kyle said. "I'm just weirded out by all these bizarre things, and my mind's going in equally weird directions. And I'm talking to you again. More weirdness."

"For sure," Valenti agreed.

"The worst part of it is, I haven't the faintest idea what I'm going to tell Liz."

"You think he told her?"

"Of course he told her," Kyle said. "Why wouldn't he have told her?"

"Because he didn't tell anyone else?" Valenti suggested.

"No," Kyle said, shaking his head firmly. "I'm sure he told her. It would get him sympathy points, and those are hard to get with girls. He could even tell her I was there, and I wouldn't have any way to prove I wasn't. It'll be my word against his."

"And you think Liz will take his word over yours?"

Kyle snorted softly. "If he's the one bruised and bleeding? Sure."

Valenti was silent as Kyle tasted his lunch, grimaced, and put the bowl back in the microwave. "Have you talked to Liz about this?" he asked finally.

"No. I just found out, remember?"

"Then you should."

"And say what?" Kyle asked, bewildered.

"Say exactly what you just said to me. Say what you learned and how you learned it. Say you don't like Max hanging around her, but you never expected your friends to react that way. Say you didn't have anything to do with it."

"Like she'll believe that," Kyle muttered.

"You can't make people believe you, son. All you can do is tell them the truth, and hope that your reputation for doing just that makes them give what you said some serious thought."

The microwave beeped. Kyle removed his bowl, stirred, took a bite. "I guess," he said finally. "I'll be seeing her tonight." He paused. "You remember you promised not to arrest anyone, right?"

"No one's filed a complaint," Valenti reminded him. "And since this happened several days ago, I don't think anyone's going to."

"Right. Okay....well....I'm gonna eat."

Kyle left the kitchen as Valenti mused on how very odd exchanges with a teenager could be. It was like they hated talking to their parents, but just couldn't help themselves. It didn't help that the subject was once again Max Evans. He hadn't given Evans much thought since a couple of weeks ago when he'd thought he'd had Maria DeLuca right where he wanted her. She'd been acting so strangely, and he'd actually managed to get her to agree to meet him in his office where, within minutes of arrival, she'd been literally on the verge of telling him something....and then she'd pulled back. He'd seen the wariness rise, the moment of decision in her eyes, watched the curtain descend. Maybe he'd gotten just a little too eager, and she'd sensed that. Maybe she'd never had anything truly earth-shattering to tell him in the first place because there wasn't anything earth-shattering to tell. Maybe it was all in his head. And now I think he's Superman. Maybe he was suffering from the same thing Kyle was, the same thing his father had, blowing things out of proportion. Here he'd suspected Evans of healing Liz Parker, and now he was wondering if he was capable of causing itching, wrong tests answers, and melted lockers.....

A minute later, Valenti was in his study with the door locked behind him and the file on his father's John Doe spread out on his desk. The silver handprint gleamed brightly as always, but it was the autopsy report he was looking for this time, from one Raymond Blake, M.D., Valenti's own childhood doctor, now long since deceased. It had been common practice in his father's day for town doctors to serve as coroners, so Dr. Blake would have been the first stop for any dead body passing through, and, tellingly, Dr. Blake's notes were handwritten, meaning no secretary had been handed these to type. He ran a finger down first one page, then another, searching for something that tugged at his memory.

".....the victim's internal organs nearest the handprint appear to have been heated to a very high temperature despite a lack of burn marks or entry wounds."

Valenti sank into a chair as all his suspicions about Max Evans came rushing back. "High temperature"? So if handprints caused high temperatures, could they cause high enough temperatures to melt the metal in his son's locker? But if so, then what happened to Liz Parker? Her internal organs certainly hadn't been cooked. If those tourists were to be believed, she was alive today because of what Max Evans did. And yet, if his father was to be believed, this John Doe was dead because of what an alien did.

You can't make people believe you, son. All you can do is tell them the truth.

"Is that what you did, Dad?" Valenti whispered, gazing at the autopsy report. "Did you tell them the truth, but couldn't make them believe you?"

Someone pounded on his study door. "Dad?" Kyle's voice called. "Telephone."

Valenti hastily shoved the file back together and locked it up safe and sound. More and more now he seemed to be going down his father's path, like now, when he'd been so engrossed in thought, he hadn't even heard the phone ring. He remembered his father being distracted like that, distant, on another planet….no pun intended. The similarities bothered him. No, not bothered; they scared the ever-loving shit out of him. But I'm smarter, he thought fiercely. His father had talked about his beliefs, or let them slip on far too many occasions. Right or not, he'd put himself in a position where he was making fantastic claims without any evidence to back them up. His son, having watched that train wreck, knew enough to keep his mouth firmly shut. He intended to get to the bottom of the whole Max Evans thing, but he would do so quietly, privately, and keep his suspicions and opinions to himself until he had so much evidence, everyone would have no choice but to listen.





****************************************************



7 p.m.

Crashdown Café



"How's it going?" Dee whispered as Isabel approached her table.

"Much better," Isabel said, replacing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm so glad you told me to memorize the menu. That saves all kinds of time."

"It's like multiplication tables," Dee nodded. "A pain to memorize, but oh so helpful when you do."

"Oh, I'm good at memorizing," Isabel said airily. "Always have been. And I thought I'd be good at waiting tables, but it turns out I'm not. Last night was an absolute nightmare, and I so wasn't expecting that. Even with all your suggestions, I'm still way behind on half a dozen tables. This is ridiculous! I mean, how hard can it be?"

"Don't let a waitress hear you say that," Dee said dryly. "They'll spit in your food. Let me see your order pad." She leafed through it quickly, eyeballing the circular order spindle in the kitchen window. "Your cook's backed up, so no point putting these up right away. Start the milkshake—they take longer—get all the coffees and sodas, then put the order slips up, then go back for the desserts. By then, some of your meals should be up."

"You hope," Isabel said wearily, shifting from one foot to the other. "God, my feet are killing me."

"Would you like me to help?" Dee asked.

"No," Isabel said quickly. "I'm fine. Really."

"I won't drop dead on you," Dee said. "And another pair of hands would—"

"I'm not worried you'll drop dead on me," Isabel said, her face pinking. "I'm worried you'll make me look bad. I'm going to figure this out if it kills me." She glanced at her order pad before tucking it back in her pocket. "Off I go. Wish me luck."

Dee smiled faintly as Isabel did a perfect imitation of Emily, squared shoulders and all, as she headed off with the determined look a soldier wears when going to battle. And battle was an apt metaphor for the Crashdown tonight, this being a Saturday and the last day of the orthodontist's convention, many of whom had apparently decided to celebrate by spending lots of time right here. The place was packed, there was a line at the door, and it was all Dee could do not to dive into the fray. She'd actually stopped by last night and looked through the window, smiling when she'd seen that Isabel had decided to help out after all. She hadn't gone in, though, and had regretted that decision when her granddaughter had come to her this morning, frazzled and frustrated, with a long list of mistakes she'd made on her maiden voyage as a waitress. They'd spent an hour or so going over some waitressing basics, and Dee had been sitting here since today's shift had started, serving as a guide and sounding board.

"What on earth is she doing?"

"What's it look like she's doing?" Dee asked Brivari, who had just slid into the chair next to her. "She's waiting tables. I'm providing professional advice."

"This can't have been her idea," Brivari said. "I take it you put her up to this?"

"She's helping out a friend," Dee said. "And I appealed to her better nature."

"She has a better nature?"

Dee's eyes narrowed. "Yes, Isabel has a better nature. I have no idea if I'd say the same about the person you're referring to because I don't know that person. Just like you obviously don't know Isabel. They're two different people."

"If you say so," Brivari said blandly.

"Are you here for some reason besides issuing random insults?" Dee asked tartly. "I deliberately took a table for four knowing that would keep three more people out of this restaurant."

"I'm sure the proprietors appreciate that."

Dee was on the verge of a retort when Isabel swept by, her eyes widening. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't know you were meeting someone. Can I get you anything?"

Dee could have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile cross Brivari's face before he said, "No, thank you", and waited until Isabel sailed away before continuing. "I'm making my rounds. It's taking longer than usual because none of them are in any of their usual places, although I never would have guessed I'd find Vilandra playing waitress. Do you have any idea why Zan went to the hospital?"

"Probably to see Liz," Dee said.

"Why? Is she ill?"

"No, her grandmother is. Had a stroke, from what I understand. That's why Isabel's here tonight. She's covering for Liz."

Brivari sat stock still for a split second before springing to his feet so quickly, he nearly knocked the chair over. "What is it?" Dee called after him as he took off, pushing past the never-ending line of people waiting to get in. "Is something wrong?"

"You could say that," Brivari said tersely. "Excuse me. I have to stop him before he does something stupid."

"What are you talking about?" Dee demanded.

Brivari pulled up short outside the café. "Zan didn't go to see the girl. He's going to try and heal the grandmother."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 13 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!




CHAPTER THIRTEEN




October 23, 1999, 7:30 p.m.

Roswell Memorial Hospital



"Sir?" a nurse called. "You can't go back there. Sir? Stop!" she barked, leaving her desk and giving chase. "You need to sign in! You need to...." She paused. "Where'd he go?" she asked a passing aide. "The man in the blue shirt?"

"Didn't see one," the aide shrugged, whisking by with an armful of sheets.

No, you didn't, Brivari thought, already halfway down the hall. Behind him the jilted nurse began a floor to ceiling search for what he knew she would not find, him having changed both his face and his clothing upon rounding the corner. There was no time for niceties when he was certain that Zan was on the verge of doing something profoundly stupid all over again.

The proprietor of the Crashdown and his wife were asleep in two of the room's three chairs while the grandmother lay unconscious on the bed, attached to the various machines humans used to keep their frail bodies alive even past the point of no return. His footsteps made no sound on the tile floor as he approached, keeping to the far side of the bed where he could fade away if necessary. The healing stone glowed as he held it in his hand, reaching out with his mind, probing for any sign of life, any energy at all.

But there was none. Whether or not her family knew it, the woman was now kept alive only by the hissing and beeping machines. There was nothing to grab on to, nothing to repair. If Zan tried, he'd exhaust himself and risk discovery; if he'd already tried, he'd failed. The fact that all was calm here was a good sign; maybe he'd seen sense and gone home. Or maybe Dee was right and he wasn't foolish enough to try something like that anyway. Maybe he wasn't giving him enough credit. Maybe I should flap my arms and fly to the moon, he thought darkly as he pocketed the healing stone, moved away from the bed, and opened the door.

A young woman stood in front of him, dark hair, brown eyes, a cup of coffee in each hand. "Oh," she said, taken aback. "Is something wrong? Is she all right?"

No. "She's fine," Brivari answered. "Just making my rounds."

Her features relaxed. She walked past him, bent over the two sleeping adults. "Mom? Dad? Hi, guys. I got you a cup....."

Brivari closed the door, standing off to the side, watching through the window. So this was the object of Zan's affection, the cause of their current peril....and the first to be healed without the aid of a healing stone. What exactly would that do to her? He knew that the energy they used to kill caused changes at a molecular level, but had never bothered investigating; who cared when the one changed was dead anyway? Now there was a living, breathing, human being walking around who had been changed at the molecular level, possibly in ways no one could fathom. Zan and the others thought they had escaped notice, but when whatever was going to happen to Liz Parker began to happen, he had a strong suspicion it would be impossible to miss.

"There you are!" Dee exclaimed, puffing up beside him. "You couldn't even wait until I parked the car?"

"He's either been here and gone, or he hasn't been here yet," Brivari said.

"Then I'm so glad we rushed," Dee said dryly. "Although I admit it was kind of fun to have all the traffic lights turn green right on cue."

"I can't let him do this," Brivari said tersely. "This isn't a simple gunshot wound. This is much more complex."

" 'Simple' gunshot wound? Isn't that an oxymoron? Look," Dee continued when he gave her an annoyed glance, "what makes you think he'd try something like that? They're already all twitchy, so...." She stopped, both of them backing further down the hall as the girl's parents left the room, coffee in hands. "....so he wouldn't do anything else to compromise them," she finished in a whisper.

"Of course he would," Brivari said. "Because she asked him."

"Who asked him what?"

"Her," Brivari said, nodding toward the girl now seated at her grandmother's bedside. "She asked him to come and heal her grandmother."

"And you know this because......?"

"Because how could she not? After what he did for her, do you really think she'd pass up the opportunity for a second miracle?"

Dee sighed. "Well, what if she did? Look, she didn't ask for what happened to her, either the gunshot or the healing. And then to have all this dumped in her lap right afterwards....I sympathize. I had aliens burst into my life at the tender age of eight."

"Oh, is that what happened? And here I thought you burst into ours."

Dee arched an eyebrow. "Is that a complaint?"

"Of course not," Brivari said gently. "It was a bad attempt at humor. And I wouldn't blame the girl for asking for Zan's help; it would be a natural response. The problem is he's likely to try, and that woman is way too far gone to bring back....."

He trailed off, his eyes behind her. Dee twisted around just in time to see Zan enter the hospital room.

"Oh, dear," she said faintly.

"Damn it!" Brivari exclaimed, moving to the window. "What did I tell you? Didn't I tell you he wouldn't be able to say no?"

"He hasn't done anything yet," Dee argued. "Maybe he's just visiting. Or maybe...." She stopped as Zan took a seat on the opposite side of the bed and placed his hands on the woman's arm. "Or maybe you're right, and I should just shut up," she finished wearily.

Brivari barely heard her, so focused was he on his idiotic Ward, who was once again placing himself in harms' way. There was no one immediately nearby, but this was a hospital, and that could change at any moment, not to mention that careless electrical discharges might affect the machinery, setting off alarms that would bring people running even sooner. He sensed power building, and he probed the edges of it with his own, testing its strength and direction....

"I think we're okay," he said finally.

" 'Okay'? A minute ago you were all worked up, and now you think we're okay?"

"He doesn't know what he's doing," Brivari said. "He's just throwing what he's got at the target without any real knowledge of how to use it, not that it would work even if he knew. Chalk one up for ignorance."

"So.....if he's 'ignorant', and it won't work," Dee said slowly, "then....what's that?"

Brivari blinked. A third person had appeared inside the hospital room even though no one else had entered. "Isn't that the grandmother?" Dee asked.

"Can't be," Brivari declared. "She's right there in the bed."

"She's also right there talking to Liz," Dee noted, "hospital gown and all."

"That can't be," Brivari said, stunned. "That's impossible."

"Apparently not," Dee murmured.

"What the hell is he doing?" Brivari whispered.

"I have no idea," Dee said. "And judging from the look on his face....neither does he."

She was right. Zan looked every bit as surprised and befuddled as they were. Only the girl had simply accepted what was in front of her at face value, launching into a tearful conversation with the apparition. And it was just as well that she hadn't wasted precious time pondering how it could be, because a moment later....it wasn't. He caught the faint sound of the mechanical drone that denoted the lack of a heartbeat mere seconds before the image vanished.

"Over here," Brivari ordered, pulling Dee down the hall as footsteps pounded toward the room, the flatline having registered at the nurse's station. Zan and the girl were promptly evicted while even more paraphernalia was brought into play, but he knew it wouldn't work. The girl stood with one hand to her mouth, watching through the window, finally leaning her head on Zan's shoulder as he put an awkward arm around her.

"Let's go," Dee whispered.

"Why?"

"Give them their privacy. He can't do anything else for her, so there's no reason to stay here and spy on them."

"I don't 'spy'," Brivari protested. "I protect."

"You were protecting before," Dee said firmly. "Now you're spying. Let's go."

Reluctantly, Brivari followed her around the corner and down a set of stairs to the next floor, where they took the elevator to the first floor. "Do you want a ride back?" she asked, pausing to study him when he nodded mutely. "Relax, Brivari. Nothing happened. They're no less safe than they were before. Whatever he managed to do, it didn't attract attention."

"I know."

Dee was mercifully silent as he followed her out to her car. Zan had not attracted attention, but it was hardly accurate to say that "nothing happened". What in the name of God had he done back there? Incredible as it sounded, it had looked like body and spirit were separate entities, a sobering through given his low opinion of religions and their articles of faith, that being one of them. Or had that only been a facsimile created by Zan, a doppelganger constructed from his memory? They had known their Wards would be able to do things they could not, things no one had ever been able to do, but this example was downright frightening. And the power used to produce it, though untrained and unfocused, had been massive, far larger than anything Brivari had ever encountered before. If it ever came to a showdown between him and his Ward, he may not be able to oppose him.

"Where do you want to go?" Dee asked as she started the car.

"Back to the Crashdown. That's where I left both Rath and Vilandra."

"Rath?" Dee echoed. "I didn't see Michael."

"He was there. That's why I wound up there. I was following him."

"Where was he?" Dee asked bewildered.

"Just drive," Brivari said, not wanting to answer that question.

Because the last time he'd seen Rath, he'd been breaking into Liz Parker's bedroom.




**************************************************




Three days later,

October 26, 1999, 5:00 a.m.

Washington, D.C.




BeepBeepBeep! BeepBeepBeep!


His eyes still closed, Daniel Pierce flung a hand in the general direction of the alarm clock and whacked it. Jesus, but morning was coming faster and faster these days.

BeepBeepBeep! BeepBeepBeep!

Annoyed, Pierce fumbled with the clock again, making certain he located the snooze button, pressing it several times for good measure just in case the first few attempts didn't register.

BeepBeepBeep! BeepBeepBeep!

Thoroughly disgusted now, Pierce cracked an eye. It was way too early for an alarm, way too early for God, even. Something else was going off. He spent a few bleary-eyed seconds scanning the array of devices on his bedside table and endured two more rounds of beeping before locating the source.

" 'lo?" he mumbled into his cell phone.

"Danny?" a tentative voice said.

"Brian? Do you know what time it is?"

"Of course I know what time it is. I'm the one who's awake. Can you talk?"

Pierce glanced down at the tousled head on his shoulder. "Not yet. Hang on a sec."

Slowly, Pierce slid out of bed, careful to cradle the woman's head with a pillow. A minute later he'd closed the bedroom door behind him and sunk into a chair, one hand rubbing his eyes. "Okay, what was so all-fired important that it couldn't wait till a sane hour?"

"Kathleen Topolsky called for back-up."

Pierce sat up straight, instantly wide awake. "What? When?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Why?"

"That I couldn't find out," Brian sighed. "But apparently Stevens isn't impressed with the reason. He's not sending anyone till the day after tomorrow."

"Idiot," Pierce muttered.

"Maybe. Consider the source. Look, Danny, don't do anything stupid. I agreed to funnel information to you on the grounds that you don't do anything stupid."

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?" Pierce demanded. "It wasn't supposed to be this way! I was Summers' successor! Everyone knew that!"

"Director Sessions knew that," Brian corrected. "Director Freeh didn't even know the Unit existed until Summers died."

"Because we missed an opportunity to put one of our own in the chair," Pierce said. "How on earth did we let that one get by us?"

"The same way anyone loses anything in this town—politics," Brian said dryly. "But you can hardly blame Freeh for being miffed that no one ever mentioned us. Frankly, I think his stalling in picking a Unit head is just him reminding everyone who's boss."

"And in the meantime, the Unit has no boss," Pierce said angrily. "Which means dweebs like Stevens get to run amok and let the suspects get away."

"Calm down," Brian advised. "No one's 'getting away'. And I happen to think Stevens has a point in thinking this is a dead lead. Aliens don't heal people. We know that."

"Don't go quoting him to me," Pierce grumbled. "It's bad enough I had to listen to him once." He paused, leaning his head against the chair. "I can't believe this. That job is mine. Mine. I have the serum. My father left it to me. Summers groomed me for a decade before they caught up with him, and now I find myself fighting for what's mine."

"So the best thing you can do is give Freeh some space while at the same time reminding him of how valuable you are," Brian said soothingly. "I think he'll come around. He's just flexing his muscles. Let him get it out of his system, and then you'll be where you should be and free to do what you want."

"So I'm supposed to wait—"

"Piss him off, and you won't get there," Brian interrupted firmly. "You want him to see you as invaluable, not a pain in the ass. So lie. Like a rug."

"Very funny," Pierce said sourly. "You missed your calling as a stand-up comedian."

"And you'll miss your calling completely if you tick him off to the point where he picks someone else just to prove he can," Brian noted. "The whole point of this dog and pony show is that he's in control of the entire Bureau, including the Unit. Which he isn't, of course, but he doesn't have to know that, and it wouldn't be wise to point that out right now. Just let him think he's big man on campus until you get the job."

"Great," Pierce grumbled. "So we all sit around while the gorilla beats his chest?"

"Cheer up," Brian said. "Once you get the job, you'll be the gorilla, and we can all sit around and watch you beat your chest. You're meeting the gorilla later today, right? So do lots of ass kissing while reminding him who you are. Daniel Pierce's son. Bernard Lewis's stepson. You've got big names to drop, Danny. Drop'em from a high altitude so they put a hole in the guy's floor big enough for a spaceship to land. Remind him that when the time comes that we actually catch one of these monsters, it'll be your legacy that allows us to get any information out of them. But do it in a way that makes you sound excited to help, not resentful that you have to suck up to him in the first place."

"But I am resentful that I have to suck up to him in the first place."

"That's where the 'lying' comes in. Look, I gotta go. No one's figured out I'm the one feeding you info, but if I'm not careful, they will. Promise you'll take it easy this afternoon?"

"Yeah," Pierce muttered.

"Was that a 'yes'?"

"Yes!" Pierce said in exasperation. "Let me know if Stevens actually decides to do something worthwhile."

"I will. Go back to bed. You sound like you need it."

As if I could sleep, Pierce thought, closing his phone with an angry thwack!. Agent Daniel Summers had been found with a silver handprint on his chest back in May of this year, and as angry as Pierce had been, another part of him had been elated. Finally. Finally the post of Special Unit Head was his. Too bad it had to be like this, but then Summers had always predicted that, always said the only way any Unit Head left was feet first. But not me, Pierce had thought when he'd identified Summers' body. He would swear on the graves of every single one of the alien's victims that he would not fall to those monsters. Things would be different this time because, now, at long last, a Pierce was back in control.

Only he wasn't. It turned out that Agent Summers had never exactly come clean with Director Sessions' successor, Director Freeh, about the Unit's existence, and Freeh had been none too pleased when he'd learned of it. He'd refused to rubber stamp Pierce or anyone else as Summers' successor, throwing both Pierce and the Unit into a state of limbo. Pierce had always been Summers' right-hand man; without Summers, he was adrift, with no specific post in the Unit and few reporting to him. The rest of the Unit had always resented him for his legacy and his proximity to Summers, and they promptly took the opportunity to exploit that, keeping him out of the loop whenever possible. Only a few remained loyal, including long time friends like Brian and Summers' next closest confidantes. And now, to make matters even worse, the aliens had shown up. It couldn't possibly be a mistake that they'd chosen to rear their ugly heads when the Unit was leaderless, still functioning on a basic level, but lacking direction, focus, or will. It was almost like they were taunting him, daring him to come after them.....

It was 5:20 a.m. now, still much too early to get up. Pierce crawled back into bed, staring at the ceiling, still wide awake, wondering what could have made Topolsky call for back-up. Given her record, or lack thereof, it could've been anything, including what the cafeteria was serving for breakfast. On the other hand, even if she had a photo of herself shaking hands with a little green man, Stevens was unlikely to do anything about it. If Pierce didn't know better, he would have sworn Stevens was working with the aliens.

"Do you always take your phone calls stark naked?"

"I woke you," Pierce sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Watching that cute little butt of yours wagging through the door isn't a bad way to wake up." She ran a finger lightly up his arm. "You haven't answered my question."

"No, I don't always take my phone calls naked. Only when I happen to be naked when the phone rings."

"Darn," she pouted. "And here I was hoping I could imagine you just like you are now every single time I call."

"What? Frustrated and pissed off?"

"Why are you frustrated and pissed off?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Right. Because I'm just a bimbo."

The tone was light, but Pierce knew he was on shaky ground. He normally didn't pick strong-willed women, finding them unbearably tiresome, but this one....this one was different. And possibly useful. Some day, it might actually be to his advantage to be screwing a U.S. Congresswoman.

"It's complicated," Pierce said, pulling her closer. "And no, that doesn't mean I think you're stupid. It means I'm not interested in going into it right now."

"Mmm. I get it. FBI business. Very hush hush."

"Very classified," Pierce corrected.

"I see. So....let me get this straight. Your former boss died, and you were supposed to get his job, but someone isn't letting you have it. How am I doing?" She paused, giving him a dazzling smile when he stared at her. "Honestly, Danny, do you think I don't hear things? You're on the phone yelling at someone or other every single day. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. Don't worry," she continued, snuggling closer. "I still don't know exactly what you do. But I do know what you should do."

"Oh, really?" Pierce said, amused. "And what's that?"

She propped herself up on one elbow, suddenly serious. "You should take what's yours. That's how it's done where I come from. You don't ask. You don't beg. You don't plead, and cajole, and kiss up to people who don't get it and never will. You take what belongs to you. It's as simple as that."

"Don't you think I've considered that? There aren't enough people supporting me to pull off a coup and make it stick."

She shrugged. "And why should that stop you? Pulling off the coup is one thing; making it stick is another. All you need are enough people to seize power. Once you have power...once you've shown you have what it takes....more will flock to your side. And that's what makes it stick."

"And you know all about this...how?"

"Oh, I'm an expert on coups," she assured him. "Among other things." Her hand drifted south, wonderfully so. "You've just got it backwards," she whispered. "First you take over, and then you muster support from your new position of power. Do that, and they'll all stand at attention....just like you are."

Pierce groaned at the bad joke and pushed her busy hands away. Normally he was always up for a morning tumble, but she'd piqued his interest. He had precious few under his banner, but they were strategically placed in all arms of the Unit. It was theoretically possible to seize the reins for a short time, at least, and quite possible to do so quietly, postponing the inevitable tattling to Freeh. He'd need to choose his moment carefully, though; this would only work if something substantial came of it, something that justified his actions so strongly that Freeh would have no choice but to give him what was rightfully his.....

"So what do you think?"

"About what?" Pierce asked. "Your advice that I take over the world, or the fact that I'm so hard now, it's painful?"

"I say we do something about that," she purred. "In reverse order."

She climbed on top of him as his back arched with pleasure. He always loved it when she did all the work. "Vanessa," he murmured. "What in the world did I ever do without you?"





****************************************************




Somewhere in New Mexico




"All set," Kara said, blowing out the match as the last candle flickered to life. "Close the curtains, and we'll be ready."

Tammy obliged, plunging the room into a flickering darkness even though it was the middle of the day. A moment later, all four of them were huddled around the table with the Ouija board in the middle.

"Who goes first?" Amanda asked.

"I'll go first," Kara announced.

"I think Tessie should go first," Amanda said. "It was her idea."

Kara frowned. "It was my idea to light the candles."

"But it's Tessie's board," Amanda pointed out. "And her house."

Tess stifled a smile as Kara's frown deepened. The Kara's of the world were so used to getting their way that they got confused, often comically so, when the time inevitably came that they didn't. "But....but...." Kara sputtered, trying vainly to come up with a suitable rebuttal. We may be here a while, Tess thought dryly. Girls like Kara weren't known for their brain power.

"I think we should vote," Amanda said stoutly.

Kara's eyes flashed; Tammy looked downright petrified. Every group of girls had pretty bullies like Kara, and one either lived in fear of them, like Tammy, or challenged them, like Amanda. Tess watched the stand-off with interest, privately wishing for a third choice.....

"It's all right," she said suddenly. "Kara can go first."

Amanda blinked. Tammy almost collapsed, so relieved was she not to have to actually voice an opinion and be held accountable for it. Kara broke into a wide smile. "Great!" she said with obvious satisfaction, apparently taking Tess's acquiescence as further proof of her superiority. "Now....everyone place your fingers on the platen, close your eyes, and I'll ask my question."

Fingers were placed, eyes closed, and Kara's pompous voice boomed across the room. "Spirits, tell me if Chris DeVincentis is going to ask me to the Christmas Formal."

Tess resisted the urge to snort. Girls were always asking such useless questions. If only these silly boards really worked; what questions she'd have for it then! Who am I? What am I? Why am I here? What am I supposed to do? When do I get to do it?

Tess could feel Kara's fingers pushing the platen toward "yes". Oh, no, you don't sweetie, she thought. She'd let Kara go first for a reason—to bring her down a notch. All it took was a mental nudge, and the platen went flying to "no".

"No!" Amanda exclaimed. "It said 'no'! Did you feel that? It moved all by itself!"

Kara's jaw had dropped so far, it was hovering over her lap. This was the second time in as many minutes that she'd been thwarted, probably a new record. Tammy leaned away from her, perhaps afraid she'd explode. Which she probably would, when she regained consciousness, that is.

"My turn," Tess said briskly. "Fingers everyone. Close your eyes. Kara?" she added. "You, too."

Kara, who was still struggling with rejection, numbly put her fingers on the platen. Tess waited a suitable length of time to make sure she had everyone's complete attention before asking her question.

"Spirits....who will Chris DeVincentis take to the dance?"

She waited a couple of seconds before sending the platen moving. It sped toward the letters, gliding with authority, absolutely sure of itself. A..M...A...N...D...A....

"Amanda," Tammy breathed.

"Me?" Amanda squeaked.

"Her?" Kara exclaimed, coming to at last. "Okay, everyone, this isn't funny. Which one of you did that?"

"I didn't do a thing!" Amanda protested.

"It moved all by itself," Tammy said. "I even picked my fingers up, and it kept moving."

"So did I," Amanda said, nodding vigorously.

"Me, too," Tess chimed in.

"Well, one of you must have," Kara said in disgust. "I'm sure you all think it's a wonderful joke, but it isn't. It stinks."

"But Kara," Tess said innocently, "if someone did it on purpose, and we all took our fingers off the platen....then that means you made it spell out 'Amanda'."

"Of course I didn't," Kara retorted.

"No, you didn't," Tess said sweetly. "Because you took your fingers off the platen too. I looked."

All eyes swung Kara's way as she glared at Tess, apparently having planned to keep that little tidbit to herself. "But....then it really moved all by itself?" Tammy quavered.

"Cool!" Amanda declared.

"Stupid," Kara declared, pushing the board roughly away. "I don't believe it."

"But it m-m-moved!" Tammy stuttered. "Just like it did the last time!"

"The spirits spoke!" Amanda said in awe.

"Oh, yeah?" Kara challenged. "Well, if that's a spirit speaking, it's one crazy spirit if it thinks Chris DeVincentis is going to ask anyone other than yours truly to the dance. And especially not Amanda."

"What's wrong with him taking Amanda?" Tess asked innocently.

"Oh, good Lord, where should I start?" Kara snorted. "No offence, dear, but you're not his type."

Amanda deflated. Tammy was staring at the platen like it might bite her. Kara crossed her arms and glared at them all defiantly, daring anyone to oppose her. Don't mind if I do, Tess thought. She couldn't change the way people felt, but she could place some well-crafted images in Chris's mind which may very well influence him. And in the meantime....

"If the spirit says Chris is going to ask Amanda to the dance, the spirit should know," Tess pointed out. "It is a spirit, after all. Isn't that why we're consulting it?"

"Right," Tammy said eagerly. "The spirit would know."

"Oh, screw the 'spirit'," Kara said angrily. "There are no spirits. And if there are, they're too stupid to bother with."

The platen on the Ouija board abruptly began to tremble. "Wh-what's happening?" Tammy squeaked.

"I don't know," Amanda whispered.

"You made it angry!" Tammy exclaimed to Kara, who stared at the shaking platen uncertainly. "Say you're sorry!"

"No!" Kara said. "I'm not sorry!"

The candles blew out, plunging the room into a shadowy darkness. The table began to shake, it's rumbling outdone only by the yelps of the girls as they backed away in terror. Or rather, Tammy and Amanda backed away. Kara remained defiantly in her seat, obviously scared, but unwilling to yield. And Tess stayed there too, eyeing her target eagerly. She did so love teaching the Kara's of the world a lesson.

Then the door flew open, startling them all, the shaft of light from the hall making them blink. "What's going on in here?" a male voice demanded.

Damn it, Tess thought wearily as footsteps crossed the room and flung back the curtains. The table had moved a good four feet, the Ouija board was on the floor, Tammy and Amanda were plastered against the far wall, and Kara was still glued to her seat, breathing heavily.

"I said, what's going on in here?"

"Who are you?" Kara asked with all the haughtiness she could muster.

"Everyone, this is my father," Tess said quietly.

"We were just playing with the Ouija board," Amanda said faintly.

"And the spirits spoke to us!" Tammy added.

"Like hell they did," Kara muttered.

"But they did!" Tammy exclaimed. "You saw it! The pointer moved all by itself, and then when you said the spirits were stupid, the table shook, and the candles blew out, and...."

Tammy stopped, overcome with the horror of it all. Tess kept her eyes on the floor.

"All right, everyone," her father said briskly. "Time to go home. Go on," he added when no one moved. "Play time's over for today. Out you go."

Tammy and Amanda peeled themselves off the wall and shouldered their backpacks, but Kara didn't budge. "You, too," he said firmly. "Out. Now."

Tess felt a sliver of sympathy as Kara glared at him, but complied. Kara didn't like anyone telling her what to do, but then again, neither did Tess. And no one was better at telling you what to do than her father.

A couple of minutes later, the house was quiet, the girls gone. Tess watched as the offending Ouija board was plopped on the table, felt a pair of eyes burning into her.

"You have two minutes," Nasedo said severely. "Start talking."




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 14 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


October 26, 1999, 4:00 p.m.

Somewhere in New Mexico




Tess's eyes drifted across her bedroom, from the unmade bed, to the messy clothes closet, to her backpack dumped carelessly on the floor, to her latest Ouija board, no doubt soon to become dust. Same script, different set; this had happened so many times before, she'd lost count. Talk about déjà vu.

"Well?" Nasedo demanded. "I said you have two minutes. Say something."

"What for?" Tess retorted. "You'll just get pissed and tell me I'm too good for this, and I'll ask you why, and you won't say, and I'll get mad, and you'll get madder, and then you'll fry the Ouija board, and I'll go out and get another one. Do we really have to go through this all over again? Let's not, and say we did."

"How many Ouija boards does that make?" Nasedo said in exasperation. "Four? Five?"

"Six," Tess sighed. "But who's counting?"

"I am! You persist in playing this dangerous game regardless of the risks!"

"What 'risks'?" Tess demanded. "Honestly, do you think I have absolutely no brains? The Ouija board is the cover. If anything weird happens, everyone thinks it's ghosts or their own imagination. No one thinks it's me."

"Until you overdo it," Nasedo said.

"Which I never have," Tess countered.

"Because I've always taken it away from you before that happens."

"Well, you'll never know, will you, because you took it away before I could prove that I know where to stop. You always do."

"For your own protection," Nasedo argued.

"Because you don't trust me," Tess shot back.

"Because you're special—"

"Here we go," Tess muttered.

"—and important," Nasedo said. "Because we can't afford to lose you."

"Who can't afford to lose me?" Tess demanded. "Who is 'we'? And why am I supposedly so special? You keep saying that, but you never tell me why!"

"If I've told you once, I've told you a million times, it's not safe to tell you why!" Nasedo thundered.

"Then that makes a million times you haven't told me why it's not safe to tell me why!" Tess exploded.

The two of them squared off, furious. Boy, did I call that one, Tess thought darkly. Pissed/special/ask why/won't say/get mad/get madder....the only thing left was the ritual destruction of the Ouija board, after which she would get another. She always did. "Go ahead," she said flatly. "There's no point in dancing this dance for the umpteenth time because it won't do me any good. I'll wind up just as clueless as I started with a pile of dust which used to be my Ouija board. Go on. Get it over with."

"Tess—"

"Just do it," Tess insisted. "I've got homework to do."

"If you would just listen—"

"Lots of homework," Tess clarified. "More than usual since you up and dumped me in yet another new school just as I was finally—finally—getting used to the old one. You want to know why I keep doing this?" she went on, her voice rising as she pointed to the Ouija board. "Because it stinks having to constantly walk into a new group. Human girls are so paranoid and tribal that having something like that lowers their guard. And then word gets out that using a Ouija board with me is really cool, and then all of a sudden, everyone wants to talk to me. Even bullies don't bother me because they think I might know voodoo, or something. It works every single time, and that's why I keep doing it, and will keep doing it just as long as you keep dragging me from here to there, and back to here!"

She stopped, panting, as Nasedo glared at her in consternation. Trying to explain things to him was pointless. He didn't understand, never would. He was a solitary unit, with no friends, no confidantes, no one at all. What would he know about trying to fit in? What would he care?

"Why must you sensationalize everything?" Nasedo complained. "You say human girls are paranoid, but you sound every bit as paranoid as they are. It's my job to keep you—"

"Oh, no, you don't!" Tess broke in. "You're not writing this one off to my 'safety'. I have spent my entire life running from the FBI. I know the drill. I know perfectly well that they aren't anywhere near us. There's some other reason you moved this time, and of course you won't tell me what it is. I just get dragged along like some piece of furniture!"

Tess plopped down on the bed, bolt upright, arms crossed, the very picture of disgust. Nasedo watched her in silence for a moment.

"You're wrong," he said finally. "They are close to you, and it is for your safety. And before you deny that," he added when she opened her mouth to light into him again, "I'd like to point out that 'you' is not always singular."

Whatever Tess had been going to say went right out of her mind. "What? You mean...." She paused, glancing around, suddenly afraid of being overheard. "You mean they're close to....them? The others?"

"For the first time," Nasedo nodded.

"Is that why we moved? So you could protect them?"

Another nod. Two answers, Tess thought, staring at him in shock. That must be some kind of record. Nasedo never, ever volunteered information about the others since he'd told her there were others like her when she was very little, something he probably regretted doing because she'd hounded him about it ever since. Not that it did any good; to this day she had no idea who the others were, or how many there were, or where they were. Or she hadn't, at least....until now.

"So they're nearby!" Tess exclaimed, so excited she was almost shaking. "They must be, because you're never gone for very long. Where are they? When do I get to meet them? Answer me!" she added when Nasedo said nothing. "If the others are in trouble, I need to know."

"I'll decide what you need to know," Nasedo answered, whatever had momentarily softened his attitude disappearing as quickly as it had come.

Tess's heart was pounding as she stood up. "No."

"No? 'No' what?"

"There are other people on this planet like me, and you won't tell me about them?" Tess said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Why not? I want to see them! I need to know!"

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do," Tess insisted. "And if you won't tell me where they are, I'll....I'll find out myself."

"Wonderful," Nasedo said in disgust. "Why don't you just save everyone a whole bunch of time, and trot into the Special Unit and give yourself up."

"Because that won't lead me to the others," Tess said, ignoring his sarcasm. "But you will. I'll follow you."

Nasedo walked directly up to her, standing very close, like he always did when he wanted to assert his authority. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," she said defiantly.

"You'd put all of us in danger just so you could have your way?" Nasedo demanded. "Selfish, much?"

"We wouldn't be in any danger, and you know it," she retorted. "Because you know I can do it, and without being caught. You know that because you taught me how."

She waited while that sank in. And sink in it did, because he knew she was right. He'd taught her to track and to hide ever since she could remember, and she was very, very good at it. Tracking him would be the hardest thing she'd ever done, but she could do it. It might take awhile, but she knew she could.

And so did he. Nasedo's expression had changed to one more closely resembling someone who's just lost a long and hard-played game of poker. "Very well, then," he said coldly. "I'll show them to you. But it will happen at a time and place of my choosing."

"Within the next month," Tess corrected. "Because otherwise, you'll choose no time and no place. Deal?"

Nasedo sighed the sigh of the put-upon. "Deal. And if I catch you following me, the deal is off."

"Fair enough. And because I'm willing to wait, but you haven't given me anything, you'll answer one question for me, right here, right now. As a show of good faith," Tess added when he gave a soft snort. "To show me that you mean to keep your word."

"And when have I ever not kept my word?"

"Hard to say. You've never given me your word."

"Yes, well, you've never threatened to do something ineffably stupid."

"Just one question," Tess pressed. "One question. How dangerous can one question be? I have waited so long to learn anything! Is one question really going to bring down the whole house of cards?"

Nasedo's eyes snapped to hers, and for just a moment, he looked startled....haunted, even. "It might," he said quietly, all malice suddenly gone from his voice. "It did once." He stared at the floor while she bit her lip, struggling not to ask about that "once". She only had one question, and she had a better one than that.

"Fine," Nasedo sighed. "What's your question?"

Tess closed her eyes briefly. "Who am I?"

"That's it? That's your one question?"

"I have to start somewhere," Tess whispered. "Seems as good a place as any."

Nasedo nodded slowly. "Right. I suppose it is." He paused. "You're a queen."

Tess blinked. "A...what?"

"A queen."

"So...does that mean—"

"One question," Nasedo broke in sternly. "That was it."

A phone rang. Nasedo dug his cell phone out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, answered it. "I'm here. What is it?"

Tess watched his eyes widen as he listened. "What? When?" he said sharply. "How many agents are they sending?" He paused. "Then let me know the moment you hear."

"What is it?" Tess asked when he snapped the phone shut. "Where are they sending agents? To the others? Are they in trouble?"

"This isn't your concern," Nasedo said. "One month," he added severely when she started to protest. "I'm going to hold you to that."

"Good," Tess said in a brittle voice. "Because I'm going to hold you to your end of the bargain too."

She stood in the center of her bedroom for a long time after he left. It took her a minute before she realized that, for the first time, the Ouija board had escaped its usual fate.





******************************************************



FBI Headquarters,

Washington, D.C.




"Excuse me," Agent Pierce said to the battle axe behind the desk, "but could you tell me how much longer it's going to be? My appointment with the Director was for—"

"3:00 p.m.," Battle Axe interrupted primly. "I can tell time, Agent Pierce."

"Really? I hadn't noticed. Or perhaps it's the director who's time challenged? But then you're the one responsible for his schedule...aren't you?"

Director Louis Freeh's administrative assistant lowered her narrow black spectacles and fixed Pierce with a stare that made the polar ice caps look warm. "The director is an extremely busy man," she said coldly, "but then you might find that difficult to understand."

"What I understand," Pierce retorted, "is that I've been cooling my heels for over an hour. See, I can tell time."

"Congratulations," Battle Axe said stonily. "Take a seat. I'll let you know when he's ready to see you."

"So that's it," Pierce said grimly. "It's not about my appointment time or your inability to read a clock. It's that he's not 'ready to see me'."

Battle Axe gave him a smile which held no mirth. "If you need to reschedule, I'd be happy to assist," she said sweetly, one hand tap tapping her pencil on her appointment book.

Which is exactly what he wants, Pierce fumed, walking away from the desk before he said something really pithy. Freeh wasn't busy, he was just dicking around with the little people. Or more likely just dicking around with a Pierce, his very favorite kind of dicking around. He'd keep him waiting out here forever and a day in the hopes that Pierce would give up and go away, and his asshole admin would help him every step of the way, including needling him about the fact that, at the moment, he held no official position in the Unit. He'd spent the last five months treading carefully around Freeh, following Brian's strategy of giving him time to get used to the idea of the Unit, but now that admittedly sound advice was being drowned out by Vanessa's very different take on the subject.

"You should take what's yours. That's how it's done where I come from. You don't ask. You don't beg. You don't plead, and cajole, and kiss up to people who don't get it and never will. You take what belongs to you. It's as simple as that."

Take what belongs to you, Pierce thought, gazing out the window on the top floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. That's what his father would have done. That's what his father had done. His father wouldn't have been caught dead sucking up to someone like Freeh. Granted, his father had wound up murdered, but it hadn't been the Freeh's of the world who'd killed him. Maybe Vanessa was right. Maybe he was going about this the wrong way.

The office door opened and another agent entered, a nebbishy fellow sporting a bow tie. This one apparently knew who was really in charge because he lost no time displaying the appropriate obeisance to the real authority.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Grant. May I say how lovely you look today. I'm here for my 4:15."

"Of course, Agent Barlow," Ms. Grant, a.k.a. Battle Axe smiled. "The director will be right with you. Please have a seat."

"Thank you," Agent Barlow intoned with something that looked suspiciously like a bow. He had just sunk obediently into a chair when Battle Axe's phone rang.

"I need to step out," she informed Agent Barlow after a brief conversation, "but you can go right in." She swept out with nary a glance in Pierce's direction as Barlow rose from his chair, took two steps toward the door, and got no further.

"Hi," Pierce said, extending a hand which Barlow shook hesitantly. "I'm Agent Pierce, and I need you to get lost."

Barlow blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Get lost," Pierce repeated. "Go away. Make yourself scarce. Leave the premises. Take a powder."

When Barlow didn't move, Pierce sighed and reached into his back pocket. "There," he said, pressing a $50 bill into Barlow's hand. "Now do you get it?"

It took another fifty before he did. Pierce tucked his wallet back in his pocket, grateful all over again for his dead father's advice to keep plenty of cash on hand. It had come in handy more times than he could count.

Director Freeh was on the phone when the door opened, and he paused when he saw who was crossing his threshold. "Something came up," he said into the phone. "I'll call you back." He replaced the receiver, eyeing Pierce warily. "Did Lois let you in?"

"Heck, no," Pierce said cheerfully, settling into a chair. "Lois left me unattended. She should know better."

"That she should," Freeh said dryly. "Well....since you're here....what can I do for you, Agent Pierce?"

"What you can do, Director, is get off your ass and give me the job I should have had last May."

Freeh smiled faintly. "What's this? No carefully worded speech? No mention that Bernard Lewis was your stepfather? No polite reminders that the fate of the planet lies in my hands?"

"No," Pierce said bluntly. "Carefully worded speeches are wasted on the deaf, everyone knows Bernard Lewis was my stepfather, and the fate of the planet doesn't lie in your hands, it lies in the hands of the Special Unit. The Special Unit which currently lacks leadership and is failing to follow up on the best alien lead we've had in decades."

"You mean the Roswell nibble? Yes, I do keep myself apprised of what's going on," Freeh added when Pierce failed to squelch a surprised look in time. "I feel a special need to keep my ear to the ground, especially since I found a black ops unit running right under my nose in my very own bureau."

"We're the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Pierce reminded him. "We are black ops."

"And I'm the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Freeh said pointedly, "which means I'm in charge of those black ops. Although I can't very well be in charge of those I don't know about. Which, I suppose, was the point, especially given that six years—six years, agent—had elapsed from the time I took office to the time Agent Summers died, and he never breathed a word about the Unit to me."

"So this is about punishing a dead man?" Pierce said. "Funny. I would have thought that someone in a position such as yours would be able to put the good of the nation ahead of his own personal pettiness."

Freeh's jaw twitched. "Funny. I would have thought someone in a position such as yours, which is to say, no position at all, would be able to see that pissing me off is a very bad idea."

"Why?" Pierce asked. "As you've noted, I have no position, therefore I have nothing to lose. It's hard to threaten a man who has nothing to lose."

"You're still an agent," Freeh pointed out, "an agent with top level security clearance. I haven't changed that....but I could."

"Threaten me all you want," Pierce offered. "But the real point is that the one who loses the most if you don't correct this situation immediately is the United States of America, if not planet Earth entirely. Sure, you could demote me, fire me, frame me, or all three. But I'm willing to take that chance because I am capable of setting my personal desires aside for the good of the nation."

"And I suppose it's merely unbearably convenient that the 'good of the nation' involves you getting exactly what you want?"

"And involves everyone getting a safer country and a safer planet," Pierce said. "So it also involves you getting exactly what you want....assuming you actually want that."

"Setting aside for the moment this string of insults to my integrity and professionalism, explain to me why making you the head of the Special Unit nets me a safer anything," Freeh said.

Pierce leaned forward in his chair. "That's easy. Look at Roswell. Agent Stevens is doing precisely nothing."

"He has an agent on site. I'd hardly call that 'nothing'."

"An untested rookie who doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground," Pierce corrected, "and who's likely to tip our hand, give them time to get away, and probably get herself killed in the process. Stevens isn't cut out for this. Making these kinds of decisions was never his job. Our state branches are funnels. They collect information and funnel it to the top, which is where the real analysis takes place."

"And that 'top' consisted of two men," Freeh said. "Agent Summers....and you."

"Among others," Pierce answered. "State branches collected information, but someone had to put it all together, compare it to what we already knew, and choose a course of action, and those someone's were Summers and his team. Now no one's doing it. I don't even know where intel is going. When you gave the state branches the authority to act on their own, you created fifty little departments all working independently of each other. They don't collaborate because they never have, and now no one is collecting and collating all the data, and state supervisors are making policy and deciding follow-up when they've never done that before. That's why Roswell is being botched."

"Wrong on both counts, agent," Freeh said. "Someone is 'collecting and collating'."

"They are? Who?"

"Why me, of course. Don't look so surprised," Freeh added. "I am the Director of the FBI. Is it really so surprising that its blackest of black ops would report to me?"

Pierce paused. "Don't take this the wrong way, but—"

"Since when are you the least bit interested in the way I take anything you say?"

"—you're hardly qualified to make those decisions on your own," Pierce finished.

"Ah," Freeh said with satisfaction. "So you're haven't developed a sudden interest in how I interpret you. Your consistency is noted, if misplaced."

"You only learned aliens were still on this planet in May of this year," Pierce plowed on, ignoring him. "You need to be talking to someone who isn't so late to the party—"

"And whose fault is it, agent, that I'm 'late to the party'?" Freeh broke in tersely. "Agent Summers' fault, that's whose. I don't trust you," he went on, talking over Pierce's next objection. "I don't trust you as the confidante of the man who duped me for years, and I don't trust the Unit to keep me in the loop. Therefore I took over the function of Unit head, and I will hold that post as long as I see fit. Every state branch will report to me until I'm confident that I understand the Unit's inner workings and have made it clear that I am never—never—to be left out of the loop again."

"For how long?" Pierce demanded.

"For as long as it takes, agent. For as long as it works, which it is, by the way, and which is why you're wrong again. Roswell is not being 'botched'. The so-called 'evidence' hasn't been substantiated, isn't coming from credible witnesses, and doesn't fit the aliens' long known MO. I knew that even before I spent week after weary week going through every single file in the Special Unit's vault. It's not like I didn't know aliens existed. Everyone whose anyone in the intelligence community knows the '47 crash was real. They just don't know there was more to it."

"And here's the part where you fire me," Pierce muttered.

"Wrong again," Freeh said. "You're batting zero today. Oh, I'd love to kick your annoying ass out my door, but the fact remains that you are the only man left with a deep knowledge of the Unit's past decade, not to mention Bernard Lewis' stepson, so I'm stuck with you whether I like it or not. See, I can set aside my petty personal preferences when I need to. You'll be assigned to a state branch—not New Mexico—where you'll make yourself useful unless and until I need you. And for that, you should thank me."

"Thank you?" Pierce echoed incredulously. "What the hell for?"

"For saving your life, agent. See, what struck me the most when I was going through all the Unit's records was that Unit heads serve as lightning rods for the aliens. Unit heads always die by alien hands. You know that. And now I'm taking that risk upon myself instead of dumping it in your lap. Positively directorial of me, wouldn't you say?"

Pierce shook his head in disbelief. "You're just going to let them get away, aren't you? You couldn't let the Unit actually do anything useful. That would imply you need us, and you don't want to admit that."

"I'm not the least bit convinced there's anything in Roswell to 'get away'," Freeh said. "I'm monitoring the situation, and should my information change, so will my tactics."

"You mean when someone else dies," Pierce said. "Summers isn't on your conscience, but the next one will be."

"Then we'll be even, Agent Pierce. Because Summers is on yours." Freeh picked up his phone. "Let yourself out. I have business to attend to."

Fuming, Pierce did so, stalking past the startled Lois, who had been convinced Agent Barlow was in her boss's office. It was now clear what Freeh was doing and why Brian's conservative approach wasn't working, would never work. Freeh had no intention of appointing anyone to head the Unit, and was probably looking to disband it and fold its work back into the Bureau at large. He'd play fearless leader for just long enough to learn what the Unit knew, then flush it down the toilet, and Pierce along with it. After all, the Bureau had the serum, so what was the point of keeping him around? Especially if he'd only be a rival, a rallying point for those who wanted the old way.

Not so fast, buddy, Pierce thought, angrily punching buttons on his cell phone. The Bureau had the formula for the serum, but they didn't have everything they needed to use it to their best advantage. He still had some clout in the Unit, and would have even more when word spread that Freeh was looking to make it go away.

"Brian? Danny. I need you to do something for me."

A heavy sigh floated over the cell network. "What'd you do?" Brian said resignedly. "Are you even still employed?"

"Apparently I'm too valuable to fire," Pierce said. "At the moment, anyway. So if a moment's all we've got, let's use it."

"Danny, how many times have I told you—"

"Freeh wants to disband the Unit."

"What?" Brian said in astonishment. "He'd shut us down after Summers was murdered? He said that?"

"Not in so many words, but that's where he's heading."

"Jesus," Brian muttered. "That's....that's...."

"Unacceptable," Pierce finished. "So is the idea of letting whatever is currently on the loose in Roswell slip away just because Freeh doesn't know what he's doing. So back to my original question: I need you to do something for me." He paused.

"I need you to find Everett Hubble."




******************************************************



October 27, 1999, 9:30 p.m.

Valenti residence




Boring, Brivari thought as he flipped idly through last month's copy of Field and Stream. Nothing but boats, fishing rods, and debates about bait, plus the requisite photos of smiling fisherman displaying their prizes. Of all the activities humans pursued for leisure, fishing had to number among the least attractive. Sitting in a boat on a body of water, frequently alone, holding a stick with a string attached and hoping something below the surface would find it had to rank as the most pointless of activities. Perfectly understandable if survival was at stake or one craved fish, but that was hardly the case. Many of these fishing fanatics didn't even eat fish; a large number proudly characterized themselves as "fly fisherman", denoting an even stranger group of people who caught fish only to release them. Which meant it was not the result, but the activity itself which was the driving force, the sitting-alone-in-a-boat part. Weren't there easier, less expensive ways to acquire solitude?

A noise in the other room made him look up. The FBI's finest were hard at work once again, and none too subtle about it; that was the third large noise he'd heard in the past twenty minutes. Granted, neither the sheriff nor his son were home, but they could return at any moment. One was always wise to keep not only one's current circumstances in mind, but the many ways in which they could change, frequently without warning. This had been a very strange day, so perhaps it was fitting that it should culminate in him sitting here in the Valenti's dark and empty living room, flipping through month-old magazines while a hapless FBI agent tore apart Kyle Valenti's bedroom.

It had started very much the way most of his days began now, with him checking on his various charges. He'd been off by one when he'd told Dee that he had three to keep an eye on; it was really four, that fourth being Kathleen Topolsky, Agent Stevens' token effort to make it look like he was doing something about the shooting at the Crashdown. Agent Topolsky kept regular hours, ate bland food, and with the exception of her brief pursuit of Rath, had done little to pique his interest. Until today, that is, when a lunchtime run found her in the company of two other agents, agents she had apparently summoned. Initially alarmed, Brivari had relaxed when he'd discovered the reason why: Liz Parker had lost her diary, and Topolsky wanted to track it down. Her colleagues were quite rightly put out at being summoned for such a ridiculous reason despite Topolsky's bleatings about straight "A" students and science club treasurers. If this is what she considered a "compelling lead", the hybrids truly had nothing to fear.

Nevertheless, there were now two more FBI agents in Roswell, which added two more individuals he needed to surveil. The hybrids had been left to their own devices as Topolsky had returned to school and Brivari had kept a close eye on the newcomers. To little effect, as it turned out, because they did nothing but purchase some pornography and return to their motel room, not emerging until after dark. While Topolsky had advised checking the Valenti's house, it said something about her reputation that an entire day had been wasted with no effort made to check other obvious places like the Parker residence, the café, etc. The agents clearly didn't place much stock in Topolsky's "compelling lead", and the casual way in which the agent currently in Kyle Valenti's room meandered around only emphasized that. Hopefully they would return to Santa Fe with tales of this useless side trip that would have Stevens pulling his agent even sooner than he normally would have.

Voices outside caught Brivari's ear. Ah. So either the sheriff, or his son, or both had returned. Too bad for the Bureau. Topolsky's dog would return empty-handed, assuming the sheriff didn't nab him, of course, in which case he wouldn't return. Perhaps he should facilitate that by locking a few doors and windows, increasing the chances of the agent being caught. He'd just retreated to a convenient corner from which to watch the festivities when the front doorknob turned, and the door slowly creaked open.

"Kyle? Sheriff Valenti?"

Brivari's eyebrows rose. The voice belonged not to the sheriff or his son, but to Liz Parker, she of the gunshot wound and missing diary, which was undoubtedly why she was here, having likely reached the same conclusion about its whereabouts as Topolsky. She hesitated outside the door, obviously reluctant to enter the dark house....but the figure who barged past her was not.

"Someone should tell the sheriff that deadbolts don't work as well when you leave your door open."

Brivari stiffened. Zan? What in blazes was he doing here? Honestly, he couldn't leave them alone for five minutes without at least one of them doing something reckless.

"Max, we shouldn't be in here," Liz whispered, still hanging back.

"You're right," Zan said, "So let's make this quick. Which way is Kyle's room?"

"Max...."

"Look, we'll get in, we'll grab your journal, and we'll get out," Zan argued. "And in the process, we'll save my life. So which way is Kyle's room?"

A shadow moved down the hall. The agent had overheard their conversation and left the bedroom, which was just as well because the girl had relented and was heading that way. What next? Brivari thought sourly. This behavior was more like something he would expect from Rath, had already observed from Rath when he'd broken into the sheriff's office. Now Zan was doing it too? At this rate he wouldn't have to worry about making a decision on the right time to tell them who they were or bring them home. At this rate, they wouldn't live that long.

The FBI agent hovered near the end of the hallway, and Brivari hovered outside the bedroom as Zan and the girl started going through it, with Zan instructing the girl to check the closet while he rifled under the bed. Both did a thoroughly unthorough job of looking, and both gave up way too easily.

"It's not in here, Max," Liz said. "Look, maybe Kyle doesn't have it."

"You mean, maybe Kyle doesn't have it any more," Zan corrected.

The agent moved abruptly, passing directly in front of Brivari and Kyle's bedroom doorway. Zan came to the door just in time to see the agent dart across the end of the hallway.

"Wait here," Zan ordered the girl.

Don't tell me he's giving chase! Brivari thought in exasperation. Suspecting someone else there should be reason to get out and get out fast, not play Dirty Harry. But before Zan could follow, headlights glared outside, a car engine shut off, and a car door closed. The sheriff's son had arrived home, just in time to restore sanity to the situation.

"Max, it's Kyle," the girl said tightly.

"Come on, let's go," Zan said.

The sheriff's son was entering as Brivari exited the house, just in time to see that Zan and the girl had mercifully given up their chase, vanishing into the night. The last thing they should do was give Valenti even one more reason to suspect either of them. Now to find the agent.....

*Don't bother. He's gone. And satisfyingly frustrated.*

Brivari eyes darted around the area, searching for the infrared signature. He found it about twenty yards away, walking toward him. *Good Lord,* he said in disgust. *This house is like Grand Central Station tonight.*

*I see what you mean,* Jaddo answered. *A Valenti, an FBI agent, a king, and a concubine. Quite a party.*

*I doubt the girl would appreciate you referring to her as a 'concubine',* Brivari noted dryly.

*I really don't care if she'd appreciate it or not. I gather you know about the diary?*

*Topolsky pulled two more agents in to look for it,* Brivari said. *How did you find out about it?*

*My usual contact within the Unit.*

*I wonder what the Unit would think if they knew they had a mole,* Brivari said, shaking his head. *And here I thought they were all chosen for their impeccable discretion.*

*They are,* Jaddo said. *This one believes he's talking to a CIA operative, an agency he'd like an 'in' with.*

*Ah,* Brivari nodded. *Power. That ultimate driver of all things.*

*And it's good friend, money,* Jaddo added. *I pay him well. Not sure the power would be enough.*

*Whatever the impetus, they're wasting their time,* Brivari said. *The sheriff's son doesn't have the girl's diary.*

*If that's true, we'd best find out who does,* Jaddo said. *There's no telling what she wrote in it. Females are so tiresomely chatty.*

*Chatty or no, it's just a schoolgirl's diary. It represents no threat.*

*We can't be sure of that,* Jaddo protested. *And even if you're right, what about the threat of more Unit agents in town? Or the threat represented by your Ward and his latest squeeze rifling through dark houses? What if the sheriff had caught them?*

*He didn't,* Brivari said, biting back a retort that would have clued Jaddo in to what his own Ward had been up to recently. *Let the FBI focus on something useless. It'll give them something to do.*

*And how would you know it's 'useless'?* Jaddo paused, his eyes narrowing. *Do you know where the diary is?*

Wonderful, Brivari groaned inwardly. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, he always, always, found himself between a rock and a hard place with Jaddo. If he said 'no', Jaddo would tear the town apart looking for the diary. If he said 'yes', he'd want to know where it was....and that would be problematic as well.

*It's safe,* Brivari said evasively.

* 'Safe' where?* Jaddo demanded.

*What difference does it make? It's not in the wrong hands. That's all that matters.*

*Like hell it is,* Jaddo retorted. *Tell me where it is, or I'll assume it's in the wrong hands and proceed accordingly.*

Meaning you'll tear the town apart, Brivari thought. Time to bargain. *Fine. But first, remember your promise.*

*I made no promises regarding a diary.*

*No, you made promises regarding your Ward.*

Jaddo's eyes widened. *Do you....do you mean.....*

*Yes,* Brivari sighed. *Rath took it.*



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 15 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello and thank you to everyone reading!





CHAPTER FIFTEEN



October 27, 1999, 10:00 p.m.

Valenti residence



Headlights shone behind Jaddo, illuminating his surprised features. Sheriff Valenti had returned home, unaware of the drama he'd missed by only minutes. He climbed out of his car and entered the house, snapping on lights one after the other.

"Rath took the diary?" Jaddo repeated, as though he couldn't quite believe it. "You know this for a fact?"

"I saw him take it," Brivari answered.

"So....he's worried the girl is a threat," Jaddo said, sounding enormously pleased. "And is acting to confirm or deny that. Excellent! Just outstanding! But....if Rath has the diary, why was Zan here with the girl looking for it? I mean, the girl I could understand, but why would Zan be with her? Is he covering for Rath?"

"Given what I overheard tonight, my impression is that Zan doesn't know where the diary is. He thought the sheriff's son may have it."

Jaddo frowned. "Which means Rath didn't tell him. He's withholding information from his king. That's unacceptable."

"That's understandable," Brivari corrected. "The hybrids have no idea what their relationship is to each other."

"But they know they're likely related because they all have extra-human abilities," Jaddo said. "And they must have some idea of what that could mean for them, or they wouldn't be hunting the diary."

"Having extra-human abilities makes them unique," Brivari allowed, "but doesn't tell them what they are or what's expected of them."

"Or what's hunting them," Jaddo added. "Or why. Maybe that's why they use their abilities so cavalierly, with no thought as to the consequences."

For one heart-stopping moment, Brivari feared that Jaddo knew far more than he should about what their Wards had been up to recently. But Jaddo's gaze was far away, his tone one of uncharacteristic concern. It took him a moment to figure out why.

"What is it, Jaddo? Is Ava acting out too?"

Jaddo's eyes dropped; he looked almost embarrassed, such a foreign emotion for him that Brivari grew alarmed. "What happened?" he demanded sharply. "Tell me."

"Ava has a habit of using her abilities for....recreation," Jaddo answered uncomfortably.

"And what does that mean, exactly?"

"For social purposes," Jaddo clarified. "For social acceptance." He paused. "In public."

"Public?" Brivari echoed. "What, you mean in full view of others?"

"She's developed the habit of using Ouija boards," Jaddo sighed. "You know, that game where humans think they're contacting the spirit world, or some such rot? It involves a board containing the alphabet—"

"I'm familiar with the game," Brivari interrupted. "Get to the 'public' part."

"She makes the pointer move, makes it spell out answers that cause interesting reactions in her social set," Jaddo said, his tone laced with disgust. "She claims everyone writes it off to 'spirits', and my attempts to argue otherwise continually fall on deaf ears." He sank onto the curb, his feet splayed out in the street. "And the worst part is, she knows better. We've avoided the Special Unit all her life. She doesn't realize that, much of that time, it was actually me leading them, not them chasing us, but I've allowed her to think the latter to instill an appropriate sense of respect for the peril she would face were she ever to lower her guard. And then what does she do? She goes and does just that! What if word of these 'spirit sessions' reached the wrong ears? Granted, we're on the move a lot, but she can't change her shape like we can. She would be recognized. Her behavior is childish and downright reckless, and I can't for the life of me figure out how to alter it." He glanced at Brivari, looked away. "Go ahead; say 'I told you so'. This is one case where I believe I have it coming."

Jaddo fell into a frustrated silence as Brivari struggled with a reply. On the one hand, this would indeed be a perfect opportunity to point out the folly of trying to raise a hybrid alone. On the other, Ava's behavior mirrored those of her human-reared counterparts, and he sympathized with Jaddo's frustration because he felt exactly the same way. The desire to share that frustration was literally overpowering. He'd just have to be careful not to share too much along the way.

"Believe me, I'd love to say 'I told you so'," Brivari said at length. "And I still believe you'll have plenty of those coming. But not now."

"I gather you're in a good mood?" Jaddo said dryly.

Brivari sat down beside him on the curb. "Actually, I'm in a lousy mood. And a similar predicament."

"Oh? How?"

"You saw. Zan basically breaking into the sheriff's house. Rath stealing diaries. The way this all started, with Zan doing an inexplicable and totally inexcusable public healing. And then...."

"And then….what?" Jaddo demanded. "What else has he done?"

Brivari hesitated; while he couldn't tell Jaddo about the hybrids breaking into the sheriff's office or their interest in Atherton's key, the grandmother was probably a safe subject. "He tried to heal the girl's grandmother," he answered.

"What was wrong with her?"

"She had a stroke. Basically a brain injury—"

"I know what a stroke is. Did he succeed?"

Brivari shook his head. "She was too far gone. I used a healing stone only minutes before Zan arrived, and there was too little left to work with."

"Did anyone see him?"

"No. Zan and the girl were alone in the room."

"That's a massive improvement over his last effort," Jaddo noted. "At least he's being more careful." He paused, eyeing Brivari closely. "What aren't you telling me?"

Now it was Brivari's turn to look away, wrestling with the impossible thing he'd seen and its implications. He'd pushed it to the back of his mind these past few days, unwilling to face what it could mean. But here, in the dark, sitting on the curb with the one person on the planet who would understand....

"He....did something," Brivari began.

"Did what?" Jaddo asked.

"Something I wasn't expecting. Something impossible."

"If he did it, then obviously it wasn't impossible. And could you be any less specific?"

"I don't know how to describe it," Brivari said crossly.

"Try words."

"God, you're helpful," Brivari muttered. "I must be out of my mind to think that you, of all people—"

"Just tell me what you saw," Jaddo interrupted. "Don't analyze it. Just spit it out."

"Fine. He made the grandmother's....spirit.....materialize."

Jaddo blinked at him. "Her 'spirit'? And here I thought Ava was bad with her Ouija boards."

"I don't know what else to call it!" Brivari exclaimed. "The grandmother was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, and then Zan tried to heal her....just threw what he had at her without really knowing what he was doing....and then all of a sudden, she was standing there in a hospital gown.....but she was still in the bed."

"So....there were two of her?"

"I...well...."

"It's a simple question, Brivari," Jaddo said impatiently. "You know how to count. Were there two of her, or not?"

"Yes, there were two of her," Brivari sighed.

"And was this....copy....visible to anyone but you?"

"Not only visible, but sentient. Zan saw it. Dee saw it. And the girl had a whole conversation with it, and it with her."

"And what happened to it?"

"It disappeared when the body died," Brivari answered.

"So Zan didn't make it disappear?"

"It would seem not. It would seem he only made it appear, although 'only' is perhaps the wrong word in this case."

"I see," Jaddo murmured. He was quiet for a very long time, his hands working in front of him. "What do you think it was?" he asked finally.

"I don't know," Brivari replied. "It would appear to have been some kind of apparition of the woman's consciousness....but how is that possible?"

"One school of thought says it's entirely possible," Jaddo answered. "Isn't that what we transfer when we create hybrid bodies? We know how to make people wake up in entirely new bodies, so it's clear that one's consciousness is something separate, something moveable. Perhaps removable."

"That's different," Brivari argued. "That's going from one body to another, one brain to another. This would appear to be extracting a consciousness and suspending it in....nothing." He stared at the ground, pondering the question which had haunted him for the past several days before deciding to voice it. "What have we done, Jaddo? What have we created? What else can these hybrids do? And what if they're stronger than we are? We always knew they would have abilities we didn't, but we thought we'd be able to rein them in while they learned to use them....but what if we can't? I haven't the faintest idea what Zan did, or the faintest idea how I would have stopped it had that been necessary. I would have wound up doing exactly what he did, throwing power at it without really knowing what I was doing."

"Which is what we did right after we were altered," Jaddo reminded him. "The hybrids are merely going through what we went through, stretching their mental muscles, as it were, learning what they can do and how to control it."

"And if they can't control it? What then? Because I'm not the least bit certain we could control them. Has anything like this ever happened with Ava?"

"Nothing that....odd," Jaddo allowed. "But there's no question she doesn't know her own strength, and I've made quite an effort to keep her in the dark on that subject because I noticed the same thing. She's extremely powerful; I can feel it when she uses it, especially when she mindwarps."

"When she what?"

"Mindwarps," Jaddo repeated. "That's what she calls it. She can insert false images into people's minds like Valeris could."

"And Vilandra can enter other's dreams," Brivari murmured. "Like Urza could."

"And Zan heals," Jaddo added. "You were always best at healing."

"I needed stones. Still do."

"Like you said, they're more powerful," Jaddo reminded him. "And if Ava is any example, also willful, stubborn, reckless, and self-centered."

"Adolescents," Brivari sighed. "They're adolescents. Adolescents we may not be able to subdue." He paused. "Do we really have any business taking them back to Antar?"

"Now? No," Jaddo answered. "Even if they suddenly remembered, they're not ready. And we're not ready because we don't know exactly what we'd be taking back there. But perhaps we should consider when we're going to start the process of telling them who they are. Perhaps one of the best ways to 'rein them in' is to make it clear what's at stake, and what's expected of them. That could be the leash we're looking for."

"Or the whip that breaks their backs," Brivari cautioned. "You do remember what happened the last time we shared?"

"Obviously we'd have to develop a way to control the flow of information. But they're not children any more, Brivari. They're not suffering from immature brains—"

"Looks to me like they are," Brivari muttered.

"I meant physically. Their emotional immaturity is a different subject."

"And if we drop this in their laps, how do we know their 'emotional immaturity' won't cause the whole thing to end in tragedy?"

"We don't," Jaddo sighed. "It's just something to think about. I know I have." He rose from the curb, stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I'm glad to know the journal is in safe hands, and further glad to know you're still on top of things. And it was good to see you. Just on general principles."

"I do believe this is the first time in ages that we've had a conversation which hasn't devolved into an argument," Brivari said dryly. "We sound like a couple of parents on school night."

"Yes, well.... no one ever said being a Warder was easy," Jaddo replied. "Our jobs are just tougher than most. I'll see you the next time the Unit brings us together."

"Let's hope it doesn't," Brivari said soberly. "Oh, and Jaddo?"

"What?"

"What's the camera for?"

Jaddo tucked the camera hanging around his neck further into his jacket. "Just taking a few pictures. For future reference."




******************************************************



Copper Summit, Arizona




"I'm back," Vanessa Whittaker called wearily, kicking the door closed with her foot as she lowered the handle on her suitcase. "Miss me?"

"You're three hours late," Nicholas answered from his seat at the desk in the living room.

"Blame the lovely airline system," Vanessa said, plopping into a chair. "My flight was delayed. As usual."

"I keep telling you to get a private plane."

Vanessa snorted softly. "And how would that look to my blue-collar constituents, who can barely afford their next meal? Don't get me wrong, I'd love one," she went on. "But these ridiculous notions of 'democracy' and 'equality' mean that my hopping a private plane wouldn't go over well with the voting public."

"Screw the voting public," Nicholas muttered.

"I'd love to," Vanessa sighed, wincing as she removed her heels. "But they are the 'voting' public. Which doesn't mean I can't screw them, it just means I have to be a bit more artful about how I do it. Private planes are just a titch too big to hide. I kept telling John that, and he finally listened."

"Just in time for you to kill him and take his seat."

"Win his seat," Vanessa corrected. "I won that seat from the great unwashed human public, and I won it on the strength of the wonderfully frugal image I'd worked so hard to convince him to project."

"Bullshit," Nicholas said flatly. "You 'won' it over his dead body. Which was the plan, if I recall, to build him up so that the all-powerful voting public would throw you a sympathy vote, and it worked beautifully. But don't forget that it only worked because he was removed. They loved him, not you."

"And now they love me," Vanessa said in a steely tone. "I take it that bothers you?"

"What bothers me is that you're not only taking credit for my idea, you're acting like you actually crave the approval of that 'voting public'," Nicholas said sharply. "So you fulfilled your mission. Good for you, but enough crowing, already. You have a new mission, one I haven't heard nearly enough about because you never call. Report."

Vanessa's lips pursed. "You didn't used to talk to me like this."

"Yeah, well, you didn't used to go around boinking humans."

"Is that what this is about?" Vanessa demanded. "You're the one who insisted I marry John. What did you expect me to do?"

"I expected you to not like it so much," Nicholas retorted. "Or to add his aides and security detail to the list."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, they're now my aides and security detail," Vanessa said impatiently. "Most of which are men. And the best way—sometimes the only way—to control a human male is to 'boink' him. They're like puppies; show them a little tail, and they wag their own."

"Do you have any progress to report, or don't you?" Nicholas demanded.

Vanessa eyed him beadily. "Yes. He's close. Really close."

" 'Close'?" Nicholas echoed. " 'Close' only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. What the hell does 'close' mean?"

"It means that Pierce is a harder mark than John was," Vanessa said. "This one's....cold. Hard. Ruthless. You'd like him."

"I'm in love already," Nicholas deadpanned. "Stop stalling and answer my question."

"Would you please stop talking to me like I'm—"

"What?" Nicholas broke in. "A soldier? Check. My subordinate? Check. A subject of the crown? Triple check. So stop bitching, and report."

Vanessa's eyes flashed angrily. "I think he's Special Unit; I'm more convinced of that now than ever. But—"

"You 'think'?" Nicholas interrupted. "What, you mean you still don't know?"

"The Special Unit is the blackest of black ops in this country!" Vanessa exclaimed. "So, no, I don't know!"

"You said he was Summers' right-hand man—"

"I said I thought he was Summers' right-hand man," Vanessa corrected. "We weren't even sure about Summers until a Warder executed him. It's easy to find the Unit's state branches, but nearly impossible to find the hierarchy, and that's the whole point. If they're ever outed, everyone will think it's Washington pulling the strings when it's really a few men in a room who can vanish at the first sign of trouble, leaving the Bureau and the rest of the Unit swinging in the breeze."

"So is he Summers' toady, or isn't he?" Nicholas demanded.

Vanessa climbed out of her chair and poured herself a glass of wine from a bottle in a nearby cabinet. "He's Unit; I'm nearly certain of that. And I thought he was Summers' protégé....but now I'm not so sure."

"Why not?"

"Because he should be in charge now. Everything we know about the Unit shows that it functions like a monarchy, with power concentrated in one man and handed down to his hand-picked successor. But that means Pierce should have been anointed last spring, and he hasn't been. On the other hand, he's pissed off because he hasn't been given something he believes is rightfully his."

"Which could very well be the position of Unit head," Nicholas said.

"Which would mean that the Bureau at large is intervening," Vanessa noted. "Which is bad news for us." She paused. "I still say we're going about this the wrong way."

"Don't start that again."

"Counting on humans to lead us anywhere is no different than bumbling around in the dark," Vanessa argued. "They don't know what the hell they're doing. We should be hunting the resistance."

"I said, don't start," Nicholas warned.

"The resistance knows where some of the hybrids are," Vanessa pressed. "There must be dozens of Vilandra hybrids, and they're interchangeable; all we need is one. That plus the Granolith, and we're out of here."

"I have no idea where the resistance is, and I don't care," Nicholas said flatly.

"You mean you don't want to be reminded of how they were right on top of you with you none the wiser," Vanessa retorted. "Get over it, Nicholas. You were had. It happens."

The lights flickered abruptly. Pictures on the wall started swinging on their nails, furniture began to rattle....and Vanessa's glass burst into a shower of fragments that covered her stockinged feet and splattered all over her suit. "Not to me!" Nicholas exploded, standing up so fast that his desk chair toppled over. "I don't get 'had'! Nobody gets the better of me. Nobody!"

"Am I.....interrupting something?"

Vanessa rolled her eyes when she spied Greer hovering in the doorway, trying to pretend he'd just arrived. "Yes, you're interrupting something," Nicholas said furiously. "You're interrupting me telling her to get on with the orders I gave her, and stop trying to do my job!"

Nicholas stormed out of the room, stomping up the stairs and slamming doors just in case anyone hadn't noticed how angry he was. "Is it absolutely necessary for you to provoke him like that?" Greer asked.

"Yes, it's absolutely necessary for me to provoke him like that. Is it absolutely necessary for him to show off like that?"

"He had all of our husks altered—"

"But none more so than his own," Vanessa said darkly. "We can't do a fraction of what he can."

"Well, he is the commander," Greer reminded her.

"Then it's time he started acting like one," Vanessa snapped. "Oh, don't look at me like that! And don't pretend you weren't listening. You know as well as I do that following the humans around is like the blind leading the blind."

"And you know as well as I do that we have no idea where the resistance has holed up. So looking for them doesn't net us a whole lot either."

"We could find them if we really looked," Vanessa insisted. "He doesn't want to find them, which makes absolutely no sense because we know they were given hybrids. Give me a day with one of those traitors, and I'd get it out of them—"

"Don't you think I've been looking?" Greer interrupted. "He may not be, but I have been. There hasn't been so much as a whisper of any resistance operative for the past forty years. Virtually the only leads we have come from the handprints left by the Warders—"

"Which are clearly designed to lead whoever finds them in circles," Vanessa finished. "Jaddo's work, no doubt. That's not Brivari's style. I don't expect the humans to realize that, but we should know better."

"We do know better," Greer argued. "We know something's not right. The hybrids should have appeared years ago. Where the hell are they?"

Vanessa was quiet for a moment, stepping gingerly around the glass. "I don't know," she said finally. "But I need look no further than Summers' dead body to know that their Warders are still here. And if the Warders are still here, the Royal Four are still here, which means the Granolith is still here. I still say all we need is a Vilandra hybrid and the Granolith."

"But the royal mark—"

"Forget the mark," Vanessa interrupted. "Forget Zan. We don't need him. Khivar has ruled for decades now with no mark, no crown. Give him his sweetie back, something to tie him to the old regime, and he'll be just fine. And we'll be off this rock before these husks give out," she added, scratching at her neck. "It would be the height of irony for us to have finally killed Zan only to have him retaliate simply by waiting long enough for us to explode."

"The harvest isn't far off," Greer reminded her. "We'll make it."

"Barely," Vanessa corrected. "And here we put off adapting husk technology to this backward rock because some of us thought the hybrids would show up long before we'd need new ones. Add that to the list of things we got wrong."

She bent over the pile of glass, holding her hand over it; the shards began to shiver, then skitter toward each other. A few seconds later, she lifted the glass in her hand, albeit minus the wine.

"But you should listen to me, Greer. All his titles and shiny new powers won't help Nicholas on this one because he's too close to it. Chase the Special Unit, we'll get nowhere. Chase the resistance, we'll get somewhere. I'm right....and you know it."

"Mmm," Greer murmured, looking at the repaired glass. "Now who's showing off?"




*****************************************************



Two weeks later


November 11, 1999, 4 a.m.

Roswell Air Field




"All set, Mr. Langley," the pilot called back.

"Thank you, Bruce," Brivari said, unbuckling his seat belt.

"Bet it was nice to get home for a few days," Bruce went on. "Will we be seeing you again soon?"

"I'll be busy here for some time yet," Brivari answered. "I'll call you when I need you."

It was still dark as he descended the small staircase rolled up to the plane. Private aviation was a vastly more comfortable way to travel than the usual cattle car variety, and his position afforded him the means to charter private flights, private cars, private everything. As a Covari among humans, privacy was king.

"Your car, sir," the helpful attendant smiled, holding the door open. "Are you sure you don't require a driver?"

"I'm sure," Brivari replied, climbing in. "Thank you."

Roswell's airport was located south of town, and he pulled out onto the main road, deserted at this hour. After the diary debacle had been resolved when Rath returned it, he'd taken the risk of returning to LA for a few days to mop up the mountain of work which had accumulated in his absence. Able assistants and cell phones had certainly helped, but there was no denying that being away for weeks had been trying, in more ways than one. He'd forgotten how exhausting Warding could be, having not had to engage like this since the hybrids had emerged. It had almost been a relief to return to the comparatively piddling concerns of Hollywood, like tiffs over dressing room footage, top billing, and residuals. He'd insisted Dee report in daily even if nothing happened, and mercifully, nothing had. Now to check up on his charges, all of whom should be tucked in bed at this hour and easily located.

Only they weren't. Rath wasn't home, not surprising given the inebriated lump in the room at the other end of his trailer which was snoring loud enough to wake the dead. He often slept at Zan's, but none of them were at Zan's house either. Alarmed now, Brivari returned to the main part of town and had a sudden thought when he spied the Crashdown. Five minutes later he emerged from Liz Parker's bedroom window onto her balcony—she was gone too. Was this good news, or bad news? Perhaps he was overreacting? Perhaps there was some kind of school or social event Dee had been unaware of? The sheriff, he thought. A social event would likely include his son.

And that son was home, asleep in the bedroom he had no idea had been recently ransacked by three different people....but his father wasn't. Brivari headed for the station, hoping the sheriff had just gone to work early.

"....let the sheriff know when he gets back," the lone deputy at the front desk said into the phone. "No, I can't wake him; he's out on a call." Pause. "Later on today, I expect. Right. I'll leave him a note."

Brivari slid like a ghost through the station, climbing the stairs to the second floor and Valenti's office. Valenti was gone too? That couldn't be good. He cautioned himself to wait, to not jump to conclusions, but one glance at the desk told him he was in trouble.

The desk was a mess, the sheriff having apparently left in a hurry. Square in the middle of it was a copy of one of Atherton's books, Among Us, a photograph of Atherton's body and a printout from a UFO Hunters' website about Atherton, showing both a picture of the odd little house he'd been building and James.....and James wasn't in disguise. He vaguely remembered James saying something about having to convince his publisher to go along with the dual identity scheme and suppress any previous photos he'd had taken; this one must have slipped through after his death. The text mostly concerned Among Us, that ridiculous tome which had nonetheless netted him enough cash to do the real alien hunting on the side. And it worked, Brivari thought wistfully, tracing his friend's name with his finger. Atherton had found his alien, and, for a while, Brivari had found a confidante, something he'd been craving after Quanah's death. He smiled faintly, recalling James' ever cheerful demeanor, their frequent discussions about human behavior, his earnest lessons on how Brivari should treat Audrey, and his endless eagerness to help, the very same eagerness which had been his downfall. Atherton had been his last friend. Much as he hated to admit it, Jaddo had been right; it was simply too risky to confide in anyone, too risky for him, and too risky for the confidante. Yet another reason to hold his privacy so dear.

But this was no time for a walk down memory lane. The real questions were, what was this information doing in Valenti's office, and where exactly had he gotten these printouts? The website printouts weren't originals, but copies. Who had the originals? Who else was investigating James?

Fifteen minutes later, he had his answer. Topolsky, Brivari thought grimly, finding her absent from both her apartment and her office. Truly alarmed now, he rifled through both. Her last correspondence with the Unit was an e-mail saying she was "waiting for them to slip up", something which looked increasingly like it had happened. Her office at the school was largely uninformative, although it appeared she'd been encouraging other teachers to engage in learning exercises which would allow her to pry without appearing to be prying, including one in History where Vilandra was paired with the Parker girl and Rath with her aggressive friend. There was no evidence of anything dire having happened, but the absence of so many at the same time was plenty of reason to worry. Where to now? Atherton's home in Marathon was several hours away by car, and he'd only managed to link Valenti to it. Granted, Rath had James' key, which he seemed to always carry with him, but so far he hadn't....

Brivari stopped in the school hallway, gazing through a window. A moment later he'd flung it open, striding inside toward a painting which had been facing the hallway and which bore a striking resemblance to Atherton's odd domed house. On the back was scrawled "Guerin", along with a large red "A".

He knows, Brivari thought with mounting panic. Somehow, some way, Rath had made the leap from the key to Atherton, just like Valenti had made the same leap with the body. Whether Valenti was following them or they were following Valenti, he couldn't tell, but he was willing to bet Topolsky wasn't far behind. He pulled out his phone, pacing impatiently until someone picked up.

"Bruce? Are you still at the airport? Good. Listen, I'm going to need a helicopter in ten minutes."



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 16 next Sunday.

[Kathy W 2200]

Hello to everyone reading!





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


November 11, 1999, 4 a.m.

Atherton residence, Marathon, Texas



Dust.

The first thing Valenti noticed was dust, the acrid smelling kind full of age and decay. It filled his nostrils, overwhelmed his senses, and he tried to move away from it and failed. Something was moving, however, something huge, and black, and menacing, and far more worrisome than the dust.....

Several dust- and anxiety-filled seconds later, he finally managed to focus. The huge black thing was an ant, skittering through piles of dust on a wooden floor which was pressing uncomfortably into his cheek. He blinked a few times, watching the ant crawl up and over his outstretched hand, trying to figure out how in blazes he'd gotten here, wherever it turned out "here" was.

ClickClick

Valenti lifted his head slightly, looked toward the sound. There was a blonde woman in a leather jacket and fashion forward boots using lock picks on a stone wall, and he momentarily dismissed this ridiculous apparition as just that. Why would a nattily dressed blonde be trying to unlock a stone wall? Not that blondes and lock picks couldn't go together, but it usually involved something kinky, not real estate. He must be dreaming, either that or delusional. If the former, he had to admit this was an incredibly vivid dream, complete with a pounding headache reminiscent of college pledge week; if the latter, that begged the question of what had happened to leave him in such a state that he'd be having utilitarian visions of blondes with lock picks. He tried to remember the very last thing he'd been doing and came up with nothing more than driving, which wasn't helpful considering that he spent a large portion of every day doing just that. But he seemed to remember having been driving at night, which was an interesting twist, and being very anxious to get somewhere, to catch up with someone....

ClickClick

The woman turned slightly, making her face visible for the first time, and in a rush resembling a tidal wave, it all came back. Jesus, but this just kept twisting and twisting. Never a dull moment in Roswell. Valenti quickly lowered his head, feigning an unconsciousness that threatened to return anyway what with that pounding headache, what he'd just remembered, and what he'd just learned. She thought he was unconscious and hadn't seen her, and he'd have to let her keep thinking that, at least until he figured out why Kathleen Topolsky, guidance counselor at Roswell High, had just wound up in the same obscure location as he was, beaned him on the head, and was now prowling around with a flashlight and a set of lock picks. He knew modern guidance counselors had larger job descriptions than when he'd been in high school, but this one was really branching out.

A loud noise to his right startled him; something brushed his right hand, followed by a draft of stale air. Fortunately Topolsky didn't catch the twitch he'd been unable to stifle in the split second it took her head to swing around. He couldn't see what had made the sound, but whatever it was had kicked up quite a bit of dust, and it was all he could do to remain motionless while Topolsky inspected whatever it was that threatened to make him sneeze.

A moment later he heard footsteps, descending footsteps. Topolsky's fashionable boots were treading down what sounded like a set of wooden stairs, growing fainter and fainter. He listened hard, waiting until her footsteps left wood and touched stone before he dared utter that sneeze, and even then, he had to stifle it. He swiped at his nose, shaking the power-walking ant off his hand before trying to get as much of the dust out as possible, trying to move as little as possible because too much movement would bring her right back up here. He could move his head silently, though, and swinging it to the right revealed what had fascinated Roswell High's latest employee—a trapdoor had opened in the floor only inches away. Thank goodness he'd had the foresight to fall where he had, or it might have hoisted him into the air, something he was pretty certain he wouldn't have been able to ignore. He could hear her treading softly below, faint footsteps barely audible, and a minute later, an engine roared to life somewhere outside. They got away, Valenti thought, impressed in spite of himself. He would have dearly loved to run to the door to see what was going on, but he couldn't risk moving before Topolsky left and wasn't sure he could move well enough to be effective anyway. Until he had full possession of his faculties, it wasn't safe to budge, and while he was busy not budging, he might learn more about what he was up against.

Unfortunately, the list of what he was up against seemed to be growing. Last night, he'd thought he was up against a bunch of teenaged kids, one of whom might be something he'd never wanted to admit existed, and the odds of that being the case had just increased given their presence here. Whoever James Atherton was, two things were certain: He had odd taste in houses, and he was an alien hunter. There it was again, that forbidden word, the one word which could send his mother into fits and his father into sullen silence: Aliens. What Max Evans had allegedly done to Liz Parker had been unexplainable, and now Evans and his merry band were road-tripping hundreds of miles away to investigate an alien hunter. That couldn't be a coincidence. And neither is my road trip, he added guiltily. He'd had a good long while to think about that on the road to Marathon last night, that he was doing exactly what his father had done for years—taken off in search of aliens. He vividly remembered the way it had started, with his father disappearing in the family car for hours at a time and his mother's resulting accusations when she noticed the mileage. Their arguments had been long and loud, and being only eight years-old, he hadn't really understood them, but a few things were clear; his father was keeping things from his mother, his mother was incredibly angry about that, and with the hours his father spent at work and doing whatever secret things he was doing, they rarely saw him anymore. A few weeks ago, he would have sworn up and down that he would never be foolish enough to repeat his father's mistakes, and yet here he was, face down on the floor of a deserted house which had belonged to a man who had hunted aliens, chasing someone who might be what that man had been looking for and inexplicably attacked by a high school guidance counselor, all while his own child had been left alone. At this rate, he'd not only emulate his father, he'd top him.

Faint tones came from below, followed by an expression of disgust. Don't imagine you'd get good reception down there, Valenti thought, quickly turning his head the other way as Topolsky's footsteps sounded on the stairs. Hopefully she'd make her call where he could eavesdrop.

Boots trod the floor near his head, and a moment later he heard the trap door lowered into place. It went unwillingly, its creaking and groaning accompanied by muttered expletives from Topolsky, who was no doubt worried the noise would awaken him. He was careful not to move a muscle, not then or when she made a circuit of his body, and was rewarded when the musical tones sounded again.

"73290," Topolsky said softly, sounding like she'd moved just outside the door, but was still audible. "I've got something big here, really big. They led me right to it." Pause. "No, they got away. No!" she added quickly. "We can't move in right away. I've got....something to finish up. I'm aware of Bureau protocol," she added in a sharper tone. "It'll all be in my report. We just need to wait until the area is completely clear before we move in. Make sure you're ready. I'll be in touch."

A phone clicked closed, and Valenti allowed himself a faint smile. Bureau. It appeared Agent Stevens wasn't as uninterested as he'd let on. The lovely Miss Topolsky would no doubt be in some hot water with her superiors if they learned why she was waiting to claim their prize, on the floor of which lay an inconvenient sheriff.

Footsteps crunched away outside, and Valenti waited at least another five minutes before pushing himself stiffly into a sitting position, gingerly touching the back of his head. There was little blood, which was good, but not conclusive, and he wasn't seeing double or feeling sleepy, which was better. The headache was still a bitch, though, and it hurt to move his head, so he stayed on the floor, considering the two main possibilities here: Either Topolsky was waiting for him to regain consciousness so she could take him into custody, or she was hoping he'd wake up, find nothing and no one, and be on his way. Based on her phone conversation, he was guessing the latter, and as that suited him better, he was happy to oblige.

After several minutes had passed with nothing dire happening, Valenti climbed carefully to his feet, bracing himself against the wall when he got there. His head was still throbbing, but not so badly that he was going to pass up the chance to investigate, and besides, it would have looked weird if he hadn't. He took his sweet time wandering the house, which curiously appeared to be both unfinished and ransacked. The place had something of a reputation judging by the reaction of the locals at a diner he'd passed and who had promptly pointed him right to it, one even drawing a map on the back of a napkin. It was clear he was hardly the first to come looking, and there appeared to be nothing of interest here now, at least not on the main floor. The trap door Topolsky had closed was now invisible, and whatever mechanism had unlocked it had been covered, the stone wall now appearing to be just a stone wall.

Certain he was being watched and unable to investigate further without giving away that he'd seen things he shouldn't have, Valenti finally exited the house. His car was the only vehicle outside, but he knew she was there somewhere. The odd dome had been built behind a conventional house, and he tried the door, but it was locked. Normally that wouldn't have stopped him, but the feds were watching. Best to be on his way while he had the chance. It was always better to live to fight another day, especially when one had just discovered one was fighting on two fronts instead of one.




*****************************************************




C'mon, c'mon, Topolsky thought impatiently, checking her watch for the second time in five minutes from her position behind the house which stood in front of the dome. Here she was, about to get credit for what could very well be one of the biggest discoveries in the history of the Special Unit, and she couldn't get to it because Roswell's sheriff was stretched out on the floor right beside the secret door she needed to go through. What in blazes was Valenti doing here, anyway? He should be back in his little town doing his little town's work, not out here prowling around her territory. Maybe getting conked out would convince him not to poke his nose—or his head—where it didn't belong, although given his father's track record, that wasn't likely. Valenti's had been annoying the Unit since its inception, and it appeared this particular Valenti was keeping the family tradition alive.

Topolsky checked her watch again; nearly an hour had gone by with no sign of the sheriff, and she was beginning to worry that perhaps she'd hit him harder than she thought. But I had to, she thought defensively. The last thing she needed was for Valenti to find the kids here, or worse yet, to find her here. Thankfully she'd had the foresight to park her car about a quarter mile north, meaning he hadn't seen it. He must have seen the jeep, but when he woke up and found no vehicles and no people, he wouldn't be able to prove a thing.

When she'd first rounded the corner and seen the empty jeep parked outside, Topolsky hadn't expected there would be anything to disprove. She knew this place; this was the residence of James Atherton, long revered as a UFO hunter and author of several ridiculous books on the subject. Ridiculous, yes....except when one factored in that his body had turned up in 1959 bearing a silver handprint. Atherton had been murdered by the very creatures he'd sought, and the body removed from the custody of Roswell's then sheriff, James Valenti Sr. It had taken the Unit a few years and a good deal of investigation to identify the body, but once they had, they'd performed a thorough search of both of Atherton's houses, finding little more than notes for future books, each more ridiculous than the last. Nevertheless, Atherton's memory had been kept alive by dedicated UFO hunters, and the Unit had been content to let his cult continue. It always helped to know what the faithful were looking at, and to have them looking at something you knew would get them nowhere.

Or thought would get them nowhere. Why had Max Evans chosen to come here, of all places? Had he killed Atherton? Was he returning to the scene of the crime? Whatever the reason, he'd left Roswell in a big hurry if Agent Butler's report was accurate, and the flat tire he'd subsequently experienced while tailing them was way too convenient. She'd already been on the road when Butler had reported he'd been sidelined, and she'd caught up with the kids just as they'd been leaving a seedy roadside motel, careful to keep her distance. She'd waited until they'd entered the dome before creeping in herself, but she'd arrived too late; they'd disappeared, and she'd only just begun to look for them when the sheriff had turned up. The resulting noise is likely what had alerted them that they were not alone and made them run. Damn you, Valenti, Topolsky thought darkly. If not for him, she would have found that keyhole, opened the trap door, and been down those stairs before they'd had a chance to crawl out that pipe and drive off. She'd missed them by mere minutes, even seconds, maybe, and she was thoroughly pissed about that. Given the way they'd left town, it was quite possible that even their parents didn't know where they were; this would have been the perfect place to apprehend all of them, far from home and anyone who could have intervened. Anyone but a Valenti, of course. History had proven that Valenti's always intervened.

A sound made her ears prick. Valenti had finally emerged from the dome, looking a bit worse for wear. She waited while he inspected the exterior, tried the door on the main house, and wandered around the property, looking in windows but not making any attempt to enter, probably because he didn't have a warrant. Silly man. The Unit had learned a long time ago that nothing got done when one slavishly followed the rules. But she certainly wouldn't have wanted to wait around for him to break into the house and nose around, and she was so grateful when he finally gave up and drove away that she practically sprinted toward the dome.

Light filtered through the doorway as she cautiously stepped back inside. Almost afraid that the trap door wouldn't open again, she was relieved when it did. She'd been on such a tear to catch the kids on her first pass through here that she'd managed to do nothing more than glance at everything, but she'd gotten the gist of it; there were piles of information down there, and judging from some of the maps she'd seen on the wall, this hidden room no one had ever found wasn't where Atherton had kept his recipes. This was a huge discovery, and she'd made it. She'd be sure to point that out to her superiors first chance she got.

BrringBrrring

Damn it! Topolsky thought fiercely. She was on the third step down; a few more, and she probably would have been out of range. Swearing under her breath, she pulled out her phone to check the caller...and flipped it open.

"Agent Stevens," Topolsky said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Good, morning, Agent Topolsky," Stevens replied in a clipped tone. "I hear you have something for me?"

"Yes, sir. I'm at James Atherton's residence in Marathon, Texas, and—"

"James Atherton?"

"Yes, sir. I know we've searched this place six ways to Sunday, but it turned out his stash was in a hidden room beneath the floor of the dome which stands behind his main residence."

"And you learned this....how?"

"I followed the suspects, sir. They all left town last night in a big hurry, and I had them tailed."

"So you have them in custody?"

Topolsky hesitated. "No, sir. They got away."

"They got away," Stevens repeated coldly.

"But I almost had them," Topolsky said quickly.

" 'Almost' had them, agent? The three of you 'almost' had them?"

"I'm by myself, sir."

"Where's Agent Butler?"

"He was tailing the suspect when he developed a flat tire. He thinks the suspect did it."

"And Agent Moss?"

"I left him back in Roswell in case they returned while I set out after them."

"Wonderful," Stevens said acidly. "I have three agents in Roswell, none of whom managed to apprehend a group of kids."

"Sir, with all due respect, we're spread pretty thin," Topolsky protested. "If you want better results, I need more people."

"I gave you people," Stevens said sharply. "Two more people, neither of whom were present for this momentous occasion. And it would seem to me, Agent Topolsky, that all you really needed was your gun. I'd wager that would have caught the attention of a bunch of teenagers."

"It probably would have if I'd managed to get close enough," Topolsky said. "But I was interrupted by Sheriff Valenti, and while I was....making certain he didn't see me, the suspects got away."

"Valenti? As in Roswell's Sheriff Valenti?"

Topolsky felt her cheeks burning. "Yes, sir."

"What in the name of God was Valenti doing there at the same time you were? Did he follow you?"

"No! He.....I.....I don't know how he got here, sir, but I imagine he was doing the same thing I was—pursuing the suspects," Topolsky answered, beginning to perspire. "He's the one who called them in, so it stands to reason he's keeping an eye on them as well."

"So let me get this straight," Stevens said in a tone so calm, it was frightening. "You followed the suspects to James Atherton's residence, watched them enter a previously undiscovered hidden room, were interrupted by Sheriff Valenti, and lost the suspects. That about sum it up?"

"The sheriff didn't see me, sir," Topolsky added quickly. "I'm certain of it."

"Yes, well, thank God for that," Stevens deadpanned. "Did the suspects see you?"

"No, sir."

"Did they take anything from the premises?"

"I.....I don't know, sir."

"You 'don't know', agent?"

"I...I never actually saw them," Topolsky said, flustered. "I saw the suspect's jeep parked outside, and I saw it driving away, but....look, sir, we did locate Atherton's stash," she went on. "And the fact that the suspect is the one who led us here is very telling. I was just about to go back down and check it out—"

"Negative. You're to return to Roswell immediately and prepare a detailed report on this incident. Call the school, and tell them you're sick and taking the day off."

"If I'm taking the day off, there's no reason I can't check this out before going back," Topolsky said desperately. "It would just take—"

"Agent Topolsky, do you or do you not understand the instructions I just gave you?"

Topolsky felt her throat constrict. "Yes, sir."

"Repeat them. Repeat my instructions."

Topolsky closed her eyes briefly. "I'm to return to Roswell, call in sick, and prepare a detailed report."

"You're forgetting something, agent: 'Immediately'. You're to return to Roswell 'immediately'. I'm not the least bit persuaded that you have what it takes to evaluate whatever you've found, so you will leave it alone."

"Sir, that's not fair—"

" 'Fair'?" Stevens echoed. "Since when does 'fair' have anything to do with being an agent in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, never mind its Special Unit?"

"I found it!" Topolsky said in exasperation. "I should at least be able to—"

"No, agent, you didn't find it. They found it. All you managed to do was tail them, something a first year trainee should be able to pull off, and then lose them. So from where I'm sitting, your track record isn't stellar, and I don't want you anywhere near Atherton's treasure chest. Go home. Write that report. Have I made myself clear?"

Topolsky hesitated, resisting the urge to shout into the phone. "Yes, sir."

"Good girl. I want it by noon."

The line went dead. Don't call me 'girl', Topolsky thought furiously as she thwacked her phone shut and stared helplessly into the room below. Stevens was going to take the credit for this, she just knew it. He was sitting there in Santa Fe with his ass in his cushy little chair while she was out here with her ass on the line, but he'd take the credit for this and not even let her see it. One of the biggest discoveries the Unit had made in ages, and he was going to swipe it right out from under her. Whether this was punishment for not nabbing the kids, pure greed, or both, she couldn't say, and it didn't matter. She'd effectively been dismissed, and she stared longingly down the stairs. It would only take a few minutes, and she could say she'd been delayed on the way back......





****************************************************




Leave, Brivari thought as Topolsky hesitated on the steps to James's hideaway, clearly on the verge of disobeying a direct order. He'd spotted Zan's vehicle from the air on the way here, so he knew the hybrids were long gone, and he'd heard enough to know they were not being pursued....at the moment. But that wouldn't last long, especially now that the Unit's prime suspect had lead them directly to the home of a known alien hunter who had died by alien hands. And so he fretted as she dithered, waiting impatiently and invisibly in an adjacent room as the drama continued to unfold in James's odd little house. If it didn't start unfolding faster, he would have to make it unfold because he had some mopping up to do here before he could return to town.

Topolsky continued to vacillate, gazing hungrily down into James's underground room the way a starving person stares at food. Under different circumstances, it might be interesting to watch how the inept spiraled downward, making mistake after mistake, although he had to admit this one's mistakes had served him well. She had come alone. She had apparently assaulted the sheriff, whom Brivari had found face down on the floor when he'd arrived, and her doing so seemed to have alerted the hybrids to their peril and given them time to escape. Happy mistakes, all, but they had a downside: Her conversation had made it clear she was in trouble, which meant she was in danger of being replaced…and that could be problematic. Topolsky was green, so inexperienced that she was easy to work around; any replacement would not be and would prove a bigger threat, quite possibly a threat which required removal. However slow Agent Stevens had been to respond to the shooting at the Crashdown, however unwilling to believe it real, even he would not be able to overlook a missing or dead agent. Now that the lovely Miss Topolsky had shot herself in the proverbial foot, he was in the ironic position of mentally searching for ways to improve her reputation. It was now in his best interests to keep her on the job.

Footsteps sounded in the other room, and Brivari allowed himself a moment of relief. Topolsky had apparently seen sense and decided to trot home and write her report. But she was clearly still harboring a grudge, as evidenced by the grim smile she wore as she carefully closed the trap door, replaced the rock that hid the keyhole which opened it, and used her lock picks to lock the door behind her on the way out. He hadn't heard her mention how to access the Unit's new treasure, so Steven's men would have to consult her when they got here and found nothing but a decaying, empty building. It would be a sweet moment for her, and he was inclined to let her have it. He waited until he heard the sound of her car driving away before passing a hand over the trap door. He had no need of a key.

The staircase was covered with dust only recently disturbed by several pairs of feet. The room below was just as he'd left it forty years ago when he and Jaddo had searched it after James's death. They had found nothing of value; for all his overzealous enthusiasm, Atherton had been no fool and had not kept any written records of his success in finding what he was looking for. Brivari had been content to leave it, reasonably certain that no one would ever find it unless the house was dismantled, and he'd been half right; no human had found it. In a spectacular burst of irony, it had been their own hybrids who had led the Special Unit right to James's door.

Footprints dotted the dust on the floor of the room below, including a set indicating Agent Topolsky's heels. They led in all directions, but a hasty muddle rushed toward the large drainpipe James had been working on as an escape hatch from this stop on what he had dubbed the "alien underground railroad". Yet another irony, that a friend he'd had need to dispose of had saved them once again. It served its purpose, James, Brivari thought sadly. You'd be so pleased.

But he digressed. The only thing of value in this place had been left not by James, but by himself. Replacing the oil paper over the drainpipe, he headed straight for Vilandra's necklace, which he'd left here after removing it from the dead body of the man he'd given it to as a gift.

It was gone.

Brivari stood stock still, examining the footprints in the dust. Five minutes later he was back outside and on his phone, having carefully left the house just the way Topolsky had.

"ETA five minutes."

"Where to, sir?" Bruce asked.

"Back to Roswell, ASAP."

Brivari snapped his phone shut and took one last look at the dome before he left. It was hard to tell with all the overlapping footprints, but if his analysis was correct, the necklace wasn't with Topolsky.

It was back in the hands of its original owner.




*****************************************************




1 p.m.

Topolsky residence, Roswell





Inhale, two, three, four.

Exhale, two, three, four.

Kathleen Topolsky felt the tension drain from her body as she moved through the practiced poses of Tai Chi, her favorite form of relaxation. Yoga was fine, if a bit trendy, and being a federal agent meant plenty of strength and cardio training, including weightlifting, kickboxing, and the required classes in self defense. Tai Chi was positively somnolent by comparison, being slow, deliberate, measured. Dismissed by many in the Bureau as "too soft", it was nevertheless a true martial art whose strength came from the mental discipline needed to achieve each form with fluidity, grace, and the appropriate amount of speed. Self control was the goal of Tai Chi, control of one's body, breathing, and mind. Recent events having left her feeling horribly out of control, it was good to have complete control over something.

The phone rang. Topolsky forced herself to complete her form before answering even though what she really wanted to do was lunge for it. Agent Stevens must have read her extremely detailed report by now and concluded that she had done everything possible under the circumstances. Since he'd insisted she call in sick, she had the rest of the day at her disposal. Perhaps he'd let her return to Marathon and finally get a look at what she'd found.

"Hello?" she said, hooking her earpiece over her ear.

"Hello," a male voice responded.

"73290."

"Please hold for Agent Stevens," the voice instructed.

Seconds ticked by, and the longer she waited, the more she felt all that tension seeping right back in. She was halfway through another form when Stevens answered.

"Agent Topolsky," he said, his voice flat, emotionless, unreadable. "You've had a busy day."

"Yes, sir," Topolsky answered. "Did you find the secret room?"

"We did, although I understand my agents had to call you for instructions on how to find it."

Topolsky allowed herself a small smile. "I couldn't very well leave it open, sir. What if the suspects had returned?"

"Yes, well, we don't know what the suspects are doing, do we, because no one seems to be able to keep them in their sights for longer than five minutes."

"But we do know what the suspects are doing," Topolsky answered. " They're in school. I checked—"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. What kind of agent hits the road without a spare tire?"

"Agent Butler has a rental car, sir. It's the rental agency's fault for not outfitting their vehicle properly."

"Wrong, agent. It's Agent Butler's fault for not checking his vehicle properly, and I'll be sure to make that clear to him when I speak with him."

"Yes, sir," Topolsky said, with a sudden pang of sympathy for Butler, who would no doubt be getting an earful, if he hadn't already. Still, it was only natural for Stevens to be tweaked that they had missed opportunities here, and she was just going to have to let him vent in order to get what she wanted. She began another form, one of her very favorites, as she prepared to argue her case.

"Sir, now that you have my report, I'd like to return to Marathon to inspect—"

"No need. We already have."

"And?" Topolsky said eagerly. "What was down there?"

"What was down there? What was down there, agent, was nothing. Heaps and heaps of nothing. James Atherton was a crackpot, and what was down there was bits and pieces he'd collected over the years that tell us absolutely nothing we didn't already know, with the possible exception of who it was that was leaking classified information all the way back in the forties."

"Atherton may have been a crackpot, sir, but the aliens didn't think so. Why would they have killed him if he was no threat?"

"How the hell should I know?" Stevens said. "I'm not an alien psychologist. Maybe Atherton stumbled onto something by accident. Once in a while, even a blind hog finds an acorn. The point is there was nothing of interest there other than the fact that the suspects chose to go there."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Topolsky said, trying hard to mask her disappointment.

"So am I. And now I have some questions for you, agent. Did you touch anything when you were there?"

"No, sir," Topolsky said quickly.

"But you were down there?"

"Only to pursue the suspects. I walked straight through to the drainpipe, and when I realized they were gone, I walked straight back. I didn't touch anything."

"Interesting. Because our agents found papers recently disturbed, knocked on the floor, left in a heap, things like that. And what do you think that means, agent?"

Topolsky's eyes closed briefly. "That the suspects took something with them."

"The same conclusion I reached. And might the suspects' escape have something to do with the fact that you knocked Roswell's sheriff flat on his face? Perhaps the sound of a body hitting the floor attracted their attention?"

"I would imagine our footsteps accomplished the same thing, sir," Topolsky countered, "including the sheriff's footsteps."

"Yes, well, let's leave the realm of conjecture and look at the facts. You and your agents failed to tail the suspects in a timely manner. The suspects not only escaped, they absconded with some of the contents of that room, perhaps the only valuable contents of that room. To make matters worse, the local sheriff—and not just any local sheriff, but a Valenti, no less—somehow got wind of what was going on and wound up in exactly the same place, whereupon you saw fit to bash his brains out. Now, I would like to know, agent, just exactly how things got so out of control."

"Things are very much under control, sir," Topolsky said, biting back a retort. Of course he'd made a list of what had gone wrong and completely ignored the several things which had gone right.

"Agent Topolsky do you understand the assignment that was given to you?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Repeat it."

"I’m sorry?"

"Your assignment. Repeat it to me."

"The assignment is to observe the subjects and determine whether or not the theories about them are substantiated."

"You're forgetting something, agent. The word 'covertly'. To covertly observe the subjects to determine whether or not the theories about them are substantiated. Covertly!"

"I've been acting covertly," Topolsky said firmly.

"Drop-kicking the sheriff? You call that 'covertly'?"

"The sheriff was endangering my operation."

"Your operation?!" Stevens echoed incredulously.

"Our operation," Topolsky corrected quickly.

"Wrong again, agent," Stevens snapped. "Not 'your' operation, my operation! Mine!"

Topolsky's form abruptly fell apart as Stevens' voice shrieked over the headset, then paused, coughing. "I think I have a piece of my bagel permanently lodged in my esophagus. New orders, Agent Topolsky. See if you can follow'em this time. Whatever those kids took from that house, I want it! Get it! Whatever those kids are doing right now, I want to know about it! Do you understand, Agent Topolsky?"

"I understand," Topolsky said tightly.

"By any means necessary, agent!"

"Yes, sir."

"Don't waste my time, agent!"

"I'm all over it."

The line clicked dead. Damn it! Topolsky swore as she dialed another number, wondering if "by any means necessary" would include drop-kicking the sheriff, something Stevens had just told her she shouldn't have done. She paced the room, waiting impatiently while the phone rang and rang and rang.

"C'mon, Moss," she muttered. "Pick up."





*****************************************************



3:45 p.m.

Evans residence




"Let me get those for you, Mom," Diane said, reaching for the bags in Dee's hands. "Towels are heavy."

"Goodness, Diane, I can handle these," Dee chided, looping the bags over her arms. "You have to unlock the door."

"Let me take one," Diane insisted. "I feel bad not carrying anything."

Fine, Dee thought wearily, handing over a bag. They'd been shopping for new bath towels, taking advantage of a nearby store's sale, as towels for a family of four could be expensive. Normally Dee wouldn't be able to stomach Diane for a day's worth of shopping, but she'd had to learn to stomach her lately. Not only did it give her greater access to Max and Isabel, it also allowed her to keep her ear to the ground in case Diane and Philip noticed anything unusual. If they ever did, she was pretty sure she'd hear about it first from her daughter-in-law, not her son.

"That's odd," Diane said, twisting her key in the lock. "I could have sworn I locked the door before we left."

"You did," Dee said. "I saw you."

"I did? Maybe I turned the key the wrong way," Diane said as the door swung open. "Just drop the bags right there; I'll have to wash them before we use them, you know how much fuzz new towels leave......" Her voice trailed off and, coming in behind her, Dee could see why.

"Oh, my," Dee said faintly. "You've been robbed."





~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'll post Chapter 17 next Sunday.