CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
February 16, 2000, 9:30 p.m.
Hank Whitmore's trailer
"Mickey!" Hank bellowed. "Where are you?"
Stretched out on his bed, Michael ignored him. He'd already dodged when Hank had checked in here earlier, merely glancing before retreating and never realizing his quarry was standing right behind the door. One of these days Hank was going to figure out that trick, but until he did, life was good.
"Mickey!"
Michael smiled faintly as a dull thud was followed by a wave of profanity. Hank was outside now, his footsteps crunching away. He'd spend the next half hour at least wandering the trailer park looking for him. He was good and drunk tonight, and no doubt not seeing too well; bumping into things was typically followed by falling, a pattern which would repeat itself until finally he wouldn't bother to get up. With any luck he'd pass out somewhere before he made it back. That happened a lot and was damned convenient, resulting in a much better atmosphere at home.
Hank's bellowing faded as Michael returned his attention to what had occupied his every waking moment since last weekend. His working copy of the cave map was becoming dog-eared from all the handling, and the map of Roswell he was using for reference wasn't faring much better given all the folding and unfolding that was necessary to hide it from prying eyes. He hadn't said anything to Max and Isabel, but he'd visited the library every night since they'd returned Nasedo's "message" last weekend, hoping to see some sign of a response, even venturing inside and wandering the aisles just in case "library" meant "in" instead of "at" the library. He'd circled the building inside and out looking for anything even vaguely unusual, but not really expecting to find anything. Whoever this Nasedo was, he seemed to like grand gestures, not hidden messages. And was piss poor at returning messages given that days had gone by with nary a whiff of a response.
And that's when Michael had begun to wonder...did I get it wrong? He'd been so sure he'd interpreted the map correctly that his initial response had been anger at the lack of an answer, followed by despair that anyone was out there listening. But, in an uncharacteristic switcheroo, Max had pointed out that there must be. Someone had left that symbol in the woods. River Dog had declared that he'd seen it before and that it was the work of Nasedo, someone he'd personally known. There was little doubt that Nasedo had returned and that he'd sent them a message, so why wasn't he responding? The most likely answer to that question was that he'd read the map wrong and the symbol wasn't pointing to the library at all. Armed with that thought, he'd raced home from the library to try again, and now he pivoted both maps this way and that looking for something, anything, that would point him in a new direction.
Twenty minutes later he fell back on the bed, frustrated and alarmed. Regarding the map on the cave wall, there was only one way to read that; the "V" was in a very specific place relative to the symbols. But comparing the cave map to the Roswell map wasn't so simple. He'd initially used north as "up" and assumed that was right because several symbols fell on key sites in town: The library, government offices, and the hospital, to name a few. He could certainly be wrong about that, and the town map could be twisted any which way, but when he did, the symbols didn't line up with anything the least bit interesting. The only way it made sense was the way he'd done it the first time. Which meant the symbol Nasedo had left for them in the woods did indeed mean the library and something else was missing, something he'd failed to note or do. Grabbing both maps, he tried again, rotating the town map slowly and noting where the symbols fell, if anywhere, then rotating the cave map...
No.
With a certainty borne of instinct, Michael rotated both maps to their original positions. Yes. That was it. That was the way both were supposed to be. He had no idea why he was so certain of that, but something deep inside was telling him that was right. He'd felt that certainty the first time he'd aligned them this way, then pushed it aside when he'd assumed he was wrong, but...there it was again. He'd had it right the first time, read it right the first time. He didn't know how he knew that, but he knew. The satisfaction which flooded him whenever he had the pair in this orientation was profound, as was the unease when he moved them. His experience after the sweat had proven the existence of a voice within calling from wherever he'd come from; it was there still, and always the loudest when he wasn't trying to find it. It seemed to work best if he closed his eyes and ignored it, something foreign to Michael and most unsettling. Maybe he was trying too hard to find the missing link. Maybe he should just stare at the maps and hope something popped out...
A knock sounded on the door. Cursing under his breath, Michael went to answer it. What now? Had Hank passed out somewhere? He could safely say he didn't care, but it might be nice to know if he wasn't coming back for a while. He threw open the door...and blinked.
"Thought you could lose me, huh?" Hank said, wearing a maniacal grin as he pushed his way inside. "Ding dong! You're wrong!"
"What the hell are you doing knocking on your own door?" Michael demanded.
"Couldn't find ya," Hank answered. "Figured you were hiding. Figured you'd answer the door. Figured right!"
"Congratulations," Michael said sourly, annoyed at having been flushed. If only being drunk made Hank stupid as well as mean. If only.
"I need you to get more beer," Hank announced, pulling out his wallet. "A case. No...make that two."
Michael glanced down at the bills Hank held out to him. "No."
"I wasn't asking," Hank said warningly. "I was telling."
"So am I," Michael answered. "I'm telling you I'm not going."
"Have to," Hank declared. "They won't sell to me."
"Can't imagine why," Michael muttered.
Hank grabbed his arm, spun him around. "You're going," he said deliberately, thrusting the bills at him. "Now."
"No, I'm not," Michael said, wrenching his arm away. "Don't you think they're going to figure out that I'm underage? That last fake ID you gave me almost didn't work. Besides, I've got homework."
"Homework," Hank said derisively. "Homework! What is it with all the homework? You never gave a rat's ass about homework before."
"Just be glad I do because it's keeping the school off your doorstep," Michael said, heading back into the bedroom. "Go get your own beer."
Michael went back to his room and his maps. A minute later, Hank's hot breath was hovering over him. "Let me see this 'homework'," he demanded, snatching the Roswell map out of his hands. "What kind of 'homework' is this? What, you're too stupid to know what town you live in?"
"It's geography," Michael said impatiently. "Give it back."
"And what's this?" Hank went on, reaching for the cave map. "Indian geography? Art class?"
Michael felt something snap inside him at the very idea that Hank's filthy hands would touch one of the few things he had that might lead him home. "Leave that alone," he said sharply, snatching it away. "Leave me alone."
Mistake. Drunk or not, Hank smelled his desperation, and a smile slid across his face. "Give me that," he demanded.
"No."
"I said, give me that."
"Get lost," Michael retorted.
Hank reached around him, narrowly missing the cave map, his feral grin making it clear he was enjoying this game. "Hand it over, Mickey," Hank chanted in singsong, "or things will get sticky!"
"What, are you the poet laureate?" Michael said furiously, pushing him away. If Hank were more drunk, this would have been easy, but he was only drunk enough to be infuriating, not to throw off balance. "Knock if off! Or I'll blow you in at school for messing up my stuff!"
Hank stopped scrambling for the map, his eyes hardening. Shit, Michael thought wearily. He should have known better than to threaten the monthly check when Hank was that close to him. The blow, when it came, was harder than any Hank had landed before. Pain exploded on the left side of his face as Michael's head snapped to one side, and out of the corner of his good eye he could see Hank's hand reaching for the map...
And then suddenly Hank was across the room, crashing into the wall, crumbling to the floor as a vicious shove tinged with raw power hit home. Michael gaped at him, having only intended to push him, not throw him; it had just leaped out of him like an angry animal, unbidden and uncontrolled. Kind of like the drunk on the floor, who hadn't been hurt and was currently climbing to his feet, spoiling for worse.
Grabbing the maps, Michael ran out of the bedroom, out of the trailer, Hank bellowing behind him. Lights popped on in other trailers and voices shouted at them to be quiet as Michael ran past and Hank tried to follow. But he was no match for younger, sober legs, and the footsteps behind him died out quickly as Michael kept running, mindful of the fact that Hank had already tricked him once tonight. He couldn't afford to let him catch up because, if he did, Michael was certain he wouldn't be able to stop himself. Which meant Hank wouldn't wind up merely tossed against a wall.
He'd wind up dead.
******************************************************
February 17, 2000, 9:30 a.m.
West Roswell High School
Liz Parker entered the Biology classroom and nearly sagged with relief. Finally. This was the one class she had with Max where he couldn't dodge her, it being difficult to dodge a lab partner sitting right next to you. And so of course the teacher had decided to spend the early part of this week on demos with everyone gathered around in a circle, giving Max the perfect opportunity to avoid her in the one place he usually couldn't. But there was no demo set up today and other classmates were in their regular seats. At long last she might be able to address what had happened last weekend.
Last weekend had been the last thing she'd wanted to talk about on Monday morning, the first day back after the whole blind date debacle. Max was awkward and uncomfortable, mumbling hello and rushing past whenever he saw her, and who could blame him? So many of their classmates had been at that concert and seen that kiss; there was bound to be a reaction. The form it had taken caught her by surprise: She, Liz Parker, quintessential bookworm and suspected teacher's pet was now something of a folk hero, and the end result was a surprised, if silent, respect.
"Hey, Parker."
Liz blinked. The tattooed, gel-haired vision sitting in front of her had rarely acknowledged her existence, never mind greeted her. "Hey," she said uncertainly.
"Parker," nodded a letter-jacketed jock on the way past.
Scratch the 'silent', Liz thought, still looking for the one person she wanted to see, the one person she wanted to greet her. He showed up at last, hovering in the doorway as he surveyed the altered landscape and realized he couldn't put this off any longer.
"Evans," Tattoo nodded as he walked past.
"Hey, Evans," added the jock.
Max sank into his seat, smiling awkwardly at his greeters and avoiding her gaze. She waited until he had his books settled before leaning in closer.
"Okay, want to tell me why we're both suddenly so popular?"
"What do you mean?" Max asked.
"Well, Monday morning I could see, but now?" Liz said, relieved he was willing to talk to her. "It's Thursday. They didn't talk to us on Monday, so why now?"
Max smiled faintly. "Maybe they were still in shock?"
"Yeah, I guess they had to re-evaluate the whole 'goody-two-shoes' bit," Liz said dryly.
"They probably never thought you'd have the guts to run out on a radio station and a date," Max said.
"Or that you'd have the guts to go out drinking with football players," Liz added.
Max's face clouded. "I didn't...I wasn't trying...I mean..."
"I know you weren't," Liz said quickly. "I saw what happened. I just...I'm just relieved it wasn't something like, you know, like what happened with Michael. Something really bad."
Max was quiet for a moment. "It could have been bad," he said finally. "I've got you to thank that it wasn't."
The teacher came in. Turned out there was a demo today after all, but they would watch it from their seats, followed by a write-up with lab partners. Liz sat in uncomfortable silence as equipment was set up, kicking herself for bringing up the drinking. Not that it wouldn't have come up anyway—it was, after all, the reason for the evening—but she could have been more careful with what was obviously a sensitive subject. She'd have to do better next time, and she barely watched the demo, so busy was she formulating what to say and how to say it.
Finally it ended; papers shuffled and chairs scraped as tired teenagers jolted awake and worksheets were passed out. Liz had finished her speech in her head and on her hand, where she'd scribbled key talking points in the proper order. Now all she had to do was deliver it.
"Liz?"
Liz's eyes flitted sideways, to where Max had propped an open textbook in a meager attempt at privacy. "Yeah?"
"I wanted to...to apologize for Friday night. I never meant to mess up your evening."
Liz's speech went right out her head. "You didn't—"
"Yes, I did," Max interrupted, his eyes straight ahead as though afraid to look at her. "You were having a good time at the restaurant. I...I saw you. And then I busted in, and—"
"No, Max," Liz broke in. "I wasn't having a good time at the restaurant, and neither was Doug. It's hard to talk or even eat your meal when you've got someone reporting every word you say. That's why we left."
Now Max did look at her. "You were having a good time. I know you were. I could tell."
Liz flushed so quickly, she was afraid her face would burst into flames. "No, it's okay," Max said quickly, confirming the embarrassing fact that the flushing was visible. "You deserved to have a good time. I...I'm glad you were having a good time."
Red faces were promptly forgotten as Liz cocked an eyebrow. "You were?"
Max kept his eyes on their worksheet. "Of course."
"Uh huh," Liz said, nodding slowly. "Okay, Max...I have an idea. Now that we've both tried lying through our teeth, what say we both start telling the truth?"
"I wasn't lying," Max said quickly. "I'm glad you were having a good time."
"And I wasn't lying either," Liz said, "or not entirely. It was hard to enjoy ourselves while the world was watching...but aside from that, yeah, in some ways, I was having a good time. And part of you is probably glad I was, but...I'm guessing part of you isn't."
Max's eyes flicked her way, then back to the worksheet, his silence so painful it was almost palpable. Liz glanced at her graffitied hand and decided to take a leap of faith.
"Okay, I'm just gonna talk, and you...you can just listen," she said as classmates bent heads over their write-ups. The teacher was mercifully busy cleaning equipment, which included running water and clanking glassware that provided wonderful cover for whispers. "You keep apologizing for wrecking my evening, but here's the thing, Max—you didn't wreck it. You made it. Being with you made my evening."
Max's eyes closed briefly as though weathering a stab of pain, and she rushed on. "Sure, I'll admit that some of the dinner part was fun. Doug turned out to be a nice guy, and it was a lot of fun to run away from the restaurant. It was fun to shake them, and it was fun to be sneaking around without it really meaning anything. But then...then it started to get boring. Because as nice as Doug is...he isn't you." She leaned in closer. "I know you remember at least some of what happened," she went on. "If you didn't, you wouldn't have taken the heart away—"
"I had to," Max broke in, his voice strained. "I remembered it later, and I had to get rid of it because—"
"I know," Liz broke in. "I get it. I'm talking about the fact that it was there in the first place. I know you feel the same way about me as I feel about you."
"It doesn't matter how I feel," Max said sadly. "I wish it did."
"Well, then, what about me? Does it matter how I feel?"
"Of course it does," Max said quickly.
"Then this is how I feel: I want you," Liz declared. "Not Doug, or anyone else. You."
"And you can't," Max said in an anguished tone. "I'm just not safe. You saw me. I could have been in a world of hurt, and I never saw it coming; I had no idea alcohol would affect me that way."
"So it's good that I was there," Liz argued. "It's good that you had me because I could get you out of harm's way."
"Yeah," Max said soberly, 'it's good that I have you. It's just not good that you have me."
"Max, how can you say that?" Liz demanded. "I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you! If you hadn't saved me—"
"Liz, you can't go on paying for that for the rest of your life," Max said. "You didn't ask me to save you; that was my decision. It shouldn't mean you're beholden to me, or responsible for me, or—"
"It doesn't," Liz said firmly. "And I'm not. I'm here because I want to be here. I get to decide what I want to do. I get to decide what risks I want to take. I get to decide who I want to be with, and I want to be with you, no matter what that means, no matter how much baggage you bring with you."
"You sure about that?" Max said. "Because in my case, we're talking an entire luggage factory."
Their was a brief pause before both of them dissolved in chuckles, drawing stares from nearby classmates which made them duck behind their book and quiet immediately. But the ice had been broken, and they both felt it, giving each other small smiles as they waited for everyone to go back to what they'd been doing.
"I don't care about your baggage," Liz whispered when it looked safe to start talking again. "I want you even with the baggage."
"You say that now," Max said, "and I'm sure you mean it. But I don't think you've thought through just how bad this could go."
"You mean I'm not obsessing about every nasty possibility out there, most of which, if any, will never happen?" Liz translated. "If it's my 'safety' you're worried about, it's too late. I mean, look at what happened to us this past weekend. We've been staying away from each other, trying to pretend we don't care when we really do, and then I saw you in danger and there was no way I was just going to ignore that."
"Exactly," Max said. "Knowing me, being around me, isn't safe. What happened last weekend just proves my point."
Liz hesitated, kicking herself for shooting her own argument in the foot. "Tell me something," she said slowly. "If the shooting happened again, or something like the shooting...if my life was in danger again...would you do what you did before? Would you try to save me, knowing what you know now about what could happen because of it?"
Max gave her a look of sheer disbelief. "Of course I would. In a second."
"So...it sounds like it's dangerous for you to know me too," Liz mused. "So what now? Do we both have to move to opposite ends of the Earth to stay away from each other?"
Max shook his head. "Can't. The Earth is round. It doesn't have 'ends'."
Liz landed a good natured swat which produced a fleeting, but genuine smile. "Okay, since we can't move to opposite 'sides' of the Earth, why try to stay away from each other? What are we accomplishing other than making ourselves miserable? And not just miserable, but maybe even more vulnerable? Aren't we stronger—and safer—when we're together?"
"Maybe," Max allowed. "We'd better finish this before the period ends."
Liz glanced at the clock; had that much time really gone by? Startled, she grabbed the worksheet and pulled it toward her only to find Max's hand over hers.
"I'll think about it," he said softly. "I promise."
She squeezed his hand, and just for a moment, the eyes she looked into weren't the eyes of perpetually worried Max, but the eyes of honest Max, the one who'd sent street lights spinning in her honor. He'll come around, she told herself. Come hell or high water, she was going to make him come around.
"One more thing," she whispered just before Max's pencil hit the paper. "When we kissed, did you...see things?"
"I was so drunk, I'm sure I saw all kinds of things," Max sighed.
"No, I don't mean that. Remember when you told me you got...what did you call them...'flashes'? Of things that had already happened? That's how you knew Kyle had been in my room when my journal went missing."
"Yeah. What about it?"
"Well...when we kissed, I thought I saw...something," Liz finished, struggling for the right words. "Some of them were things we'd done that night, but...not all of them."
"Ten minutes, class," the teacher called. "You should be finishing up now."
Liz and Max looked down at their blank worksheet. "Meet me after next period," he whispered, "and we'll talk more then. But I'm sure it was nothing."
"You're probably right," she nodded. "We'd better do this before..."
"What's wrong?" Max asked when her voice trailed off as she stared out the window.
"What?" Liz said quickly, averting her gaze. "Oh...nothing."
Ten minutes was plenty of time for someone good at Biology, and Liz had no trouble getting them finished before the end of the period. By that time she'd decided not to mention who she thought she'd seen climbing the front steps to the school. She really couldn't be certain anyway as she'd only ever laid eyes on the man once, and that had been more than enough.
For just a second there, she thought she'd seen Michael's stepfather.
*****************************************************
Hank Whitmore swallowed hard as he dug a finger between his Adam's apple and his tie. He hated neckties, which more closely resembled torture devices than fashion items. If you asked him, whoever had invented neckties ought to be shot, and he'd be only too happy to do the honors. But the sad fact was that when you wanted to appear confident and competent, there was nothing which sent that message like a necktie. A shirt and tie even trumped a suit with an open collared shirt, although a suit and tie was at the top of that heap. Which is how he'd found himself digging around his closet, looking for the suit he'd last worn several years ago. He'd found the coat and a presentable pair of pants, but seemed to have lost the all important ingredient: The necktie. A quick stop at Goodwill had solved that problem for $1.95, although it had taken several tries and a good deal of cursing in an Exxon Station's filthy bathroom to re-learn how to tie the damned thing. Now, as it threatened to cut off his breathing, he remembered feeling exactly the same way the last time he'd had to dress like this, when he'd gone for his final interview with Social Services. Of course it could be that he just tied his ties too tight, but he liked to think it was a omen of how much trouble his foster child could be.
When Hank had come to this morning and gotten a glimpse of Mickey on the way out of the trailer, he'd known he was in trouble. The purple shiner he'd landed on the kid's face was richly deserved, but problematic. Mickey was always threatening to turn him in to Social, and while it wasn't an entirely empty threat, he'd never made the call. Social made infrequent visits to the trailer which were always scheduled and easy to finesse; just clean the place up, stock the fridge, and lose the booze. Even if he missed something, his trump card was that Mickey was a teenager; teenagers were hard to place, so social workers turned a blind eye to all but the most egregious violations. And if Mickey made good on his threat, it would be his word against Hank's as long as Hank managed to lose the evidence fast enough, which is why there was a hidey-hole under a rug in his bedroom for just such emergencies.
But the shiner changed things. The shiner was physical evidence, not "he said/he said". All was not lost, as Mickey was hardly an angel; the black eye could be passed off to a fight. He'd considered waiting to see if anything came of it, but ultimately decided that this was a serious enough threat to his checkbook that it needed to be tackled head on. After all, the money he got for that kid paid for at least half his booze.
Climbing the school's front steps, Hank tugged again at his tie and winced as his hated dress shoes, pointy-toed and at least a size too small, pinched his feet. He'd also washed his hair, brushed his teeth, and gargled, all of which probably accounted for the fact that his scalp itched, his teeth squeaked like nails on a chalkboard, and his throat felt like it was on fire. He'd forgotten to trim his nails, but other than that, he was tricked out fancy enough to meet the goddamned Queen of England. If this didn't make a good impression, nothing would.
Hordes of teenagers hurried to and fro in the school's main hallway, and Hank squinted at signs until he located the one pointing to the school office. An official looking dame in a tight shirt sat typing at a computer as he approached, her hands flying over the keys.
"Hey, there, dolly," Hank said cheerfully. "I'm here to see The Man."
The hands stopped. An eyebrow rose. "Excuse me?" was the frosty reply.
"Eh, don't apologize," Hank said magnanimously. "You haven't done anything wrong. I'm here to see the big cheese about my kid, name's Guerin. Foster kid, that is. He ain't my kid."
Computer Dame leaned back in her chair, eyeing him up and down as though he wasn't all tricked out six ways to Sunday. "The 'big cheese'?" she repeated. "The 'man'? Are you referring to the school principal?"
"Course I am," Hank said. "Who'd you think I was talking about? Jesus Christ?"
"Unlikely," Computer Dame sniffed, "as this is not a house of worship."
"You're tellin' me," Hank chuckled. "Only thing I ever worshipped here was Johnny Walker."
The other eyebrow rose. Other dames in the office were now eavesdropping, their mouths set in thin lines. "Can we get on with this?" Hank said. "I'm a working man, you know."
"No doubt," Computer Dame said doubtfully. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Course I don't," Hank said, leaning over the counter, trying to see into the principal's office. "Why? Isn't he in there?"
Computer Dame gave him a look that could kill as she clattered keys. "I'm sorry, but his schedule is full today," she announced, sounding anything but sorry. "Would you like to make an appointment? I could get you in next week. Wednesday, 4 o'clock."
"Next week?" Hank repeated. "Jesus, what do you do in an emergency?"
"Is this an emergency?" Computer Dame inquired.
"No," Hank said quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was make Mickey's shiner sound worse than it was. "No, I just...ah, hell. Make it for Wednesday, then."
"Done. Anything else?"
"Don't you want my name?"
Computer Dame wrinkled her nose. ""No need, Mr. Whitmore. I remember you. I'd remember you anywhere."
"Ah," Hank said, flashing her a smile. "Thanks, doll. And thanks for the appointment." He leaned in closer, gave her a wink. "See you next week."
Well, whatdya know, Hank thought after he'd left the flabbergasted dame behind and was back outside, tugging the hated necktie off as he walked. Say what you want about him, but there was no denying it—Hank Whitmore certainly had a way with the ladies.
******************************************************
4 p.m.
Proctor residence
"Are you joking?" Dee said in disbelief. "He really said that?"
"He really said that," Brivari confirmed, reaching for the lemon as Dee set two glasses of iced tea on the table. "For the record, Jaddo has always claimed to agree with me in principle that the hybrids would be better off not knowing until they'd matured. He just didn't think that was feasible."
"And I take it you've come to agree with him?" Dee asked.
"It's been getting harder and harder to make a case for staying away," Brivari sighed, "and after last weekend...well, let's just say that such a public display raised the stakes."
"They could have been arrested for vandalism," Dee agreed. "We were just lucky they weren't."
"It's worse than that," Brivari said. "They used an Antarian symbol which would be perfectly recognizable to any Antarian. Like a Skin."
" 'Skin'?"
"The Argilians," Brivari clarified. "Courtney's people, although I'm not talking about the rebels."
"I'm sure you're not," Dee said quietly, the fate of Courtney's father still being a sore point with her. "I'd forgotten all about them."
"Don't," Brivari warned. "They're stranded here, courtesy of Khivar, and mad as hell about it."
"Don't you mean courtesy of you?" Dee said. "You and Jaddo destroyed their ship."
"Khivar could send another," Brivari shrugged. "He didn't as punishment, and as a means to spur them to action. They don't know the hybrids have emerged earlier than anticipated, and should a news feed get wind of an Antarian symbol, you can be certain they'd be here pronto."
"How do you know they don't know?" Dee asked eagerly. "Have you been in touch with Courtney?"
"The rebels went into hiding," Brivari answered, "anticipating a long wait and with the understanding that they would contact us should Nicholas ever learn anything worrisome. They haven't, so he hasn't."
"Oh," Dee said, disappointed. "I was hoping you'd heard from her." She paused. "Wait a minute. Weren't their husks supposed to give out around now?"
"Rumor has it they found a way to adapt Earth's technology to create more," Brivari said. "But it took them a while, so I don't know if they'll be ready in time."
Dee's eyebrows rose. " 'Rumor' has it? Where does one go for rumors about Argilians?"
"Back to the subject at hand," Brivari said pointedly. "Jaddo and I agree that direct contact would initially be unwise—"
"I still can't believe he said that," Dee muttered.
"—but some kind of contact is required," Brivari went on. "We were thinking of a message urging the hybrids to lay low and promising direct contact in the future. You know them far better than we do. What do you think?"
"In other words, stop leaving flaming symbols on public lawns?" Dee said dryly. "Honestly, Brivari, I don't know. Saying something might make them more reckless than saying nothing. Isn't no answer still an answer?"
" 'No answer' is what we've been doing," Brivari replied, "and doesn't seem to be working. We were hoping to douse the flames, no pun intended, for long enough to get us into summer, when Jaddo and Ava will be arriving anyway."
"You could certainly try it," Dee allowed. "But it seems to me that the best alternative to saying nothing is saying everything."
" 'Everything' as in...'everything'?"
"Yes, everything," Dee answered. "Half-baked contact, tidbits, cryptic messages...all that's going to do is make them more curious. If you've decided you can't stay away entirely, I'd vote for actually telling them what's what. They're far more likely to lay low if you give them some real explanations."
"They're also far more likely to demand explanations they shouldn't have," Brivari noted. "Have you forgotten that Zan remains able to compel us?"
"Of course not," Dee said, "which is why I think Anthony and I should be the ones to do the telling. They trust us, and I'd like to just see him try to give me an order."
"As would I," Brivari agreed, "but as for trusting you...will they still trust you when they learn what you've been keeping from them all these years?"
"I hadn't thought about that," Dee admitted. "But I still think they'd trust me more than a total stranger who—"
The front door opened. "Grandma!" a voice called. "Are you home?"
"Isabel?" Dee said, vaulting out of her chair, startled. "Um...I'm in the—"
"Hi," Isabel said breathlessly, appearing in the kitchen doorway.
"—kitchen," Dee finished, glancing hastily at Brivari who was now wearing a completely different face. The ease and speed with which he did that was still a little unnerving, even after all these years.
"Grandma, I have to talk to you," Isabel declared urgently, not even registering that someone else was in the room. "Michael's in trouble!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Memorial Day weekend is next weekend, so I'll post Chapter 76 on Sunday, June 3rd.
